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Chapter Text

Daemon always knew he was destined for great things. 

He never did hide his lust for it. And why should he? 

He was the son of the Spring Prince Baelon, and his wild princess Alyssa. He was born a second son and yet he’s achieved more in his life than most can claim for themselves. 

But never in his greatest ambitions did he ever think he’d be this close to achieving the one thing he always knew he was destined for.

So you can just imagine how much Daemon raged and seethed when word reached the Stepstones that the king has been in talks with his council about betrothing his daughter and heir as she comes of age.

His niece was blossoming into womanhood and it was only right that, when the time came, she wed a man who was worthy of her. He knew that. 

He meant it when he had said she was beautiful with their ancient ancestry wrapped around her neck. She should be covered in all the best silks and jewels befitting of a woman of her high station.

She would make a beautiful bride, one that would have rivaled his aunt Viserra’s if there even needs to be a competition.

He can see her walking up to the altar in the great sept, clothed in bridal white, dotted in rubies on the bodice with the skirt’s train sweeping across the floors, silver-gold hair kissed by the sun braided much like Queen Visenya's ad her pale skin giving her an ethereal glow.

There would be a faceless groom waiting for her, one who’d share her secret smiles and give his hand so readily. One who, for some reason, Daemon sees as his own hands wrap a cloak of black around her shoulders- with the three-headed dragon of their house.

They were dangerous thoughts. Dangerous enough that he knew his brother would have him gelded for.

But then that day happened.

I'm right here, Uncle, the object of your ire, Daemon can almost hear her- he can almost taste and smell the salt and brimstone of Dragonstone’s air, his niece, all but a girl of fourteen, the only one to dare challenge him so close to her person. 

There was a fire in her eyes that day, deep swirling amethyst flames that dared to swallow him whole.

If you wish to be restored as heir, you'll need to kill me. So, do it. And be done with all this bother.

So much raw, untamed power in a girl so young- and she wielded it well.

He had thought he’d found a worthy adversary in her, the only one who might have the only power over him should she use it. It was the reason he told himself when he gave up that egg so easily.  

Because despite all his flaws, despite all his complicated relationship with his brother, he would never deliberately hurt Rhaenyra. He would sooner let Caraxes eat him alive than cause his niece harm.

But no, on that day, with that almost playful disposition she displayed when she could very well be at his mercy; the little tilt of her head with faux innocence, and a daring smirk if he were to be a father so soon-

The images began to change.

Instead of images of running their enemies through with Dark Sister, presenting her with their heads, and fucking her on top of their corpses, his mind was plagued by the thoughts of his silver-white hair and her deep amethyst eyes on a serious but gentle little boy who will one day wear her crown. 

When thoughts of taking her away from that bridge one day, and taking her on the sand are replaced by dreams of another son with her bright disposition quirked into his mischievous grin. Another second son whose loyalty to his brother proves that the Targaryens will be forever bonded by the blood they share.

Or as he sees his great mount gliding through the air, his particular whistle bringing another delightful sound in his mind. This time, it would be of the laughter of a little princess, with her mother’s silver-gold hair and her father’s stubbornness, as they touch the skies. Her mother would not be too far ahead of them. Her brothers riding their hatchlings flanking his sides.

He started making plans then.

Firstly, he shall take the Stepstones and win those islands for his brother, in exchange, he will ask for his annulment from his Bronze Bitch when his brother will inevitably ask for whatever it is he wished and he shall grant it (such is his way to ensure he pleases everyone). 

Second, when his annulment is granted, he will woo Rhaenyra. His niece is already fond of him anyway, so it will be easy to lure her in with every single arsenal he has. Show her all that he has to offer her, tell her of the joys and pleasure to be found in the marriage bed, maybe even give her a demonstration or two.

Third, present themselves to the court and marry in the eyes of the seven and by the traditions of Valyria. If they get caught before it happens, then surely Viserys would have them wed anyway. If he doesn’t well… Daemon had already stolen one dragon egg before. A willing little dragon should be an easy task.

There will be hundreds of men who’ll do worse, who will scramble over one another for the chance to be the husband to who will soon be the most powerful woman in the realm. They will have dragon-riding heirs, the chance to elevate their status beyond their wildest dreams, and the power and prestige that comes with the royal house they married into.

And they will break Rhaenyra for it.

