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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 1 year

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I just finished reading "the soon to be father" and the sequel "A Princess Is Born" and I love reader from the summer isles and her relationship with Daemon. That said, could I have an imagine/long fic (maybe nsfw) of how they met (maybe they don't like each other at first, but as time goes by a friendship is born when they realize they have things in common), like the relationship evolved from friendship until they realized that they were in love with each other and confessed and how they +

Part 2: just like each other after the feelings are clarified and reciprocated, like boyfriends (I know that the term dating, as we know it, does not exist in this universe, but I think that you understand what I'm getting at), even the proposal (maybe him asking Ayana for help, which she gladly helps) and if you can write the wedding ceremony (maybe they have two wedding ceremonies, one with the summer isle customs and another valyrian) please?( feel free to ignore and sorry for my english

Don't worry about your english, it's fine!

Sorry I took so long. I forgot my own rule to not complicate things and went overboard with the story. I hope you still like it.

Wedding vows and translation: here

Part 2: The soon to be father

Part 3: A princess is born (I changed bits of this to match up with the story.

The Dragon Prince in the Summer Isles

Pairing: Daemon x Fem. Reader (Summer Isles)

Word count: 9.5k words

Themes : Enemies to lovers | Soft | Slow burn

Warnings: Kissing | Mild smut / penetrative sex | mentions of burn injuries | Knife use | Blood

Possible grammar errors. I tried to edit as much as possible.

Minors DNI | 18+

Want to be tagged? Want to know the reader request rules? Read all here

If you like this, please consider giving this a reblog!

*****

When Aenar Targaryen gathered his family and their dragons and fled Valyria as advised by his daughter, Daenys, he did so only after selling off his estates and parting with the books containing all the knowledge the Freehold.

That was the price the other houses demanded in exchange for their freedom to leave, for they feared the secrets surrounding their dragons would fall into the wrong hands. Those secrets went to a watery grave when the fourteen flames erupted as one and the entire peninsula collapsed and fragmented under a storm of ash, cloud, fire, and acid. The Targaryens, much like the Velaryons and the Celtigars before them, found a new home in Westeros, on an island fortress aptly named Dragonstone.

The other kings and lords of Westeros envied Aenar and his family, as well as the Velaryons and the Celtigars. They envied them for their beauty, their wealth, their ships, and their dragons. And when Aenar’s descendants, Aegon and his sisters, set their eyes further west, to Westeros proper, and they wished to secure their hold over the entire seven kingdoms, the chance came for the other lords to sink their claws in to the Targaryen family.

It started with the dragon pit, then it was the conversion to the faith of the seven, then it was only sons inheriting the crown and not daughters. Bit by bit, the dragon lords yielded to the Westerosi, and inch by inch, their talons were clipped and their fangs cut short. Despite this, House Targaryen remained strong, with ten dragons under their command and continuing on to the present day, where Viserys, the first of his name, ruled as king, and his brother, Daemon, led as Lord Commander of the City Watch.

💫

"Otto, Daemon gave me his word that he did not try to kiss Alicent last night at the feast," said Viserys while he, Otto, and prince Daemon sat in the Small Council room. "In fact, he says, it was your daughter who tried to kiss him."

It was a blisteringly sunny day in Kings Landing. All was quiet and bright. The city had emptied itself for the afternoon, with most retiring to their homes for an afternoon of lying in and waiting out the scorching mid-day heat. Here in the council room however, things were far from indolent. Two men were seated at an ornate marble table, while another huffed and paced about. That man was Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King.

He huffed again, while the King’s brother said his piece. What Daemon said was true—that he did not kiss Alicent and that Alicent was the one to throw herself at Daemon. Why, it was Otto himself who saw it happen, and why he quickly made his presence known. It was why he called this meeting with the king and his brother. He wanted to use it to his own advantage, perhaps force Daemon out of the Gold Cloaks, the Small Council, and Viserys’ life for good. He had already succeeded by limiting Viserys’ daughter’s influence. Now all that remained was to get rid of Daemon, and then Otto could carry out his plans unchecked.

"Your grace," said Otto in the most wounded air he could muster, "Alicent is a pure and virtuous girl. She would never stoop to such a thing. Besides, she is going to be your queen. How can you even entertain such slander!"

Viserys leaned back into his chair and smiled. "I have not even asked your daughter if she wants to marry me, and even if what Daemon says is true, why should it bother me?" He closed his eyes to hide the pain from the ever-growing wound on his back. "Alicent stealing a kiss is nothing compared to my antics in the Street of Silk.”

"Ah yes, the expert ministrations of the lovely Mysaria." Daemon held up his goblet and toasted the air.

“How is she?” Viserys ignored Otto’s indignant sputtering. “I have not been to the Street of Silk since my engagement to Aemma.”

“Ageless,” Daemon smirked. “The woman is practically ageless.”

“And is she still…”

“Incredibly flexible?” Daemon cackled along with his brother. “Very much so. She even asked after you.”

“Mysaria remembered me?” Viserys looked tickled pink.

“Of course. She asked: how is your older brother? Does he still blush till he goes red in the cheeks?” said Daemon, in the best Lysene accent he could muster. Viserys buried his face in his hand and laughed.

Pretending to be utterly scandalized, Otto made himself go as red as a freshly halved beet. "Your grace!" he grumbled in mock outrage.

“What?” Viserys looked to the Hand and shrugged. “She is flexible…”

And Daemon, unable to help himself, added: “And my brother does turn a pretty shade of red when he blushes.”

The Hand’s face ballooned like a puffer fish.

Gods, save me from your theatrics, thought Viserys, while he raised his hands as a gesture of peace. "Calm yourself, my Lord Hand. I will consider the events and come up with a solution that would be agreeable to us all."

Otto, finally putting on the air of a most aggrieved father, said: "I hope so, your grace. It would not do to allow such licentious behaviour to go unchecked," He gave a pointed look to an unbothered Daemon, huffed, and added, "or unpunished."

Daemon merely sighed and rolled his eyes.

Viserys nodded in agreement and only waited till the door closed behind Lord Otto. "What really happened?" He held out his goblet, so Daemon could refill it. "The truth, now. All of it."

Daemon told him all. How, after Viserys had retired for the night, he had gone off to a corner during the feast, to enjoy his food in solitude. Alicent had followed him, and without so much as a by-your-leave, she perched herself on his lap and planted her lips on his. Otto had wandered in on them just as Daemon stood up to push Alicent off of him.

"The man took one look at me, then one at his daughter," grumbled Daemon. “Then his eyes started to gleam. Next thing I know--"

"I had summoned you here." Viserys drummed his fingers against his goblet. "I am sure you are telling the truth, brother, but I need to have peace with him. The Hightowers have a lot of influence at court and I must be careful when dealing with their family."

Daemon studied him over his wine. "Do you think it’s wise, then, to marry into their family?"

"I need a direct male heir, Daemon, to settle the succession issue. And for that, I need a new queen." Viserys rubbed his eyes and sighed, wishing the lords would allow him to name his daughter his heir. Alas, his attempts to change the succession laws were blocked at every turn.

And not being heir never bothered Daemon. If asked by the right person, Daemon would say that the very idea of wearing the crown and pandering to the grasping members of court would be enough to make him physically ill. "What about Laena Velaryon?” he suggested their closest Valyrian kin. “Lord Corlys’ oldest. You wed her while your daughter weds her brother. Vhagar and Seasmoke would be under our control then. Or ask the Celtigars, perhaps."

Viserys shook his head. "Laena’s age and temperament is better suited for you than for me, I think. Besides, Corlys says she already has her head turned by one of the Celtigar twins. And the twins have no unwed sisters for me to consider."

"Why Alicent though? Someone who is not like us?" Asked Daemon. “How about going to Essos? Perhaps asking one of the old families of Volantis?”

