Chapter Text
“Are you enjoying the festivities, young brother?” The princess asks as she seats herself beside her father's youngest child. Daeron remains quiet and isolated from everyone else as the festivities continue. She is aware that soon enough the queen and her supporters will notice she approaches him, trying to understand her motivations. While this was an effort done under their watch, they knew nothing of the leeway she had done with the rest of the realm, the allies she had already secured.
Daeron has some different features when compared to his siblings. While his coloring is all Targaryen, he reminds her of a young Alicent, with a pretty face and trusting eyes. All her other siblings have more of their father besides the silver hair and purple eyes, but Daeron is different, not the quintessential Targaryen but still a handsome boy, the age of her eldest son. Perhaps the opposite of her boys. Where they are all the Valyrian ethereal beauty with none of the silver and purple assigned to them, Daeron is an Andal with those typical amethyst eyes. His presence here, as she questions her past, and misses her previous partner, starts to make her wonder what could have been. What if her union with Laenor had proved to be fruitful without the need for interference?
The boy is still quiet, but she sees in his eyes, intense but with a glint of surprise and doubt, that there’s nervousness in him. As if he knows not what to respond. She wonders if he is always this calculating. A part of her mind remembers the aggressiveness of Ser Otto, even towards Aegon that evening in Driftmark so long ago. Cold, strict.
Abusive.
Looking at Daeron as he tries to disappear into himself, she wonders if Otto Hightower’s brother had been the same and if his son shares their proclivities. Would a mere Lord of Oldtown dare to touch a prince of the realm?
Of all that he is, a thing Otto always had was audacity.
Hail, hail Aegon, the Conqueror-Babe, Second of His Name! Here’s to His Grace on his second name day!
As she remembers, his brother had been much of the same and Viserys had let them get away with it.
“I assume the Hightowers might often throw a feast or two, but nothing as lavish as this. It is almost a bit too much, but I guess it is not every day we have a royal wedding to celebrate. Although, it is hardly my first.” She chuckles, the other ceremony still weighing on her. The night is young, and she still has her fears. It is too calm; she has grown to fear it more than when she’s surrounded by animosity. “You know, you are a prince, Daeron. You deserve to enjoy the positives of court life. The feasts, the tourneys, the hunts. The very best of the Kingsguard foreseeing your training. I never understood my father’s decision to send a prince to Oldtown to serve cups to its Lord. It is not as if they are wavering in their loyalty to the crown. The king’s consort comes from there, and it is not as if they control the Reach. Do you enjoy your duties there?”
He does not respond again, but she notices his features changing, the way his eyes display annoyance. Not at her, apparently. Yet, he stays silent, looking forward.
“I used to be a cupbearer to our father since a young age. Even before I became his heir. There is a lot to learn, being present in small council meetings. I do not know if Lord Hightower presides a lot of big and exciting meetings.”
“He does not.” The boy snorts. “He craves a lot more power than he actually has. There’s nothing much he can do beyond content himself with Oldtown as is and not as was. The Faith and the Citadel are institutions of their own.”
Rhaenyra is surprised by the bite in his words. “That they are, but they always worked together, no? The Hightowers always cautious when choosing their next move. They were able to keep their power through the coming of the Andals and the conquest. It would be a pity if such a resilient and strategizing house were to ignore history and try to reach too high.”
Daeron hums along as he sips his wine. “If they do, I am unaware.” He says then, but his eyes evade hers. “It is your wedding feast, sister. Should you not be celebrating with your husband or at least entertaining the Lords and Ladies who have come to see their future queen? Your sudden interest in me is unusual. I do not remember the maester telling me you wrote these past years. Although, I have been told you became quite the present figure in my siblings’ lives.”
If there is a tinge of bitterness in his words, they both ignore it. “Perhaps I want to rectify my misdeeds. I vowed to be better to my family and you are a part of it. I shall be leaving for Dragonstone with my husband on the morrow, but the children will stay here. And we are not travelling, just going to Dragonstone for a while, the two of us. I shall be back. I’ve heard tales of your beautiful blue dragon. We might go for a race then, once I am back?”