Daemon knew he was worthy of her, despite what Otto would have the realm believe. He was a fellow dragon rider, a Targaryen prince, and the only man who could sire pure Valyrian heirs for her.

But most importantly.

He would burn for her. 

With his plan roughly formulated in his head, he goes to war.

Surely, there will be nothing to set his plan aside and it’s all smooth sailing from here.

He just has to survive this war first. 

—

A new message arrives.

This one bearing news of the princess’ challenge.

He read, then re-read the letter so many times that the messenger was starting to get angsty, no doubt the news of how the last messenger who had dealt with his silence ended up.

When Daemon had doubled over with laughter, the messenger had all but run out of the tent, unwilling to take his chances.

Screw his plan, Rhaenyra’s was better.

—

The battle was won, and Craghas’ corpse is left to feed the crabs on the island.

His men take their loot and their wine and began sending their ravens to their families.

Laenor offers to go first to pass Daemon’s message upon Rhaenyra before his father could start making plans.

And he cut his hair. 

Things are going to go great.

—

“Apologies for being late. Ravens often get lost there in the Stepstones.”

“Brother! We were not aware you were coming...”

His brother had his hand palming the armrest of his too-ornate chair with uneasiness, and even the small number of invited guests look at them with trepidation.

Oh, he certainly knew Daemon was coming. He just didn’t think he’d return so soon.

Daemon could only smile at the discomfort rippling through his brother’s face.

“Ah, you know me, brother. I was never one to waste an audience.” Then with a deliberate look to Rhaenyra’s way, he takes a step forward.

He had sauntered in with an air of self-assuredness, his piercing lilac eyes scanning the assembled attendees- from one side, he can see the Hightower lot already looking at him with disdain, the cunt hand whispering furiously over to his daughter. On the other, he sees the Velaryon and most of Rhaenyra’s supporters express a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. 

Laenor tilts his wine his way in acknowledgment and takes a long sip from it.

His eyes finally settle on Princess Rhaenyra, who sits gracefully beside her father on a small chair of her own.

My, how you’ve grown, little dragon. 

She was still quite petite but there was no doubt that the girl had blossomed into the woman Daemon always knew she would be. 

But he would know those blazing amethyst eyes anywhere.

Time seemed to slow as they locked onto each other, and a surge of memories washed over Damon - memories of stolen glances, secret smiles, and wishful thinking- all of it comes down to this.

And for once, he is terrified.

“Besides, I would always return to my princess,” He declares, voice dropping low with sincerity, “No matter how long it takes me to come back.”

A murmur of hushed voices rippled through the small crowd as they watched the exchange between the prodigal prince and the princess who had waited for him against all odds. His attention was only on Rhaenyra’s however.

The princess’ eyes shimmered with a mixture of joy and trepidation, her plush pink lips quirk upwards for a split second. She makes no sign of blushing like a maiden, however, and only inclined her head in response.

“I suppose you’re here for the dragon heart’s challenge then, cousin?” Rhaenys sighs knowingly, hand propped under her chin with a near bored look on her face.

And of course, ever so eager to jump at the chance to ruin such a moment, “Your grace, this is an insult. The prince is married-”

“ Was married, Lord Hand.” Daemon simply waves off, “Unfortunately, my lady wife had taken a tumble on one of her hunts while I had been on the Stepstones defending the islands. May the seven bless her soul.”

If there was one thing that stayed the same in his original plan (aside from marrying Rhaenyra and having at least a dozen children to put his grandparents’ record to shame), was that his dear lady wife had to go.

All it took was one raven to a trusted associate back in the mainland while he was at war, a bag of gold, a rock, and- Ah, whoops.

Soon, he had gotten a letter from Gerold Royce himself, cursing Daemon’s entire existence telling him of his wife’s death. Startled by her own horse, head cracked onto a stray boulder on the ground. 

He sends back his acceptance of his widow’s rights once he gets back from the war.

And the best part was he can tell how much Otto was currently at his wit’s end by how much his face has turned from white to red to purple knowing full well that he cannot lay the blame on such a tragic accident on the prince, when the prince’s alibi was solid. 

After all, who would have the time to hire a mercenary to kill a lady of a minor house, who already lives in perilous conditions up in the mountains, when the only suspect was off too busy trying not to die at war?

Certainly, not him.