Viserys looked over to the Valyrian Sphinxes by the door, the overtly erotic frescoes on the walls. A bride from one of the Old Blood families of Volantis would be ideal, but the nobles…

"Alicent is willing to respect our way of wedding brother and sister, strange as it may be to her,” he said. “And the other noble houses will consider it a slight upon their honour if I rejected their daughters and chose a foreign bride. No. I will marry Alicent when the time is right."

"In the Westerosi tradition, you mean," Daemon snarled. “And not in the ways of old Valyria.”

"That was what Aegon the first agreed to during his anointing as king, to follow the ways of the Andals and the First Men." Viserys felt his heart well up with sorrow. With each passing generation, more and more of old Valyria's ways fell by the wayside. How long would it take, he thought, before their dragons finally died out and they were no different from any other family in the Seven Kingdoms? "A condition I must fulfill if I am to keep my throne. That, and by maintaining good relations with the other lords, of course."

Which of course meant keeping the peace with Lord Otto. Daemon bowed his head and sighed, then took a long, steadying breath as he came to a decision. As always, his love for his brother won out against his own pride. He tried to come up with a solution that could work for both Viserys and himself. "Perhaps if I took myself out of the picture for a little while, this whole Alicent thing would blow over."

Agreeing with his brother’s proposal, Viserys rose and crossed over to a wall, one that had the most elaborate map of the known world painted on it. "How do you fancy a journey into Essos? I’ll provide you with enough coin for the trip, and—"

Daemon cut him off with a gentle, "Viserys, you know perfectly well that I have more than enough means for such a journey.”

"I know," agreed Viserys, as he looked over the many nations spread over Essos. Where would his brother start? Where would he end? Would he even come back once he had sampled the freedoms and pleasures Essos had to offer? Oh, how Viserys wished he could travel with his brother, escape the pressures of the crown, even for a little while, even when he didn’t have a dragon to his name. "But let me do this, please."

"Viserys," Daemon began.

"Daemon," Viserys interjected before his brother could continue. "You are my baby brother and have looked after me and protected me long enough. As king and as your older brother, it is I who must look after you. Please, let me do it. I insist."

Daemon smiled fondly and relented. His brother was gentle and generous, and stubborn as a mule when it suited him. "We’ll figure something out together."

"All right," Viserys said as he rejoined his brother at the table. "Send over your travel plans, and we will work something out."

💫

Rhaenyra found her uncle in his chambers, packing for his journey.

Servants had been rushing to and fro, ensuring all of the prince’s papers were packed, his clothes neatly wrapped in tissue paper and put into trunks. His mail and armour had been polished to a high sheen. Dark Sister hung by his waist, the ruby pommel glinting like fresh blood in the fading light.

“Laenor told me you were leaving? That you may not be able to attend our wedding?” cried Rhaenyra as she took in the chaos around her. “Why?”

“This must be done,” was all Daemon said. His niece was already harbouring anger and resentment towards her father over what happened to her mother, and he did not wish to widen that divide even more by saying anything that could be misconstrued and blown out of proportion. “That is all.”

Rhaenyra sniffed and plopped onto her uncle’s bed, picking up a pillow and holding it against her chest. “Are you really going to do it? Fly off somewhere and leave me alone with these gods-awful people?”

The servants may not have said anything, but Daemon was sure they were all listening. “Come with me.” He walked out onto the balcony and gestured for his niece to do the same. The moment she did, and they were far enough, Daemon dropped the Common Tongue and spoke in High Valyrian instead.

“You need to watch what you say, even in my presence,” he warned. “These people are not like us. They’ll turn on our family the moment an opportunity presents itself.”

Rhaenyra started to protest, “But uncle--”

And Daemon cut her off. “Nyra, I need you to listen to me.”

His eyes were somber and thoughtful, something she had never seen in him before. “Alright,” she said, as she made herself comfortable on the balcony ledge.

Daemon looked back into his chambers to ensure no one was hanging around longer than they should. “Nyra, I need you to be there for your father. Now I know you are angry with him,” he cut her off as soon as she opened her mouth. “Gods knows you have every right to. What was done to your mother was unforgivable. But… it is not going to change the fact that he is your father and that he is going to need you after I am gone.”

Rhaenyra stopped to consider her uncle’s words. Her father was strong and generous and loved by all, but without someone to support him, someone in his corner, someone like his brother, her father would be left exposed to the vultures that circled him. And Gods help her, but she loved him despite it all.

When she didn’t talk back, when she didn’t argue, Daemon took it as a good sign and continued. “We have to look out for each other.” Daemon dropped to his haunches so he could look her in the eye. “Now more than ever. Rhaenyra, I have to leave for Essos. And I might be gone for quite a while.”

“How long?” Rhaenyra sniffed and mumbled a thank you when Daemon gave her a handkerchief to wipe her eyes.

“Months, maybe even years,” said Daemon. Until Otto got over himself, he thought. “So while I am away, I would like you to keep an eye on your father. I will write to you as often as I can. And I want you to tell me everything that goes on here.”

Something tugged at Rhaenyra’s lips. The hint of a smile, thought Daemon. “Using the secret code you taught me?” she said.

“Yes,” grinned Daemon. “But be careful. Otto has eyes everywhere.”

Her smile finally grew, her eyes lighting up like pale purple stones glinting in the light of the setting sun. “Oh alright.” Rhaenyra glanced into her uncle’s rooms. The servants were finishing up with their packing. “I will keep an eye out on father. But will you be gone the whole time?”

“I will try to come to High Tide whenever your father allows it. Until then, try and keep your nose out of trouble.”

Rhaenyra clapped both hands to her chest and gasped. “Get my nose in trouble? When have I ever done such a thing?”

“The time you nearly burned down the great hall after sneaking a young Syrax into the Red Keep and she threw dragon flame onto the drapes?”

“That was just a small accident!”

Just a small accident, thought an amused Daemon. “Or the time you, Laenor and the Celtigar twins snuck into the family Sept and switched the head on the maiden’s statue with that of that warrior’s statue? And how the Septons thought it was an ill-omen and fasted for weeks?”

Rhaenyra gaped in outrage. “They insulted our families.”

Daemon smirked. “I will miss you, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra threw her arms around her uncle and hugged him tightly. “I will miss you too, uncle.”

That hug, and the embrace Viserys gave him at their parting, kept Daemon going on many a difficult morning while he was travelling around Essos.

💫

The days bled into each other. Weeks passed. Months passed, even entire seasons.

Daemon traveled all over the free cities, breaking bread with the Magisters of Pentos, haggling with Braavosi bankers on behalf of his brother, and even receiving a warm welcome from the Old Blood of Volantis. Daemon did not linger too long in one place. Soon, he would find himself growing impatient and on the move again. He would occasionally return to Westeros, to Driftmark, to see his niece and her growing brood. Sometimes, his brother would join them.

Viserys grew weaker as the years passed. There had been wounds on his back, and they had been spreading. His fingers had become stunted, and his nails had all fallen off. He’d cut himself on the blades of the Iron Throne and not feel a thing, not until someone saw him bleeding and pointed it out. Daemon wanted to come back and help his brother, but Viserys would waive his protests and insist he continue his travels.

And so, Daemon relented to his brother’s entreaties and kept traveling until almost fourteen years had passed, and he found himself on Jhala, the main island of the Summer Isles. After dismounting on the beach and letting Caraxes fly off to hunt, Daemon found himself face-to-face with Prince Sandoq Xho, the current ruler of the Red Flower Vale. He had been dressed in a simple, sleeveless linen tunic, with a brightly coloured feather collar adorning his neck.

"Welcome, Prince Daemon!" said Sandoq, as they gripped each other’s forearms in the traditional greeting of the Summer Isles. "I trust your journey here was pleasant?"