The boy nods, taking another sip and going back to observing all the people indulging in the music and the drinks. Rhaenyra sighs. Not as much progress as she had hoped for, but she supposes he might feel a lot more isolated than any of the other members of their family. A Targaryen raised away, a dragon in a garden of serpents.
She goes back down to the floor, away from the royal table and close to where people are having a good time. The musicians are playing her favourite tunes and couples are dancing. She looks around for Daemon, thinking they perhaps might join them. But before she can, her eyes rest upon Ser Harwin Strong as he looks at her. There is a question in his eyes, so she nods, and he excuses himself from the conversation he was in and walks to her.
“Congratulations, princess. It was a beautiful ceremony, and the festivities are quite animated. Still, not as adventurous as the last time the room has seen a wedding.” His voice is as familiar as the weight of his hand on her waist, and the memories of her previous wedding come with the remembrance of his touch.
“Indeed, and I shall hope it remains so until the end of it. The only stains from the floor shall be from the spilt wine.”
The man nods, twirling her around the floor as he looks to the sides. “I shall be having my own celebrations soon enough.” There is a serious quality to his gaze and she understands it now. He is betrothed at last. He had told her his fear once, but they both knew it was inevitable. Harwin will succeed his father as the Lord of Harrenhal one day. He needs heirs of his own.
“So it appears congratulations are in order, my Lord.” She offers him. “Who is the lucky Lady?”
“Lord Grover’s eldest granddaughter, Lady Cecilia. We shall marry soon at Riverrun.”
Rhaenyra nods and then follows his gaze to where a beautiful lady with auburn hair sits beside her brother, Ser Elmo, who is to inherit the seat one day. A Tully, not what she expected. She always thought Harwin would prefer a Blackwood. She remembers he had told her he had been enamoured with one Lady Blackwood once upon a time, going as far as punching a Bracken boy to impress her. But she feels relieved in a way, hopes their children take after their mother in both their colouring and the delicacy of their features. “A beautiful woman, she is.”
Harwin smiles. “I hope any children we shall have get their looks from their mother.”
Rhaenyra chuckles. “Perhaps I shall be the best from the both of you. Loyal and kind like their father. I think you shall be a great own, Harwin.”
“Thank you for the kindness, My Princess.” He offers her and they let go of each other the second the music ceases.
“Perhaps you shall take your future lady wife for a dance.”
“Yes, of course. We might practice for our wedding. My father wants me to stay at Harrenhal perhaps, once we are wed. My great-uncle, Ser Simon, shall be there to aid me.”
She understands what he means, and perhaps she lets her hand linger for a second longer in his after he gives a kiss against her knuckles. “Then it is goodbye, Ser Harwin.”
“Goodbye, Your Grace.”
Rhaenyra is still watching as he takes the hand of his betrothed and guides her for a dance when she feels his presence. Daemon is hugging her from behind a moment later, resting his chin against her shoulder. His presence is as strong as the muscles around her and the heat he exudes, and she lets herself relax against his body.
“Perhaps you shall take your wife for a dance, My Prince.” She suggests, and Daemon’s chuckle is warm against her neck.
“Then perhaps we shall retire for the evening at once, ñuha dārilaros. There’s been enough mingling with your future subjects, enough plotting and politics. Let us call for our mounts and ride to freedom. We have been caged in your duties all night, enough to make us restless. I shall want to take to the sky.”
Rhaenyra smiles. “That sounds divine, husband. I have been feeling restless. Perhaps a reprieve from all of it is what I need. Although, we still have one more duty to perform tonight.”
There’s an answering growl against her neck as Daemon turns her to face him. “Those perverts from the Citadel might await from behind our door, listening as you moan for me, but it is a vision for me only. As for whatever representative the Faith has sent, his blessing is not one I care for.”
They sway together, no more words necessary. Once the music is done, Daemon guides her back to their table, where he informs everyone they shall be retiring from the festivities. Rhaenyra does not miss the smirk her husband is sporting as Viserys looks miserable at them both, and then they bid their children goodnight and farewell. The idea was to leave on the morrow, but as Daemon had said, she felt restless. Perhaps they are to perform their duties promptly and swiftly and then go for their dragons, let the lovemaking for the skies.