But Daemon lives for chaos, and as a younger sibling, he couldn’t help but prod at his older brother’s thinning patience. He’s grown to be an expert at that.

“I assume, of course, that you have received a letter about the unfortunate incident,” he says, pointedly. 

By the looks and the scattered muttering among the audience, they have indeed heard the news. Mayhaps they thought, if they failed to mention it, then it would have been forgotten.

“Alas, as winter blooms to spring, we must carry on and face the sun once more. I will continue to mourn for my lady wife but today is a joyous occasion, is it not?”

His brother was undeterred, as he narrows his eyes, and glumly growled, “You seem so content fighting your wars. There is surely more to your return than simply to grieve with us.”

Yes, I want to cut down your guards, take your daughter to Dragonstone, have her drink my blood and I hers so that we may forever be bonded through fire and blood, fuck her until she knows only my name, give her as many silver-haired babes as she desired, kneel in front of her throne, and maybe taste her sweet cun-

“So, “ Rhaenyra smirked, and the sound of her voice, honeyed and smooth to his ears, was almost enough to send him to the floor in a daze.

“What do you want, uncle ?”

He forgets to think for a second.

He swears it was only just a second.

But he answers back nevertheless. He reached for her hand, executed a graceful bow, and kissed the back of it with a knowing smirk playing on his lips at the shaky exhale she released.

Her father looked livid. Otto Hightower cursed under his breath. Mellos looked as though he had just witnessed an orgy. Alicent clutched at her pearls. 

The men were resigned. The women swooned. Laenor hollered, and both his mother and sister slapped the back of his head for it.

But Daemon's confidence swelled as he sensed a glimmer of hope in Rhaenyra’s response.

“ Only the comforts of home .”

—

If it just so happens that Daemon’s return had made a significant number of suitors inexplicably pull out of the challenge later that day-

Or that all of a sudden, the same men who had or hadn’t participated in the challenge suddenly find themselves garnering the prince’s favor by either praising his numerous skills and talents (on the battlefield or on the street of silk)  or simply making small talk until the prince cuts them with a look suggesting they stop talking.

Or that the ones who had been very vocal and very explicit in their claims of the princess’ hand and several other unsavory parts of hers that would make a septa blush (and a very vengeful dragon prince smile dangerously at them) had abruptly realized that they had sudden matters, very important matters to attend to back in their homelands.

Well. 

It must be a coincidence.

After all, the prince seems too enamored with the princess to actually pay attention to everything around them.

Not even the bloody duel between Lord Vickon Greyjoy and Ser Harron Harlaw in front of Syrax was enough to drive the two royals’ interest away from each other.

The two, of course, had been seen seated with each other, whispering to each other’s ears and leaning against each other ever so slightly. The princess’ giggles are heard by everyone in the royal box while the king watches them from the back.

The overprotective father's hawk-like gaze followed their every move. His facial expressions were a whirlwind of emotions, switching from glaring suspicion to exaggeratedly smiling, all while mentally calculating many different ways for potential "emergency interventions."

Alas, despite these interventions, some of them are just not to be.

Lady Laena just so happens to be in need to go to the loo and was held up by Ser Harwin. Handsome as he is and oh so brave for facing Syrax without as much as a scratch on him! She just had to know how he did it!

What’s more, ser Laenor had to check on poor Seasmoke- the poor boy must have felt neglected after being rejected oh so publicly by such a vain she-dragon. Maybe, Ser Joffrey will escort him.

Oh! And Otto Hightower seems to have been indisposed since sharing a glass of wine or two with the other council members. Lord Tyrell, especially, had been quite insistent.

Not even the Kingsguard are as much help, seeing as they are too busy overseeing everything else, and definitely not because Ser Westerling told them to mind their own business.

Even Alicent had to keep an eye on her little mongrel, Aegon, who screamed himself hoarse until his mother brought him to the Royal box for such a violent affair to keep him quiet. She and his maids had to stop the boy four times from jumping over the partition and becoming Syrax’s next meal. 

It seems that despite the king’s best interventions, Daemon truly had no intentions to share. 

Rhaenyra paid no attention to that either, as she leans over to her uncle, the off-shoulder neckline of her red gown highlighting her sinful collarbones and graceful neck just so, “I had not thought you particularly comfortable in this home. Though I do suppose you seem changed by your adventures. More mature, perhaps?”