"Very much so," The clear blue skies, bluer seas, and warm air had done wonders for Daemon's constitution. "I hope your people will not mind a dragon in their midst?"

Sandoq looked over his guest’s shoulder at the red dragon dipping into the ocean to catch fish. Insatiable curiosity won out against any sliver of fear that tried to take root in his heart. Perhaps his guest might allow him to see the great beast up close and personal. "They do not," he said, as he led the way back up the beach. "In fact, my people were making petitions to try and see him, and I had to pass an edict forbidding them."

"Is such an edict even necessary?"

"The last time a dragon came here was a full generation before the doom" said Sandoq. "Your dragon will be seen as a novelty and people will not leave him alone."

And a dragon that is not allowed to live in peace turns into an angry dragon. And an angry dragon? Well, Daemon had his fill of an angry dragon once, and he wanted no one to experience such a horror. "I understand," he said as they walked over paved paths curving through thickets of lush trees and rare flowers. "I also hope I'm not imposing myself with my presence. The Iron Throne does not exactly enjoy the best relationship with the Summer Isles.”

"Not having the best of relationships would be an understatement."

Sandoq winced when he heard it, and both men stopped walking as two women approached them. "My wife, Ayana Qo," Sandoq first pointed to the older woman on the left. "And the one who just spoke is my daughter. The princess y/n."

"Princess Ayana," Daemon greeted your mother first, gripping her right forearm. "I have heard much about you from your ambassadors."

Ayana studied him and smiled. Daemon had all the characteristics of old Valyria: Silver hair, purple eyes and devastatingly handsome, the kind that would have him followed by all the eligible men and women of the islands before long. "Half-truths and embellishments, I’m sure."

"What are ambassadors, princess, if not to give half-truths and embellishments?"

The princess snorted with laughter.

"But I am more than certain that is not the case in your situation," Daemon said gallantly, his eyes edging towards you every so often.

You took him in, the soft linen clothes, the single silver braid. Daemon was a man of high birth, and it showed, not just in his appearance but in how he carried himself, very much like a dragon-riding prince and the brother of a king.

Oh, you thought you knew the type: arrogant, brash, with thoughts for no one but themselves, the type to get themselves into trouble and then not bother to apologize for all the harm they caused. “So. I hear it was you who burned our ships at the Stepstones?”

“Those ships were engaged in piracy,” Ayana countered.

“And I warned my brother not to do it,” Sandoq sighed. “Kojja was a most bull headed man when it suited him,” he looked apologetically to Daemon. “And power went to his head in the end.”

“Aba, he burned those men alive!”

“After I flew over their ships three times as a warning, princess,” Daemon was not going to stand there and let you accuse him of murdering innocent sailors. Not when he knew the crimes your uncle committed. “And your uncle sided with the Crabfeeder. They brought their fates upon their own heads.”

“Y/n,” your mother cut you off before you could snarl at Daemon again. “That is quite enough from you.”

Your mother gave you a look that said: Do not test me. Biting your tongue, you glowered and ground your teeth as Daemon walked ahead, his eyes turning to you the entire time. You were content to glare back, and he was content to chuckle, much to your annoyance.

💫

It was almost noon the next day when Daemon opened his eyes.

The sun shone through colored glass panels that served as a skylight, bathing the bed in a riot of yellows and reds and oranges. Daemon rubbed his eyes and looked around, as he had collapsed into bed the evening before without having a good look first.

There were no hearths here. The walls and floors had been paneled with rich dark wood, with slats cut cannily into the windows. They had been broad enough to let in lots of fresh and light and angled in such a way as to prevent rain from getting into the room. The bed was soft, the sheets and pillows softer. Sheer gauze drapes fluttered in the breeze. Daemon sighed contentedly, thinking he had chosen well by coming to the Red Flower Vale.

He wanted to lay there and not go anywhere, but the need for a meal forced him out of bed. Daemon made use of the glass wash basin and pitcher of water left on his bedside counter to freshen himself up. When he dressed for the day and came downstairs, only you were present in the dining room, the remnants of your mid-day meal in front of you. “Hello, princess y/n,” Daemon said in greeting.

He should not have been surprised to see you here, this was your home after all. Still, after yesterday’s reception, he was hoping to not have to deal with you on his own, not for a little while at least. “Hello,” you mumbled none too happily when he joined you at the table. Your parents had given you a thorough lecture over your behaviour towards their guest, and you hadn’t gotten over it as yet. “There’s rice and fried fish if you’re hungry.”

On Daemon’s request, a servant came forth with a heaping dish of fried fish and rice that had vegetables and a lot of spices in it. Thoroughly starved and thoroughly enticed by the mouth-watering scents, Daemon ate his meal with gusto, even going so far as to ask for a second serving. You watched as he finished off every crumb. “No reddened cheeks,” you mutter with barely disguised curiosity. “No cries for water. Interesting.”

Daemon heard and looked at his plate. The spices. Daemon was sure you had been referring to the spices. “Well,” He helped himself to some ale and smirked. “I am a Targaryen, princess y/n. We do like it hot.”

You squeaked and turned your head, your cheeks aflame. Not only had he heard you, but there was something about the way he said "hot" that got your stomach all tangled up in knots.

Seeing you all flustered tickled him, and Daemon snickered before finishing off his ale. “So tell me, princess y/n,” he leaned back into his chair and stretched out his still sore legs, licking remnants off the pads of his fingers as he did so. As the years passed, flying atop a dragon became harder, tired one out faster, and Daemon had traveled farther than most. Perhaps after this, he would go back to Westeros for good and put an end to his traveling. “What plans for me today?”

“I--” you groaned, as your parents had put you in charge of keeping the prince company. “I am to show you around the Red Flower Vale.”

Oh but the lack of enthusiasm in your voice. Daemon was sure you had been made to do this. “On your father’s orders?” he cackled. “Or your mother’s?”

You caught the glint in his eyes. Oh, but he was enjoying this, watching you groan and squirm. “Both,” you mumble and stood. “Actually.”

He rose with you and accompanied you to the door. “Where to first?”

“Our main library. Father said you might like to see it.” You did a double-take when you heard him right next to your ear. Daemon was so close, you could practically smell him: leather and lilies and not so unpleasantly of dragon. You swallowed, thinking how such an odd mixture could be so appealing. You blinked once, twice, then quickly turned away when his lips quirked upwards. “Do not read anything into it,” you mutter and step out.

“Do not flatter yourself into thinking that I am,” He retorted pleasantly enough.

That stung. “Arsehole,” you mumble and stomp over the grass.

“Like I have not heard that one before,” Daemon called after you sweetly.

When you squeaked and looked back, Daemon pretended to be looking elsewhere. His gaze turned back to you when you looked forward. Telling you not to flatter yourself was very well-timed, but he could see he had hurt your feelings, and you were already determined to not like him. Daemon groaned and wished that his brother was with him. Viserys could have found a way out for him, perhaps even chided him a little.

Daemon found himself missing his brother immensely.

💫

The next day Daemon woke up early and with purpose.

He’d have to win you over and show you that he was more than a dragon rider who burned everything in his path, and the only way to do that was by apologizing first. After going through his usual morning routine, Daemon came downstairs and found you alone again.

“My parents have gone to the beach for the boat races,” you said as he sat next to you. “They asked me to bring you with me.”

The summer boat races, something Sandoq told him about at dinner. It was something Daemon looked forward to seeing. “I would love to see it.”

“Good,” you rose and dusted off your skirt. “Let us go then.”

“Y/n.”

You stopped by the door. Daemon walked up to you but still kept a respectful distance.

“I did not mean to hurt your feeling yesterday afternoon,” he said. “I tend to speak before I think, and I am sorry.”