The bedding supposedly is an awaited event after weddings. With her first, there had been crying and hugging. They were not to consummate that night, but she still moaned as men awaited behind the door and pricked her finger to showcase blood. Laenor added to the mess in the sheets miserably a while later, but in truth, they both cried, Laenor laid on her lap as she caressed and lulled him to sleep. She was glad Viserys had informed her he would not force her to be watched and this became a certainty after he passed out during their rushed wedding ceremony. The Grand Maester went to tend to him while some of his pupils and the Septon guide both her and Laenor to their bed. She had taken Ser Harrold’s second in command to guard her door, her own sworn sword unable – and unwilling – to perform the duty.
This time, Daemon himself let it be known no one shall be present as he first fucks his wife. There are fewer stakes this time, as Rhaenyra is no longer a maiden, nor does she require heirs. Her husband makes sure to press her against the door as it shuts, ranking up her skirts and giving her his fingers, pulling moans and whines from her as he takes her to climax with expert ministrations and whispered words in High Valyrian, his voice husky and deep as it came from his throat like a growl, all draconic and dangerous.
In the end, they never stray too far from the door, nor do they undress or ready themselves to a proper bedding. He falls to his knees after that, her tight propped against his shoulder, his tongue tasting her cunt until she is pulling at his hair and then he takes her against the wall, completely in control, unlike the first time when she moved in her chosen pace, a dragon rider in more than one meaning.
Knowing there were men there listening added to their desire. Rhaenyra had heard the tales around the castle, illicit secrets mumbled around. People whispered, how the Old King and Good Queen had been in their youth, and how it continued for a long while. Then, there were the known legends about her own grandparents. Daemon seemed to take after his father, and while it was unknown if the whole castle could hear his niece as she moaned his name, anyone in that corridor definitely could.
They are dishevelled when they open the door, ignoring whoever is nearby. Daemon calls for the guard to accompany them to the Dragonpit and calls for the wheelhouse. The crown princess and her new husband are taken to their dragons in the middle of the knight. They get out of the carriage, walking towards the place where they are sure to find Syrax and Caraxes nested together. The two creatures seemed as if they had been waiting and Rhaenyra pays special attention to her girl before she allows Daemon to guide her into climbing on Caraxes saddle. Syrax chirps annoyed but does not make a fuss and soon enough the two dragons are flying loose in the night sky.
By a miracle, it’s not cloudy and the moon is big and bright shining against the sea and they fly towards Dragonstone. Daemon has them both all secured, tied to the Blood Wyrm’s saddle, but Rhaenyra is turned to him and soon enough they are again kissing, the cool wind not nearly enough to diminish their fire for each other. Their skin is still hot to the touch and their hands work fast just to gather her skirts and unfasten his breeches and then they are united.
It's a different feeling. As a girl, Rhaenyra always thought herself the most free whenever she was upon Syrax and between the clouds, but as she grew, she found some freedom in other activities. The first time had been when Daemon had guided her through the streets of the city, showing her a world, she would never know otherwise. There, he had kissed her for the first time, igniting a flame she had never truly felt as strong before. However, it would be well over a decade before he would do something about the fire he had awakened within her. But now, they were free to do so anytime, anywhere.
Even upon the saddle of his dragon, the movement of his wings guides a slow rhythm of his thrusts inside her, her hands clinging to his jacket, his warm hands moving from her thighs to her buttocks, guiding the motion. He swallows her moans, and all they can truly hear is the wind, the movement around them, and the occasional screech Caraxes let out that would reverberate through his body and shake through their bodies.
All she can truly see in the night is the moonlight reflecting on Daemon’s hair and skin, and how dark his eyes are as he fucks her, and all she can feel is him and the heat of his body, burning most deliciously against her. But she can tell the moment they get close to Dragonstone, as something in the air changes, tingling and prickling against their heated skin, almost magical. She feels, as fire licking low in her stomach, the little sparks from her deep inside her womb to the tip of her fingers. She is made of fire and magic, and she digs her nails against his nape, draws blood as they kiss, and Daemon empties himself inside of her almost the same time Caraxes dives down to take them home.
Her life is beginning anew today.