“You've matured yourself these last four years, Princess.” He swallows thickly.

And matured she has indeed.

Her vibrant crimson was something short of sinful but fitting for the Dragon Princess. The bodice was adorned with delicate golden embroidery, reminiscent of flickering flames dancing across the fabric. It hugged her figure elegantly, accentuating her developing hips and waist. The cape sleeves leaving her arms almost hidden also lead little to the imagination.

The bonnet-style crown on her head kept much of her golden silver hair off her face, which had now narrowed, with only a shadow of baby fat on her delicate pink cheeks. He simply wanted to take a bite out of her and imagine all the pretty little noises she would make.

He noticed that despite all her jewelry and rings, she had left her neck bare. 

“You'll get used to the attention. There’s no help for it.” He adds, his smile widening, and his heart filling twice its size and the way Rhaenyra preened under his heated gaze.

“The attention I can endure. It's the rest I could do without.” She looks behind her. His little dragon almost rolled her eyes at the way his father glared daggers at them both.

“My father seems content to sell me off to whichever lord has the biggest castle.”

Daemon sighs. A wave of understanding laps at his chest. He pushes away the dirty thoughts of his niece at the back of his head as he senses this conversation to get deeper than he expected.

After all, hadn’t his own grandmother done that to him too? Selling him to a lady paramount in the hopes of controlling his temperament and adding more vassals to the crown (as if Viserys’ marriage to Aemma wasn’t enough) 

Wasn’t he also shackled to a woman who hated him and his family for being monster-riding degenerates, but continued to tolerate him as he brings her family prestige and a close relation to the crown?

“There are worse things to be sold for.” he tries to placate her, but is greeted with a cold glare and sneer that marred her face with one of disgust.

“I wish to at least have a choice in that, uncle,”

She turns away from him then, catching the scene just in time to see Greyjoy cut the other man’s hand in half and threw it to Syrax. The golden beast in question lets out a huge yawn and side-eyes the princess at her quarrel.

Gods, even in her anger she is beautiful.

“Is this why you have issued this challenge, niece?” Daemon whispers close to her ear, “To seize your fate, make good choices?”

Daemon revels at the way the girl shivers at his mere voice alone.

“Syrax is smart and she can always tell when someone isn’t trustworthy. I will know whoever will gain her trust will be a good man and a good husband.” Rhaenyra shrugs, though the blush on her face indicated that she was affected more than she lets on.

“And what of a good consort ?” He presses, “One that will not only place your will above others, one that will not only counsel you and ease the responsibility of the crown for you but will show you the pleasure that can only be found in the marriage bed.”

“Idīnnon dēmalio syt verdilla mērī issa, Nyke rȳbagon.” She switches in High Valyrian, “Valo syt, hen rhinka. Ābro syt, vējītsos.”

Marriage is only a political arrangement, I hear. For the men, of course. For women, it is like to be a death sentence.

Daemon’s eyes soften on her, his own grief etched on his features. 

He was glad of the language of their ancestry rolling on her tongue. It had been so long since he had talked to someone other than the usual dragon commands. But mostly, he was glad that Rhaenyra was comfortable enough with him to share it.

“Aōhe muñe imassitas līr mundāzma istas, yn kesy mundāzmo vŷs issa. Glaeson aōhon zūgose glaesagon kostō daor, iā jāhī albijossa āzālilā,” He replies in kind, trying to offer her the comfort that he can.

What happened to your mother was a tragedy, but this is a tragic world. You cannot live your life in fear, or you will forsake the best parts of it.

His mother had died from childbed fever. She, who had always been so strong, so fierce and so alive, that it cleaved his father’s soul into two when the agonizing realization settled in that even she was not exempted from the perils of labor.

And Aemma…

He doesn’t want Rhaenyra to be ruled by such fears. They are valid. Even he doubts he’ll ever see a bloodier affair than when his good sister brings out dead child after dead child. But that should not stop Rhaenyra from finding the joys that life had to offer.

Daemon’s hand itches to intertwine with hers, to give her the comfort she deserves and the support she needs.

His niece answers just as softly, “Zūgose glaesilun jaelon daor. Mērpāvose glaesilun,” I have no desire to live in fear. Only in solitude.

He will not force her to do anything she does not want. But that does not mean he will not perish the thoughts that plagued her mind since the moment she was forced to grow up.

