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Fire and Blood.
His hands clench the edges of the table, his gloves squeaking as his shoulders tense, and he resists the fiery urge to flip the whole table. Crinkles spread across the map, the creases stark against the parchment as the Crownlands folds into itself in a crumpled crater that he refuses to look at.
What would there be to even see? Scattered holds and useless towns that have no meaning to him in a land he had no proper claim to, never mind the fact that his mother was a Targaryen princess and his father was a king.
He was Daemon Waters. A Great Bastard. Another stain on House Targaryen, right next to all his brothers and sisters that did not have the pleasure to be whelped from the late Queen Naerys’s royal cunt. Not that anyone in court really considered her to be queen, except maybe a handful of courtiers and relatives, and of course, Uncle Aemon, who had stared at her as if she hung the moon and stars and was the Mother herself.
He sits back in his chair, the thing creaking as he closes his eyes and leans his head back. His solar is quiet during this time of day and has been growing even quieter and less busy since the year his sons were born. The court looked between himself and Daeron with bated breaths and shining eyes and have been, ever since father had given him, a bastard, Blackfyre.
Daemon didn’t understand why anyone had expected him to—he glances at the shadows on the wall and rubs his eyes. When was the last time he had eaten? Rohanne usually came around noon to scold him into eating, one of the boys propped up on her hip while her Tyroshi handmaid followed after her with their other son.
Wood scrapes against bare stone as he pushes himself away from his desk, his chair rattling as he then pockets his key to his solar. It wasn’t an exuberantly large room, like one would expect from being a part of the royal family, but with a shared name like Waters tacked onto the end of his name, he was just as royal as his bastard sisters from common Merry Meg who were given to the Faith.
Locking the door behind him, he glances down the hall. It’s unusually empty, save for a pair of women in maid uniforms who carry a basket full of linens as they pass him.
On some days it grinds on him, how they don’t greet him before scurrying past.
The halls are cooler than normal, autumn settling upon King’s Landing with the promise of a cold winter soon to follow. Summer had lasted a short two years and Rohanne had moved her attentions from wooing her own husband over to making sure their sons were hale and healthy.
Three years of marriage had produced a lucky set of twin boys, conceived on their wedding night and there were yet siblings to follow if Daemon could ignore the way his own wife followed him with greedy eyes. As an Archon’s daughter, it wasn’t far-fetched to assume she got what she wanted, not that he would know, given the way he tried to avoid her as much as he could.
She was a stunningly pretty woman, with chestnut-toned skin, fox-shaped eyes, and a pert mouth. Her strands of colored hair only highlighted her warm skin and brought attention to her pretty face, which was easily admirable even in the bright sun of day. Daemon wasn’t blind to realize that she was a good wife for him, ignoring her foregin status.
The only fault that Daemon found with his wife was the fact that she wasn’t someone he had picked himself.
He liked to collect things. Liked to pinch and touch and grab before pocketing whatever it was he wanted. It wasn’t terribly hard, especially when the other option of getting what he wanted was simply working for it. He was a bastard; a Great Bastard at that. Hard-work wasn’t an unfamiliar concept to him and in fact was the only concept he had ever really put any sort of conviction into, at least when father was still alive.
Ever since Daeron had taken the throne, Daemon had flopped around uncertainly within the Red Keep (not that he would ever let anybody know about), since his brother couldn’t provide him any sort of title or governmental position without his supporters losing their little heads or running into his dear wife, who was quick to personalize his free time into her own tastes.
Daemon enjoyed the few moments they shared together--how could he not when she was the mother of his children and an ever-present figure in his life? He was bound to form at least a fondness of Rohanne, especially since he didn’t outright dislike or hate her much like his father did with his own legal wife.
The Red Keep grows cooler as he nears the royal gardens. There are less braziers and candelabras strewn about this way since most of the time, the large doors leading to the gardens were constantly kept open since Baelor the Blessed, who was said to be seen within the gardens almost as much as he was seen within a sept.
Despite being meant for use by those of the royal family only, the royal gardens typically saw more use out of them from the lucky few outsiders who were granted permission to browse the hedges and greenery. Daemon didn’t think that there was much to see besides bushes and more bushes, but the women of the family seemed to enjoy the quiet of these gardens in comparison to the godswood in the Red Keep that was used as a more public ‘garden.’
Father’s Blackwood mistress had once tried to get him to plant one of those ghastly trees within the godswood, but she had fallen out of favor before she could actually get it done. Instead she had left behind three bastard children, with the boy being pale as a ghost and just as ghastly as one of her savage blood-thirsty trees.
He stops before he can properly see the fountain that gives the royal gardens its name, instead closing his eyes and tilting his head upwards to feel the pale sun. In his mind’s eye, he can perfectly imagine the supposed replica of Princess Maegelle Targaryen in her septa’s habit as she holds an urn where water gushes from the opening of it.
“Daemon?”
He opens his eyes, blinking to adjust them to the sunlight before turning around. “Sister.”
“What's caused you to leave your lair?” Fifteen and already a great beauty, Daenerys Targaryen peers at him, light purple eyes almost lavender in the pale sunlight. The greenery of the royal gardens makes her stand out like some sort of fae creature, her platinum hair tumbling down her shoulders and over her Reacher-styled dress that had been the newest rage of the court since one of Lord Oakheart’s daughters had shown up in a daring new dress cut.
“Some fresh air.” He follows her with his eyes as she sashays past him, her arms pulling the skirt of her dress this way and that in a rather childish and dramatic move that reminds him that she is only fifteen .