You sighed, for you knew an apology from your end was also necessary. Your parents, during their scolding, told you some harsh truths about your uncle and the Crabfeeder, and how Daemon was left with no choice in the end. “And I must apologize for accusing you of killing innocent men. My father told me some ugly truths about my uncle, about his sailors, tales they kept hidden from me, and now I feel their demise was well deserved.”

“Thank you,” murmured Daemon. “And how did it feel,” The rogue in him could not help itself. “To say it?”

“Like pulling teeth out of my mouth,” you found yourself smiling. “Now come. Everyone is waiting on you.”

Daemon grinned and gestured for you to lead the way.

The day was pleasantly cool, even for a summer day. The path leading up to the beach was filled with birdsong, the likes of which Daemon had never heard before. He tried to commit everything to memory, so he would have plenty to tell his niece in his next letter.

Daemon let his eyes wander for a while. The Summer Isles was often called the “the true paradise isles,” and he was starting to see why. There were rainforests as far as the eye could see. The air was always sweetened by the many flowers that bloomed all over. Birds of every size and hue could be seen in the mornings when the weather was clear. Their fallen feathers could be found everywhere, and Daemon collected many, to send Rhaenyra and her children as presents.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly, as did every other day after that. Daemon would wake up early and join you as you go about your day in the Vale.

You showed him which flowers were poisonous, and which ones could heal. Which birds made excellent feathery companions, and which ones had to be avoided like the red death. You would take him to Vale’s main library, watching in fascination as Daemon poured over all the books he could find, especially those that had even a hint of life in old Valyria. He never stopped thanking you when you took him to the only Valyrian temple at the center of the island.

Daemon had the energy and curiosity of a teenager, and the appetite of one as well. He ate all the meals given to him and left nary a crumb on his plate. He even sweet-talked the cooks to give him the recipes, in the hopes the kitchens of the Red Keep could duplicate them.

He would spend time with the archers, learning how to use the goldenheart bows the Summer Isles were famous for. He could never take a bow for himself, of course, not unless it was given as a gift, but Sandoq’s people saw no harm in him borrowing one during his stay.

Sometimes, he’d join the prince in his duties. Other times he’d join you and your friends whenever you all went fishing.

Today was such a day.

It was just the two of you, stalking along a stream, hoping to catch fish for supper. The sky had grown gloomy, and the wind had picked up. The fish seemed to be hiding, or next to impossible to catch. When it started to rain, the two of you had to give up and come running back home, laughing merrily, making it to the door just after the rain fell down in earnest.

Daemon went straight to his rooms to change into something dry. He heard the crack of thunder and the flash of lightning and walked to a window. The sky had taken the colour of slate, and wind and rain slashed against the homes of the Vale.

No, Daemon corrected himself as he slipped into a pair of comfortable breeches. These were not mere homes, they were manses. The Red Flower Vale was rich in trade and coin, and it showed, everywhere he looked. The women walked about with bright feathers and expensive jewels in their hair, the men donning feathered necklaces made of gold and silver. Some were even wealthy enough to afford Valyrian steel, rare as it was. He thought of his hosts, jovial Sandoq and graceful Ayana, and he thought of you. During his stay, Daemon found himself thinking of you more and more.

He’d think of you first thing in the morning, and when he closed his eyes at night. He’d noticed how your ears twitched when you were reading a favourite book of yours, or how you never backed down. Why, he saw plenty when you challenged your mother’s cousin Quhuru to a boat race and he lost, theatrically pronouncing to all and sundry how you cheated, because he was distracted. The sun was in his eyes, he said mournfully.

Daemon cackled when you confirmed and said yes, the sun was forever in Quhuru’s eyes.

“The cook said you might like this,” you said, interrupting his thoughts, as you came in with a bowl of soup. “It’s quite good, it has… Gods, what happened?”

It was not Daemon’s exposed back and chest that grabbed your attention, all lean and muscled and striking as it was. It was the massive pink scar going down on either side of the right of his body that did it.

He turned his head to you, a rueful smile tugging at his lips as he looked down at the scarred and puckered flesh. “Yes. This.”

You left the bowl on the counter and stood there, gawking. The prince had been burned, you were almost certain of it, but what could have caused such wounds? Not his own dragon surely. You swallowed, trying to come up with something to ask, or even say.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. Daemon stood where he was, and you stood where you were, both of you waiting for the other to make the first move.

In the end, you broke the silence. “What--” you said, as you finally found your tongue, “What happened?”

Daemon sighed and made his way to bed. “A dragon. That’s what.

“Balerion had died, and my brother, the king, was without a dragon. It was humiliating. People would point and look, and other dragon riders would snigger. My brother put on a brave face, but I knew how hard it was for him. The first Targaryen king without a dragon, even when there were plenty of them.” He stopped while you made yourself comfortable on the other end of the bed, to listen to him. “He tried. Gods knows he tried to bond with the other unclaimed dragons, but they all rejected him. Years passed and my brother started to grow desperate. This worsened after his daughter became a dragon rider at seven.” Daemon smiled fondly. “The youngest in my entire family’s history to do so.”

You did not interrupt as Daemon continued his tale, but you couldn’t help but notice the pride and admiration there. It sent a stab through your gut, for it reminded you of your own uncle, and how he was with you.

“Everything came to a head one morning on Dragonstone. My brother took it upon himself to ignore all warnings and headed to the far side of the island, where the wild dragons nest.”

Your hands flew to your mouth in horror. Even in the Summer Isles, tales were filled with foolish Valyrians trying to claim true wild dragons and dying horrible deaths.

“Sheep-stealer flew off, Grey Ghost proved too shy.” Daemon sighed and looked at his hands. They started to tremble when visions of the inky black horror flashed before his eyes. “That left my brother with only one other dragon. The one we all call the cannibal.

“He snapped and snarled, and yet my brother persisted. He roared and kept backing away, to warn us, and yet my brother persisted. I followed him and saw it all about to unfold before my eyes. My brother was insistent, and Cannibal was growing angry. He opened his mouth, about to breathe dragon flame. My brother kept giving orders, thinking he’d obey.” Daemon shook his head, still stunned his brother could be so blind. “I couldn’t just stand there. The moment Cannibal raised his head I lunged forward and pulled my brother out of the way.”

“And you got hit in the process.” You tried to think what it must have felt like and failed every time. To endure such a thing, the pain, and did his brother ever thank him, for what he did?

“I did,” Daemon mumbled. “I managed to drag us both into a cave, one where the beast could never enter. We were trapped for two days before someone was brave enough to come looking for us. The Maesters are still unsure of how they were able to save me.”

“And what did you tell the others?”

“Viserys wanted to tell the truth, that his foolishness nearly cost us our lives. I took the blame onto my head instead, because I did not want the others to think my brother had lost his mind and was unfit for the throne.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. “And it does not bother you, that people continue to believe this?”

Daemon shook his head. “Viserys is my brother. My family. And the blood of the dragon runs thick.”

It was not just what he said, it was how he said it that created an impression on you. “You love him, don’t you?”

Daemon looked at you, the deep purple of his eyes stealing your breath away. “Yes. I do.”

💫

Your opinion of Daemon softened completely after that.

The man loved his family, and would willingly risk his life and his reputation for his family, traits Summer Islanders hold dear.

You opened up to him about your uncle, the one who died on the Stepstones.

“Kojja was not always driven by money,” you said one morning, over breakfast. “He was bigger than life to my eyes. A legend amongst our sailors. He was the first of us to sail all the way to the Port of Ibben and Asshai and come back again. The first of us to see krakens and ice dragons and unicorns, and lived to tell about it. I didn’t know--” you felt a fist squeeze around your heart. “I didn’t think he’d betray his own people to the likes of the Crabfeeder and the Triarchy.”