You’ve been alone for so long, little dragon. I will ensure you will never have to be alone again.

Daemon inches his fingers close to hers, and before any second thought could pierce through their little bubble, he covers them. 

The world closes in again, and Daemon was seized by the fire that threatens to consume them both. Was this what it was like to find your twin flame?

 “Such a lonely prospect,” is all he says, almost breathlessly.

“Well… not for long, I hope,” his niece says lowly, eyes ever so subtly looking at their linked hands.

—

“So, Daemon has returned. And he returns a widower, in need of his niece’s… comfort.”

“Mmmm, we all grieve in different ways, Laena.”

“Ah, yes, and his just so happens to be eye fucking his niece and touching her every chance he gets.”

“Hildred! Mind your tongue!” 

“We all saw it, sister. The poor king looked as though he was going to have a stroke. Or lunge at his brother. Or both.”

“Indeed, he ought to at least control himself until the wedding night. Give Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa’s consummation a run for their money.”

“Laena, we have a child present.”

“I’m four and ten, my lady!”

“Apologies, Elinda. But we all know where this is going, princess.”

“And where exactly do you think this is going?”

“... we just fear for your father’s health, that’s all.”

“He has a lot more to fear if he tries to intervene.”

“And you won’t let it.”

“He is mine. Trust me, I won’t. ”

—

On the next day, King Viserys made sure to intervene as much as he can, much to Daemon and Rhaenyra’s annoyance.

If no one else can separate the two, then fine. He will. 

For breakfast, he had Rhaenyra sit to his left while his brother, who had the misfortune to be tardy, had to sit all the way at the other end of the table. Then, he made sure that he had Rhaenyra’s attention all to himself with questions about her day, and her lessons and her suitors, her very available, very acceptable, very not-her-uncle suitors.

Of course, the morning was busy with the preparations for the sixth day of the challenge, hence Rhaenyra could not even make it to her uncle’s invitation for a morning ride with her new mare. Again, Daemon was irritated, especially by the unforgiving look his brother gave him when his daughter had to decline the offer.

Gods, he’s even following her this time around, He rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Then just when he thought he’d be able to at least ride the carriage with his niece and the king (at this point, he’d take any type of closeness to her, it was driving him mad) to bridge the gap of nearly three years of absence between them, the king joyfully exclaimed that it was a wonderful idea.

He will ride with his brother (“ No, Otto, you may not join us. My brother and I had too much catch up on. ”) while Rhaenyra and her ladies will ride with the queen and her siblings (“ No, Otto, you may also not ride with them either. ”)

And so here he was, sitting uncomfortably across his brother while thinks about anything else but Rhaenyra’s lithe form in her new blue satin dress or the way her eyes twinkled at him across the breakfast table when she asked him to pass her the sausages.

“Must you truly do this now? ” 

Daemon returned to his senses after hearing his brother’s grating noise. Tearing his eyes away from the window (and definitely not at the carriage behind them that housed his niece, no, ser), he turns to look at his brother.

“Do what?” He rose a brow, “I apologize, your grace, but I must know the charge before I can attempt to discredit it.”

To his credit, his brother has yet to actually lunge at him. Maybe at another time, the peaceful King Viserys would have held a dagger to his throat while spewing curses at him. Wouldn’t that be a scene?

“My daughter, Daemon. Your niece .” He spits out, his teeth bared.

He scoffs. As if a close relation with their own kin was anything new in their family. 

“Rhaenyra's a woman-grown.” Daemon shrugs, “Better her consort be me than some little lordling of the Reach whose self-interest supersedes her own.”

There it was. Out in the open. There was not a sound in the palanquin but the steady hoof steps and the occasional mumbles of the street urchins outside.

His brother stares at him. Daemon stares back. 

“You fuck-”

And this time, he actually did lurch forward to grab him by the lapels of his leather jerkin, his face twisted into a scornful mow. The grip on his clothes threatened to tear at how harsh the grip was.

Shame. Rhaenyra said she liked this jerkin. 

“- No shame- fucking plague- what lord will wed her with you hounding her now? ” Viserys hisses shaking him, and Daemon swallows the bile gathering in his throat at the thought of another man touching his little dragon.

 “Who gives a fսck what some lord thinks?” He answers back, wrestling away from his brother until his hold breaks and is forced to release him. 