He was fourteen when he had married and consummated his marriage with Rohanne, but it wasn’t so far long ago where he had forgotten the way he wanted to throw up and close his eyes so it could all be over. Father would’ve taunted him in front of the entire court if he had done that, had he still been alive, but it was Daeron’s cool gaze that had anchored itself in his mind as he was carted off to the bedchambers with Rohanne.
Father had brokered the betrothal between Rohanne and himself, but it was Daeron who had sealed it, despite his protests.
“You are father’s son.” Daeron had said shortly, placing down his goblet before fixing his ever-even stare upon Daemon. “Thus you shall do what is required.”
(Daemon still remembers the way he had clenched his hands into fists, the letter in his hand crinkled and crushed to the point that it had smudged the dry ink. He had written, he had promised him, and all Daemon had to do was show his kingly brother the contents and--)
“I understand, Your Grace.” He felt the tendon in his jaw flex. “Please excuse me.”
“Daemon!”
“Don’t pinch me, Daenerys.” He scowls, tugging his arm out of her grasp. Despite her delicate stature, Daenerys had sharp little fingers that she wielded against her siblings in the form of pinches, the little wretch. The only one with the same amount of audacity out of his siblings besides her or their kingly brother was Shiera (the little haughty bitch), for she knew her two little Rivers would fight for her on her behalf. Whomever had said that larger families were happier families were certainly wrong because Daemon is sure that half of his problems would be solved if at least half of his brothers dropped dead.
“That’s the fifth time now,” Daenerys says matter-of-factly, one of her eyebrows raised in a way that has him already bristling. As the precious (legitimate) younger sister of the king, Daenerys had grown used to others following her words or actions with the ease of just flicking a pinkie finger. The late Queen Naerys had certainly adored her youngest, who (in Daemon’s own opinion) resembled the Dragonknight more than the baseless rumors that followed Daeron, who looked like a skinnier version of their late father. “Are you even listening to me?”
Daemon exhales, leaning forward until his elbows rest on his knees before looking up at the princess. “Unfortunately.”
Her lips press into a frown, which then form into a pout as she huffily sits next to him on the stone bench. It wasn’t often that they were allowed alone together like this ever since one of Daeron’s supporters had started a disgusting rumor saying that the two of them fancied each other.
Of course, Daeron, ever trusting and ever near-sighted with things when it came to the ‘wise’ men of his courts, had lapped up this rumor like it was fact and had forbidden them to be around each other without a chaperone. Daenerys was hurt by Daeron’s insinuations and Daemon’s own wife had then taken it upon herself to hang onto him like a limpet.
“The Dornish party will be here soon.” Daenerys tells him, “I am to be married. ”
“Oh joy.” He says flatly, no joy in his tone.
“It’s not funny, y'know. I have to be Princess Consort of Dorne. Dorne!”
Daemon purses his lips. How horrible it must be to marry into a land that saw their women equal to their men and wed the ruler of said land. “Congratulations.”
“Congratulat—I don’t want to go to Dorne.” She uncrosses her arms, huffing.
“Brother would not be pleased to hear that; nor would his wife.” Daemon warns.
“Well I am not pleased.”
“When are you ever?” Daemon mutters, hissing as she digs her elbow into his side.
“ Daenerys!”
“I’m marrying a complete stranger, Daemon. Have some sympathy.”
Daemon rolls his eyes, rubbing a hand onto the side she had jabbed him with. “You and everyone else. Rohanne and I were strangers on our wedding night.”
“That’s different,” Daenerys tells him, when it's really not. “You two grew to love each other.”
“I grew to tolerate her, not love her.” And Daenerys looks stricken by this, her eyes searching his own for any trace of falsity or lie. Perhaps to others, the marriage between Rohanne and himself looked to be one that was well-matched. He rarely lost his temper with her and it was obvious that his Tyroshi wife held affections for him.
He just didn’t hold the same affections for her.
“But Rohanne…” His sister trails off uncertainly, her pale hands folding into the skirts of her dress in a move that he recognizes as one of her anxious habits.
“I care for Rohanne,” He says evenly. “But my love is held for another.”
They stare at each other for a moment, conflicting emotions swimming in Daenerys’s eyes as she furrows her brows. She was still young and coddled, a perfect princess in the eyes of the realm for her beauty and soft-spoken side she only ever showed in public.
Suddenly she stands, turning back to Daemon with pursed lips as she folds her hands in front of her. Even standing, she isn’t too tall of a girl, taking after her mother’s almost wispy stature as she shuffles her feet.
“Do you think the Prince would treat me kindly?” She asks quietly.
Daemon softens. “He would be beyond kind.”
“Would he love me, you think?”
And here he reaches up to tweak her nose, ignoring her indignant squawk as she slaps his hand away.
“It would be hard not to love you, Dany.”
Daenerys beams, her nose red and her eyes sparkling as she leans down to pull him into a hug. Her head slots against his neck and he can feel some strands of hair tugging as she wiggles herself back down into the spot next to him.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” She breathes, her voice soft against his ear.
Daemon closes his eyes, resting his head against his sister’s. “Clever, clever. What tipped you off?”
“Love.” She says simply, as if that answer alone would suffice.
And it does, as he can see those words printed stark against the darkness of his lids, of how he wondered over Maron’s neat penmanship and the way his stomach would flutter as he clutched their secret little letters to his chest. How long had it been since he had written a letter? How long had it been since he had felt like a giddy boy again, with his heart racing and cheeks flushing as he ducked his head over his desk to quickly pen down a reply?
It had been too long, he thinks.
“Love.” Daemon echos, opening his eyes.