“Greed has a habit of felling the noblest of men,” Daemon felt for you. Kojja had been a living legend, and his fall from grace would have been hard on anyone who loved him. “And I am sorry still. The man was your uncle after all.”

You look out the window, down the path that led to the beach. Caraxes had been there, you heard his strange cries and whistles all day as he flew over the waves. The same insatiable curiosity that took over your father now found its way to you. “Perhaps I might forgive you,” you say archly. “If you’d introduce me to your dragon.”

Daemon grinned and rose, holding out a hand to you. “Come along then.”

The air seemed to grow still as the forests around you went eerily quiet, something that only ever happened if the dragon was nearby. There had never been a beast like Caraxes and the other animals kept quiet and stayed away, hiding in the darkness. You were both anxious and nervous, as the only dragons you had heard about were the ones told in songs, the ones that brought fire and ruin to all those that opposed their masters. Now, you were going to see a dragon in the flesh, something even the others had not been able to do. Caraxes would have only come to the beach if Daemon called for him, and Daemon never called him, preferring to let his dragon enjoy unencumbered freedom for once.

The two of you stood there, where grass gave way to sand. Daemon whistled, something strange and eerie, and an equally strange call answered him. “There,” he pointed to a nearby cove. “Caraxes is there.”

Sure enough, he was, standing out against the pristine white sands with his blood-red scales. As soon as he sighted Daemon Caraxes took off, flying low over the waters, landing next to his master with a soft thud. As soon as he sighted you, Caraxes snarled. “Lykirī, Caraxes. Lykirī.” he held onto the dragon’s snout, to calm him. “You are afraid of him, y/n, and he knows it. Come here, stand by his wing.”

You swallowed, but your pride got the better of you and you went towards them, staying well out of the dragon’s way. You could feel Caraxes’ eyes following you, the heat coming off of his body, like the subtle blast from a furnace. “Here,” Daemon gestured to under Caraxes’ wing, where his rib cage was. “Keep your ear there and listen.”

While he babbled to his dragon in High Valyrian, you did as Daemon asked. Caraxes’ scales were as thick as armor, each perfectly fitting in with the other. You rested your ear against them and listened. At first, there was nothing, but you kept listening. Then you heard it, a deep, steady thump, one that grew clearer as the dragon calmed down. “That is his heartbeat?”

Daemon turned to you again, his face lighting up when your own eyes lit up with awe. “Yes. If you could get something your healers use for listening in, the sound is much clearer. I could take you flying with me,” he finally let go of the dragon’s snout and came closer. “But the old boy is particularly surly this morning.”

It didn’t matter. What Daemon had just given you was nothing like anything you had ever experienced in your life. “This is still better than anything I had dreamed of.” Still overawed, you threw your arms around Daemon and hugged him. Shocked at first, Daemon eased into the embrace, and before either of you had a chance to speak or even think, his lips opened over yours.

He registered the shock in your eyes as his hands slipped neatly around your waist. What was he supposed to do after this? Let go and apologize? Pray your parents would not take umbrage to him trampling upon your honour? The Summer Islanders were free when it came to love, they both said, but still, it would be a completely different prospect since it involved their own child.

But he wanted you. Gods, but he wanted you. It was a feeling that had been building up inside him for weeks now, and now, he finally figured out what it was.

When his hands moved higher, to your hair, you hummed, your eyes closing even as your trembling lips parted for his tongue. You felt it, flicking and teasing against yours, warm and luscious as sin. Your entire body trembled, not just from the sudden stab of shock, but desire too. You wanted more than just a kiss. Daemon made it impossible to be satisfied with just a kiss. Your body melted against his, your heart thrilling at the moan that poured into your mouth.

When he pulled away, and very reluctantly at that, the both of you were struggling for breath. “That was-” Daemon ran a hair through his mussed up hair, his heart fluttering like mad, his stomach tied up in knots. “That was,” he smiled, “amazing.”

Your feelings matched his. “You are not so bad yourself.”

He chuckled. “How about, we do this the right way, y/n?”

Right way? What was he talking about?

“I really, really like you,” Daemon murmured as he took both your hands and brought them to his lips. “And I was wondering if I could court you.”

There was that shock again, confusion, surprise, and a myriad of other emotions warring in your eyes. He wanted to court you. Daemon Targaryen, prince of Westeros, wanted to court you, a princess from the Summer Isles. You felt something tug at your heart, something warm and vibrant and the sweetness of it took your breath away.

“Alright,” you laughed when he lifted you off your feet and spun you around. “You can court me.”

💫

Sandoq gave Daemon the use of a private cabin on his estates, so the two of you could have more privacy.

Your mother fluttered around you like a worried hen, clucking about, making sure everything was perfect for you, not leaving until your father had to physically pull her with him.

Oh you did not mind. Ayana was your mother, and this was how she was. Daemon did not mind it either, patiently answering her questions, reassuring her, taking her threats with easy grins and indulgent nods of the head. He watched her leave with a smile on his face, that smile growing when you pulled him to bed.

That was how it was. The two of you going about your days, getting to know each other better, you trying not roll your eyes at his antics, him trying to impress you with flowers and letters and poems. They were terrible poems, Daemon himself admitted to it, but you loved them all the same.

The nights spent in each other’s arms.

“You know, I really should thank Alicent when I go back,” Daemon mumbled to you one night. “If it was not for her throwing herself at me we would not have met.”

Your laugh was muffled by his mouth. The sweetness of his kiss left you lightheaded and weak, turned your bones to water. Your trembling fingers trailed up to his hair, a soft, throaty moaning rising from the back of your throat when he hooked an arm around your thigh, to plunge himself deeper.

Daemon, you whimpered.

Every night since that day at the beach, that was all he heard when the two of you shared pleasures. His name. Just his. Oh, but he loved it, loved hearing it. Daemon couldn’t get enough it, couldn’t get enough of you. With a moan of his own, Daemon propped himself on one elbow, to avoid crushing you. His greedy eyes devoured you as you moved beneath him, his ears drowning with the sounds of your cries and pleas. His mouth skimmed across your jaw, his body arching into yours whenever your nails raked down his back. He felt it, a wave building within him, something that had to be said with words, words he had been meaning to say for weeks now. “I love you,” each word was a fight to get out, but he did it.

Your eyes flew open with shock even as your body trembled beneath his. His eyes were fixed on yours, molten purple gleaming in the moonlight. “I love you, do you hear me?” He panted. “I love you.”

His words struck a chord, gave meaning to what you had been feeling the longest possible time. But you’d never thought you’d hear him say it first. It made you want to say it back, and you did. “I love you.”

That nearly undid him. “Again,” he said, as he thrust harder and deeper.

“I love you,” you whimpered, as your body started to draw tight like a bowstring.

“Tell me again,” his eyes, darkened by lust, never left yours. “I want to hear you say it again.”

You wanted to sob as he drove the both of you over the edge. “I love you,” you whimpered one last time before those coiled muscled snapped, and your body felt like it was splintering into a million little pieces as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, threatened to pull you under. It felt like you had to fight for air, like the very world itself had stopped spinning. Daemon heaved over you, not stopping until he buried his face in your hair, a sob tearing itself from his throat as he spilled his seed inside of you.

You felt yourself being moved as Daemon moved to his back. The rain continued to fall, a soft, soothing patter against the roof. Your chest heaved as you placed a hand against his, to feel his heartbeat hammering against his chest before slowing to a more peaceful rhythm. Daemon swallowed, as there was something else he had to say. Something that hinged on your answer.

“Marry me,” Daemon fought off the fear that gripped his heart, even as you sat up straight. “Marry me, y/n. I want to take you back to Westeros with me, as my wife.”