“ You are the dragon. Your word is truth and law. And yet your heir has more trust in her beast to choose her husband than you .”

Daemon’s words catch him off guard, as his purple eyes widen in surprise. Gods, he knew his brother was blind, but he didn’t think it was this severe.

Taking a calming breath, Daemon levels in with his brother. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of him. 

“Brother, Jaelan Rhaenyra.  Se Rhaenyra jaelagon nyke.”

He didn’t know whether it was the sudden switch to High Valyrian or the simple fact of being laid before his brother that had surprised him more. 

I want Rhaenyra. And Rhaenyra wants me.

It was as simple as night and day. As easy to say as it was to breathe. But something in his eyes or in his tone must have rendered his brother speechless because Daemon only continued so that Viserys would finally, finally open his eyes.

“I'll take her as she is, and wed her in the tradition of our house,” He quietly says, “And if Syrax chooses me, if Rhaenyra chooses me, then it is my hope that we will return the House of the Dragon to its proper glory.”

Viserys shakes his head in disbelief, “You are a plague sent to destroy me-”

“If she does not, I will go, brother. If she wills it of me, I will stay as far as Pentos if it makes her happy. Just like I always do when you command it to me.”

It hurts to admit- to know that his brother may not actually love him as Daemon does. Looking back, his brother has only ever used him when he was convenient and threw him away when he acts out. 

It was not what their father would have wanted. He would have liked them to be like him and his own brother, their uncle, Prince Aemon. At one point, he thought they would be.

But the years of losses, exiles, and overall bad blood between them had done their numbers.

But Rhaenyra had never waivered in her loyalty and trust in him. When everyone turned their backs on him or worse, Rhaenyra was there, with her gentle smile and unconditional regards for him. 

He will not fail her as Viserys failed them.

The palanquin finally stops. The Kingsuard announces that they have arrived at the dragon pit. He does not dare look at his brother for his reaction to his words. Will you command me to leave if Rhaenyra chooses me? Will you deny us our happiness because of the poison the snakes around you have given you?

He gets up, fixes his leather, and makes a mental note to let his tailor fix the holes his brother left behind with his fingernails and returns to his carefree demeanor.

“But until then, brother,” He chuckles prematurely, “You might want to get used to the thought of calling me your Goodson.”

Daemon managed to duck just in time for a pillow not to hit his face on his way out.

He imagines that this would be a good story to tell to their children.

—

His brother still had taken him hostage for the remainder of that morning as they watch still a sizeable number of suitors try to take on Syrax. But he hasn’t made any move to talk to him, and so they sit in silence once more. Though he has occasionally caught his brother looking at him with a strange look in his eyes- as though he was seeing Daemon for the first time.

The golden beast had already maimed, burnt, incapacitated, and scared the living shit of yet another handful of challengers that he’d honestly forgotten who they were. They blurred in his mind altogether.

Rhaenyra was a platform ahead of them, nearer to the pit, and talking sweetly with her ladies, giggling and making bets on the knights that would ride past them. 

He finds himself smiling then. 

Rhaenyra had always been so alone, even when that wench Alicent Hightower keeping her company. He supposes he could see it as Otto Hightower’s doing- ensuring that Rhaenyra was always kept away from any influence aside from his own.

But he had a sneaking suspicion that it was also because she had no way of finding her own people. It’s always been her father, her mother, and Daemon beside her to keep her company.

Then her mother died, her father married her best friend and Daemon…

Daemon wasn’t there.

His heart clenches in guilt. He really should have been there. For all the times he preached about the blood of the Dragon running thick, he had a strange way of showing it when he was always the one leaving their family.

But Rhaenyra was braver and stronger than he was. 

He’s heard about how this event has opened up trading potentials between the North and even among Essosi houses. He’s also heard Beesbury and Strong sing praises about all his grandmother’s projects being revisited and improved upon by the princess during his absence.

She has done so much and more, and she’s barely even begun.

The nobles respect her for her active tenacity and accountability. The smallfolk love her for her generosity and empathy. 

And as Rhaenyra’s silver hair catches the high rays of the midday sun, her head whipping behind her to look back at him with the same eyes that set him ablaze, he finds that he might actually love her for it as well.

The last suitor for that morning is carted off as he moans in pain. There were only a few viable men left.

It’s almost time.

—

“Alicent Hightower has not stopped trying to convince me that you are here to defile me.”

“Ah yes, because pious, noble, good queen Alicent Hightower is such a model of propriety.” 

So much so that the king marries her barely a month after his first wife died.

The bustling marketplace was a vibrant hub of activity, with colorful stalls lining the streets and merchants eagerly hawking their wares, especially at the two royals passing through. 

Rhaenyra had, of course, encouraged the market to grow during her challenge. As a way to encourage trade between the different houses that had come to visit as well as see what exotic goods Essos had to offer. It had captivated the senses of visitors from near and far and only made his little princess’ popularity grow.

(And also made Otto Hightower grumble in his seat at Rhaenyra's proactiveness and his daughter balk at the thought of the heir lowering herself to the peasants that serve them but that was not important.)

They were welcomed, of course, with Daemon being a beloved enough figure to be called the “Prince of the City” for protecting the smallfolk from crime and keeping the streets safe during his time, and Rhaenyra for her generous nature and the warmth she exudes wherever they go.

“It is luck then, that I managed to find you on this fine afternoon in the market when your dearest stepmother is too busy chasing after her snot-nosed little brats.” Quite the coincidence, he thought mildly.

Rhaenyra snorts, “Oh no, she has her maids for that. She’s probably praying they catch my half-brothers before they embarrass her.”

They stop by a stall offering a diverse array of goods, from exotic spices and handcrafted jewelry to fresh produce and unique antiques. He can already see Rhaenyra a particular design of a necklace clearly imported from Essos. 

He buys it for her in an instant. Yet, when he tries to put it on her, she declines.

Shrugging off Rhaenyra's sudden aversion to anything on her neck, Daemon gently places the necklace into Rhaenyra's satchel, “I heard your half-brothers are a menace. One is a spoiled piglet who screams and kicks for everything to have his way, while the younger actually bit his wet nurse tit it fell off.” Daemon comments off-handedly, and smiles at Rhaenyra’s light laughter.

“It’s a wonder that your sister makes less of a fuss, but I too heard that she’s frailer than my own aunt Gael- not a single drop of dragon blood in any of them.”

“Ābrazŷrys aōhys biare istas; ziry lēdetō daor,” She glances up at him, a teasing grin on her face. Your wife had been fortunate; you had not put a child in her.

Ser Harrold and Luthor Largent were five paces behind them, another precaution his brother says. But Daemon couldn’t help but lower his voice anyway.

“Keso qrinuntenko tolālŷti ūbriljagon rūs nājumban,” he thought of his other wife with distaste. I doubt a child could grow in such a hostile environment.

He tells a merchant to wrap up the maroon and velvet fabrics Rhaenyra had trailed her fingers on, “And besides, you give me far less credit when it comes to childrearing. You turned up alright, didn’t you?”

Rhaenyra slaps his arm with the parchment-wrapped cloth, “I do not want a marriage like Alicent’s… My life revolving around my husband and the children he will force me to bear… children that I… I cannot love because I do not love him.”

Her mood shifts darkly, “Muña ñuha dārannī āpykagon isētaks vapār ziry morghākotas. Hēnkos vējose botilun daor”. 

My mother was made to produce heirs until it killed her. I won’t subject myself to the same fate.

“If you are to have children, it will be because you decide it,” Daemon huffs, and offers his arm as they continue walking around the market. They greet the folks who bow to them. 

“Do you wish for children, uncle?” Rhaenyra peeks up at him, a shy blush coming up her cheeks and up her bare collarbones.

“I do see them… just with the wife of my choosing.” He answers vaguely. Yet the memory of that bridge came to him as he said those words.

They sounded like a promise than a statement back then. And he will ensure his promise now.

“She must be fortunate.” she looks down, disappointed (for whatever reason!) “To have you choose her of all these women clambering for your affection-”

“I think you’d be familiar with her actually.” he swiftly cuts her off, making them stop in the middle of the street in full view of everyone now whispering all about them.

“Sharp and restless as I am. Beautiful as she is dangerous. Capable of standing on her own. What I wouldn’t give to stand with her.”

The people continue going about their business, but it was clear as day that whatever the couple was talking about… it was not something they should be hearing.

(But they will anyway. The bards are already writing their next song as we speak.)

Boldly, gently, Daemon stooped to share a hushed message into her ear. “Iksi hen keskydoso ānogar, hen keskydoso perzys.” 