Your eyes went wide with shock as certain incidents over the past few days started to make sense. Daemon cloistering himself in meetings with your parents, all of them shooing you away when you tried to join in. Your father humming a traditional refrain fathers only ever sang when escorting their daughter to their husband’s home. Your mother giving you knowing looks, talking about feather capes brides wore, asking your opinion on them, what colours you personally liked best. It was for you, you realized. All of it was for you.

On a shuddering breath, you thought over his proposal. You would have to leave everything and everyone behind and live in a strange land. But you looked at Daemon, at his sure eyes, his strong arms. At the beginning, the very idea of being anywhere near him repulsed you, but now, now you couldn’t think of spending another minute away from him. Daemon would be with you, and you would not be alone. One the next steadying breath, you swallowed and came to a decision.

“Yes” you said, between laughter and tears. “My answer is yes.”

💫

It took the better part of three months to prepare, more than just for the ceremony itself but to delay everything until someone from Daemon’s family could come for the wedding. To justify his brother's absence, Daemon provided verifiable reports of instability in the Stepstones. Viserys would give a proper welcome should Sandoq or Ayana ever visit Westoros, he had promised.

In the end, his niece and her good-sister Laena came, both bearing gifts and letters from the family. One piece of information ruined Daemon’s mood surrounding the wedding.

"He’s losing sight in his right eye now?" Daemon swore as he paced about the room. "Damn it, Nyra, why didn’t you tell me?"

Rhaenyra picked up a special parcel her father insisted she give to her uncle in person. "Father forbade me from saying anything in my letters."

"He forbade you?" Daemon was unsure if he was to laugh or be angry. "And you actually listened?"

"Yes. It was a bit of a shock for me too." Rhaenyra sighed and sat on the bed. "I am sorry, uncle, for hiding this from you. It is just that you sounded so happy in your letters, and neither of us wanted to ruin it for you."

Daemon’s grimaces slowly melted into a wide grin. No matter how hard he tried, he could never stay angry at his niece—or his brother, for that matter. "The others take you both," he teased in good humour. "What is that?"

Rhaenyra grinned and broke the wax seal, cut the twine cord. When she pulled away piles of tissue paper, Daemon saw what it was, his eyes went wide in disbelief. "Is that?"

"Visenya’s wedding diadem," Rhaenyra picked up the gold and Valyrian steel tiara, one only ever worn by brides of the Freehold. "Rhaenys’ he gave to me for my wedding. This he kept aside for you, in case you ever got married. And I’m glad he did."

And it was only right, she thought, that Visenya’s diadem went to the person who wielded her sword. She held it out for her uncle, and he accepted it with great reverence, his thumb gently rubbing against the Valyrian symbols engraved into the metal. "Laena has gone off with the elders, to help them ready the temple for the ceremony," she said. "I cannot believe this is happening, you are finally getting married."

"Yes, it was a bit of a shock for me as well," Daemon agreed, his grin matching hers. "But I’m glad I asked. I truly believe y/n is the one."

"And I cannot wait to welcome her to the family. The rest feels the same. Well, our side, at any rate."

And by that, she meant the Velaryons and the Celtigars. "Let us not discuss your half-brothers," Daemon said, not wanting to mar the days ahead with talk of his nephews and the rumors that surrounded them. "They are not worth the energy, at any rate."

The next morning saw the sun shining brightly as a crowd left the Vale and traveled by boat to the center of Jhala, where the only Valyrian temple outside of Volantis remained.

The boats were all decorated with feathers that fluttered in the breeze. You traveled in the first boat, with your family and the Vale’s elders, the rest followed as the procession made its way upriver. In keeping with custom, you were dressed in a pale cream and yellow linen dress, with simple embroidery at the hem as its only adornment. Your mother carried the cape that Daemon would drape over you during the ceremony. She refused to let you see it, only ordering that you wait and see.

Your father sang out the traditional song as the boat was rowed upriver, his rich voice carrying over the water for all to hear. Daemon had no home here, his was in Westeros, and the journey to the old Valyrian temple had to serve. You felt a fist squeeze at your heart whenever you heard cracks in your father’s voice, and you tried to make the most of every last moment with your parents. Even with the swan ships, Westeros was a long way away, and they would not be able to travel for some time.

You looked ahead, finally settling on the yellow and orange banners that ran up an old and long forgotten path. Save for you and Daemon, no one had come this far since the Freehold's inception, when sons of house Velaryon married princesses from the Summer Isles as part of a peace treaty. Tribesmen had spent many backbreaking days clearing branches and old roots, and now the old path stood visible for all to see.

Quhuru was serious for once as he led the boat up the closest bank. There would be no other great ritual, a bride would simply go to her husband’s home after a goldenheart bow changed hands, and there would be a great feast afterwards, but you wanted to honour Daemon’s heritage and suggested a Valyrian ceremony as well.

The procession started again, this time winding through the narrow path in a riot of colours. Your breath caught when the temple came into view. Made entirely out of black stone that had been fused together by dragon flame, it gleamed in the sun, defying the forests that threatened to overtake it. "Over there," your father said, pointing to Laena standing near a small doorway.

As the minutes passed, your excitement grew. You didn’t even notice the diadem weighing down on your head, so excited were you for the wedding to begin. Daemon would be there, as would his niece. She would be performing the ceremony, after learning the words from her father. Your father squeezed your hand as the two of you walked ahead, your mother sniffing quietly as she followed, feather cape in hand.

On you all walked, under the stone doorway, through candle-lit corridors, making your way to a chamber cut cannily out of stone. Daemon was here, resplendent in traditional Valyrian robes. A large black statue loomed in behind him, one you were told represented the Valyrian goddess of marriage and love. There were more candles here, all in yellow and red, and incense—thin sticks filling the air with smoke that reminded you of cinnamon. His face lit up when he turned and saw you.

"Go on," your mother urged as she walked behind you. "It is time."

Daemon first accepted the cape from your mother, draping a waterfall of red, orange, and yellow over your shoulders. Sandoq then brought forth a magnificent goldenheart bow with matching arrows, for you to hand over to Daemon, a sign you were leaving your family’s protection and entering your husband’s. Laena took it off Daemon’s hands, as the rest of the ceremony had to continue.

Daemon then unsheathed a dragonglass blade and dragged it across your right palm. It stung, but you didn’t care. You smiled, taking the blade off his hands, and did the same to him, this time across his left palm. "Now join hands," said a solemn Rhaenyra.

Sandoq wrapped a yellow and orange sash over your linked hands, as blood dripped into a little bowl held by your mother. When it was full, Rhaenyra took it, mixed it with ash and embers that had been scooped up from a nearby fire, and held out the bowl to you both.

"Hen lantoti anogar, va syndroti vaedroma," she said as Daemon dipped a finger in, letting the mixture coat it before placing it over your brow. He brought it down in a straight line, to symbolize fire.

"Mero perzot gihoti, Eledroma iarza sir ," Rhaenyra continued, this time as you dipped your finger before drawing the sign of blood on Daemon’s brow. Rhaenyra then put the bowl away and picked up a goblet of wine, handing it to you first.

"Izuli ampa perzi, Prumi lanti seteksi," you drank deeply and passed the goblet to Daemon to do the same while Rhaenyra finished the vows. "Hen jeny mazilarion, Qelossa ozundesi, Sydroro ono jedo, Ry kivia mazvestraksi."

Daemon cupped your cheek with your free hand, his eyes filling with pride. You were finally his now, in the sight of both Gods and men. Your eyes communicated your feelings, of how proud you were to be his. When he leaned in to kiss you, everyone cheered.

#daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon smut #daemon x you #house of the dragon #HOTD #hotd x reader #asks #reader request #reader insert

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chromiumagellanic06 · 27 days

Text

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 24: Confession

MASTERLIST

Summary: Naera accepts her truth, and swears her allegiance

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: nothing, really

“Where is the princess?”

Naera opened her eyes with a start, cold, harsh fog surrounding her. A distinct chill ran down her spine, flowing in short, quick bursts, as though the winter flood had come to the Riverlands. The sky was tanned, the colour of burnt sugar, dusted in mist.

Scales whipped past—pink, stained gold, scarred and leathery, humongous wings with a screeching presence. She could smell smoke, ash, and the salty seas. With a gasp, Naera blinked away the haziness. The rushing of waves greeted her ear, the sight of cavernous rocks around a stone corridor. Dragonstone. She stood on the passageway to the fortress from the sandy beach, half a dozen armoured knights behind her.

Daemon stood beside her, dressed in the finest, darkest black she had seen—black as though the terrorful night had embraced his visage—and his hand crawled along Dark Sister’s hilt as though the very air held threats. His face resembled a scowl, his shoulders tensed, but he glanced at her, and his eyes took some relief from her calm. He nodded, absent, catching his lack of control.

Her sword was in her hand, safely within its scabbard, and her Valyrian Steel dagger dangled at her waist. She thought of the day he had gifted it to her, that day in the hedges when he’d proclaimed wanting to know her, admitted his desire for a successful marriage, his desire for her, against her every belief,

Daemon stared upwards, hardly shocked by her presence—as though they hadn’t warred over their last meeting as terribly as she recalled. Silver clasps held together his cloak, and Naera felt the familiar, long-faded urge to rip it apart, to hear the clinking of its metal against another’s, to feel him as a part of herself, however fleetingly so. She followed his eyes to focus on the dragon that flew overhead, pink and red, with a long snout—Syrax, she recognised, as well as the flapping black cloak of her rider. Rhaenyra, white hair twirling in the wind, clothes as dark as Daemon, with a flicker of gold on her brow.

Syrax circled the air, humming her song which was but a battle cry, and Naera felt a sense of urgency despite her languor. She felt the danger Daemon did, the tightening of the air, the crispness of their conduct.

When Naera’s eyes dropped, so did her heart. Otto Hightower stood a few paces before her, eyes trained upwards, with a dull hunch that suggested fear. A man with a white cloak stood before him, another dozen with green following.

Syrax thundered down on the corridor behind Otto Hightower and his swords, Rhaenyra slipping off her mount and crossing the sentry to stand a pace in front of Naera and Daemon. Syrax growled as Otto stepped forth again. Naera’s eyes trained in on Jaehaerys’ crown on Rhaenyra’s head.

It was a ring of gold and silver, engraved with the seals of every major House of Westeros—the Stark Wolf of the North, the Tyrell Rose of the Reach, the Lannister Lion, the Baratheon Stag. Naera could only recall having seen it on her father, and her heart shuddered at the implication.

Viserys was dead.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto began, solemn, as though the fact that Rhaenyra stood at Dragonstone while soldiers in green accompanied the Hightower snake didn’t mean what was apparent. A coup had taken place. Otto looked distressed, as though the day didn’t spell out his long-sought glory, the fruit of his every ambition.

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now,” her sister corrected, “and you all are traitors to the Realm.”

“King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, in his wisdom and desire for peace is offering terms,” Otto tried, testing the waters, as though the knights with polished swords and archers with deadly aim that watched him were not enough indication of their folly in trying to make amends. Still, he spoke, “Acknowledge Aegon as King and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son Jacaerys, upon your death.”

Naera stepped forth, her sword growing light in her hand, as though a single stroke wouldn’t hurt. “Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon, after the death of your lord husband, Lord Laenor.” Daemon tutted, nearly silent, but Naera heard him. Rhaenyra listened to Otto’s words, devoid of the fury the fire had promised. She listened to Otto’s words, not truly considering them, but respecting their attempts—regal, in the very literal sense.

Emboldened by the lack of response, Otto spoke louder, “Your nieces and nephews, the children of your sister Princess Naera, will be allowed return to their home or residence at Dragonstone or King’s Landing as respected members of the family, and will also be given places of high honours—your son Joffrey, and nephew Aegon the younger as Kingsguards upon their coming of age, your nephew Viserys, the obvious younger, as the King’s squire, and your niece Rhaenys as his cupbearer. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.” Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children.

Daemon said, “I would rather feed my sons and daughters to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken usurper cunt of a king.” Their children.

Naera spoke, without thought, without intention, “Do you consider us cowards if we tread in the strength of Dragonstone, Lord Hightower?” Her voice was bold, strong, hardly aged and mocking, “This is where the Conqueror planned his war, and it is where we shall win ours, should the day arrive.”

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Otto said with finality, a touch of the pride, of the malice leaking through his perfumed visage, “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a Septon of the faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him.” He smiled, ugly, and the world saw him for what he was. A man whose ambition had been fulfilled. His blood on the Iron Throne. “Then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon—Houses that have also received and are at present considering generous terms from their King.”

Rhaenyra spoke, for the first time, her white hair flickering with the air. Her voice was cold, “Stark, Tully and Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir.”

“Stale oaths will not place you on the Iron Throne, princess,” Otto took silent, leering steps closer. Naera tightened her grip on her sword. “The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

Rhaenyra ran forth, faster than the wind, and grasped the old man’s cloak. She plucked off his golden pin, the hand with its pointed finger, and said, “You are no more hand than Aegon is King,” she tossed it off the side, down to the crashing waves below the stone passage. “Fucking traitor.” The green soldiers inched closer, swords at the ready. Rhaenyra looked at Otto through her lashes, daring his hand.

The red-caped knights of her own company stepped forth, but Naera stopped them with a raised hand. They were not so foolish.

Otto called for the Grandmaester, that tattered old man who called himself Mellos. The grey-robed man husk of a man offered him a page, old and folded, fraying at its edges.

“What the fuck is this?” Daemon muttered, glancing at Naera for a clue. She kept her eyes trained at Rhaenyra, at her locks of silver, at the golden crown that rested on her head as though she was borne for it. She was, Naera reminded herself. Rhaenyra was born to rule.

Rhaenyra studied the page out of sight, but Otto spoke, “Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other.” Rhaenyra’s shoulders hunched, hesitant. “No blood need to spilt so the realm can be carried on in peace,” he glanced above Rhaenyra, at Naera, at Daemon, at their primed swords and unbreakable resolve. Rhaenyra was queen, and there was to be no question of it. “Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”

Daemon answered, “She can have her answer right now stuffed in her father’s mouth along with his withered cock. Let’s end this mummer’s farce,” and the shrill sound of steel against steel rang resonant in the air, as all drew their swords except Naera. The maester stepped away frantically as Daemon continued, Dark Sister gleaming red in the twilight, and Naera couldn’t help but imagine running a hand through his wind-ruffled hair, pressing a fleeting peck on his cheek, holding his hand despite the war that raged on. “Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.” Syrax groaned in warning, wings flapping behind the green escort. They were surrounded—swords facing them, a dragon behind, with a hundred feet fall into jarred rock and crashing waves to the sides.

Rhaenyra clutched the page still, and Naera watched her hands tremble. No.

“Udligon issa sepār mēre másino, jorrāelagon mandia,” Tell me just one thing, dear sister, she said this without knowing, as though she was a mere spectator to the event, not an involved actor at all. Naera pulled her sword out, brandished steel from the Shadowland, polished to the colour of silver, like her name, like her legacy.

“Gaomagon ao jaelagon ērinnon isse bisa vīlībāzma?”

Do you want this war won?

Do you want the Iron Throne, the Seven Kingdoms, the rule that is your birthright?

Rhaenyra caught her failing self, pushed away the sentiment she had long been cursed with, and stood straight, head held high, the golden crown gleaming.

“Rūsīr perzys se ānogar.”

With Fire and Blood.

She crushed the old parchment in her grasp, felt the page wrinkle and tear against her skin, and tossed it into the waves.

Rhaenyra turned back, walking towards her knights, and Naera saw a hint of something different in Daemon’s eyes, an admiration uncontainable, a love aged and solidified until it had become a part of him. His hair, nearly reaching his shoulders, flapped with every turn of the wind, a smile etched on his unaging face. Naera felt the all-familiar ache in her chest she had grown to associate with only a certain woman, but with this came a wave of fire, a flame of courage. Naera trailed after Rhaenyra, the knights parted to make her way, and Daemon took her side again, his arm going around her shoulders, lips brushing past her ear.

As they began their ascent into the fortress, Rhaenyra spoke, clear and loud over the hanging air, “Dracarys.”

With a roar untethered, Syrax breathed fire—raw, hot, magical flame unto the green escort, embellishing their towered shields and silken cloaks with the might and wrath of Valyria.

But within Naera’s mind resounded not the screams of Otto Hightower. Instead, it was those names—those three names, again, and again, and again. Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children. Daemon’s children.

A sound pulled her from her musings, eyes snapping open to white calicoes and stony roofs. A storm raged outside that same fortress, thunder, lightning and wind clamouring against the windows. The sound returned, a deep knocking on wood.

“Come,” she uttered, barely heard by herself, but the door opened. She swept in a breath of cold air, dragging herself up. Her head felt clear, though she couldn’t discern how. A dream such as that, prophetic in all but name, could hardly come without a cost.

With careful footsteps emerged Rhaenyra. She wore the darkest black, much like her dreams, but not quite. On her face was the same solemn, regal expression she had donned for as long as Naera could afford to recall. All their childhood scuffles lay forgotten over the succession.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Naera cleared her throat, “how fares—” Rhaenyra sat beside her, taking her hand. The touch burned both, as though the mere distrust had made the other’s touch anathema.

“They shall return in a fortnight.” Merchants could hardly afford a week’s absence jittering over an ailing arbiter. Naera nodded absently, mind yearning to return to her ponderings. Aegon, Viserys, Rhaenys. Her children, by Daemon. That very Daemon who Rhaenyra had yearned for, to the point of betrayal, to the epitome of disgrace, to the brink of exile; that very Daemon whom she yearns for still, Naera thought, and the dread that followed that realisation confused her, bothered her, stripped away the defences she had long built and tore her wounds open to the salty sea air. She yearns for him still, but so do I. “You aren’t well, sister, I did not mean to—”

“Don’t,” Naera stopped, her free hand trailing to her neck, to the bruises long faded, so the anger long drowned by none other than a sickening, flooding, endlessly sweet ache. “Do not apologise for seeking your best.” It was the noblest thing for Rhaenyra to have done, and they both knew it. She couldn’t sit and wait while the Hightowers gathered support, and allies, while they plotted schemes to usurp the throne, not after she had, in finality, lost the only thing she had wanted as much as the Iron Throne. Daemon.

“I only apologise for distressing you.” Rhaenyra sighed, unable to find the proper word, unable to breach the subject she had poised herself to address. Naera stared at her sister, at the way her once innocent face had hardened with toil, at the crease of her fair brow, the shadowing of her eyes that counted far more than a dozen sleepless nights. She stared at her jewels, gilded Valyrian Steel with the bloodiest rubies, at her neck. Gold and tarred silver at her ears. Black and Red velvet at her waist, cinching scales like those of the Black Dread on her sleeves.

She imagined that somewhere west, a woman her age lay adorned in green.

“How long shall you fight silent, Rhae?” Naera trailed a hand to the embroidered wrists of her sister’s gown, tracing the spiked, metallic lines, “The Hightowers denounce you with every other word.” Why play so civil, when, “That whore of a queen cut you with a blade, challenged your sons’ legitimacy, married—” she breathed, “married the man you love to your sister.”

And it shattered, then, and there.

Rhaenyra flicked her hands away, a strangled sob being the only flash of lightning before her thundering tears broke the gates. She took Naera into her arms, against her steel gown, against her scarred self, and held her sister silent, as tear, after tear trailed down her cheek, dripping onto Naera’s face to mingle with her miserable proclamations.

“Forgive me,” Rhaenyra choked, “for I have caused you nothing but pain—for I have given you nothing but hatred, hatred over deeds you never committed.” She shook her head, gasping for breath.

Naera took her face in her hands, grasping senselessly for support, “It is I who has been selfish. If I had stayed—”

“Then you’d be broken,” Rhaenyra resolved, “You’d be like the rest of us, Naera, do not seek forgiveness for doing the best for yourself.” She recited Naera’s own words. “No, do not wish me that misery, of seeing another fallen to Hightower ambition.”

Naera’s chest tightened, a desperate cry echoing through the stone chambers, “but that isn’t all I’ve failed you in, Rhaenyra.” Daemon. His flapping hair, his kindred smiles, the passion with which he burned every second, of every day. Fire and blood. Naera had fallen, defeated, immersed in his beauty, sunk in that ugly sentiment.

“I love him,” as the dragon does the sky, as the waves do the wind, as a Targaryen does one of her kin. Hopelessly, without sense, without reason, without paying heed to the screaming logic that reminded her of his flaws, but he was perfect. He was sublime, strong, ever-present, until she had pushed him away.

Rhaenyra leaned her forehead against Naera’s and whispered, “Pār jorrāelagon zirȳla sȳrī, syt nyke daor.” Then love him well, for I cannot. “Laenor treats me well, Naera,” she chuckled, nose blushed red, “Ser Harwin loves me dearly. It is well. I am well.” Naera closed her eyes. I am well. She doesn’t need him—no, she doesn’t want him, for she knows now that Naera does.

She does not want him, because she cannot have him. Her ambition has ended with the demise of her true love, but Rhaenyra cuts those thoughts short, “I have not wanted him in years, Naera, neither has he me.” She nodded, as though seeking a declaration of trust.

Naera found herself believing her sister against every fact, against her own instinct. She nodded, and Rhaenyra smiled, wiping the tears from Naera’s face. “We’ll be strong, we can win this, Naera,” a glimmer of hope, a ray of light that broke through the storm, “if you’d only—” Panic rushed through her, an image of night, of snow, of blood pouring by the gallons, and seas turning dark. Fear surged through her veins, frigid as the morning air, dead as the Long Night.

“I forgive you,” Naera brushed away Rhaenyra’s tears, and struggled to her feet, cotton chemise barely strung together. Rhaenyra protested her deeds, imploring her to take the needed rest, but Naera ignored those pleas.

She knew what was to come.

A coup, orchestrated by the Green Queen. The Conqueror’s Crown on Aegon’s Head, and the proclamation of his rule, and she knew what was to follow.

A War, unlike one that had been seen since the foundations of the Freehold.

A War amongst Dragons, and years after that

The Long Night.

And she understood her role, finally, in this grand scheme, amidst this treachery, and debauchery. This confinement had a reason, as all curses and trials do, for the Lord of Light is just, and often kind. He was kind when he granted her Melisandre, as kind as he is now, granting her Daemon, his love, his fire, his passion to ignite her world that had been dimmed by the night, to set it alight once again.

She was to stand by Rhaenyra’s side, for it was she, who would lay the foundation for the Liberator’s acceptance as Queen of Westeros. The first Queen to sit on the Iron Throne—Naera would be her Visenya, her right hand, her soldier, her Queensguard—the broken half of her soul held close but never fused to heal the rift of regality.

“I am yours and have been for long, but I implore that you hear it for once, and for all.” She drew her sword, silver steel cursed with flames, in a leather scabbard, survived from Stygai. Naera knelt, her white gown pooling at her ankles, sword held before her.

“I swear by fire and blood, that I, Naera of the House Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms and Knight to Westeros, shall follow the cause of you, who are the heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and die if I must, to place you as Queen of this Land.”

MASTERLIST