We are of the same blood, of the same fire.  

Daemon savors the shiver that ran down Rhaenyra’s arms. And he hasn’t even touched her, his hands kept behind his back in case he does something Ser Harrold would definitely throw him out for. 

But it doesn’t matter now. He staked his claim the moment he climbed down Caraxes’ back and presented himself so unabashedly in front of the entire court for Rhaenyra. He had openly told his brother to get used to the idea of him being his own goodson.

There was no going back.

“Se unlike se tolie vali kesīr, Iksan daor zūgagon hen zirȳla perzys,” he whispers into her mouth, just a hair’s breadth from tasting her lips. 

And unlike the other men here, I am not afraid of her fire.

Rhaenyra blushed, eyes dilated like a predator who caught her prey. 

“Really lucky then.”

“She should be.” Daemon straightens then, offering his arm to Rhaenyra and glaring at everyone who continued to gawk at them into minding their own business.

“I want my daughters to be her exact image.”

His niece yelped and nearly tripped at her feet. It was a good thing he was there to catch her.

—

“People are talking.”

“Let them talk.”

—

His Rhaenyra had been teasing him the entire afternoon as well, dancing with the other men in the courtyard to compensate for not winning her hand. 

He could just… take her. Cutting through the Kingsguard really should be an easy task. Honestly, it was a pity he had not killed Crispin Cole himself for daring to ask for Rhaenyra’s hand.

But no, he had a plan. He will stick to that plan, goddamn it.

Caraxes has been agitated as he sneaks into the Dragonpit’s underground dungeons. They had managed to wrangle his beast into the even deeper caves as the sight of Syrax alone sets the old dog into a rut-like state.

And it was not as though the Golden Lady was doing much to negate his attentions either. She croons at the old beast with her little songs from above, sending Caraxes into a frenzy. She was just as teasing as her mistress was.

“Lykirī, Caraxes. Daor bōsa sir, uēpa raqiros, ” he coos at his mount. 

Caraxes gives an impatient huff.

Not long now, old friend.

Not long now.

He releases the chains holding Caraxes down.

And leaves when the dragon makes no hesitation out of the tunnel leading outside.

—

Things come to a head when Gwayne Hightower unexpectedly made his announcement.

Not even his own father and sister knew by the looks of it. 

“I have come to claim the princess’s hand in marriage, but I will bow to no wretched beast! ” He spat on the ground near Syrax’s claw.

The golden lady bristles at the insult, steadily rising from her seated position as she stretches her wings. She makes no other movement, however, except to growl at the offender.

Yet, despite the clear warning sign Syrax was showing, the young knight continued to press forward, “I am of one of the oldest and noblest houses of Westeros! Longer than you and your masters have conquered our lands and now you ask us to lower ourselves as if we are mere toys? Nay, I have more self-respect than that!”

The crowd is now in terrified uproar, scrambling to both look on in horror as the smoke began to appear behind the golden dragon's black teeth as well as leaning forward to see where this boy’s stupidity will lead him.

Otto Hightower was demanding everyone to take his son out of the monster’s way. Rhaenyra was now standing, but also not making any command to provoke her dragon further- in fact, she looked almost indignant.

But Syrax… Syrax’s tail has begun to swing side by side in agitation, body lowering in a prowl.

She and her mistress had been ridiculed. They have been paraded around these minstrels and shiny men. There had been attempts to mount them, spoke praises that meant nothing to them, brought offering to them that was just as ill-conceited as the rest of them.

But they tolerated it all to show the people that none of them was worthy. None of them were fit to have her mistress’ hand. 

Now they spit at her? And dared to say that they will not bow? 

“I will have your head, you unholy creature!” He screams, “And I will bring the jewel from your neck to my betrothed’s hand!”

Syrax was hungry, and right in front of her was a willing meal who smells quite tempting at that moment. She hasn't had human meat before. She heard her beloved Caraxes say that they taste like chicken. Syrax supposes she will just have to find out.

In the midst of the chaos, Daemon makes his escape from her brother’s sight.

—

“This must stop! The queen’s brother will have himself devoured!”

“He has just insulted the crown princess and the royal family. Let the dragon punish him for his pride.”

“Rhaenyra, if you cannot control your beast-”

“Control?” Rhaenyra’s head snapped at the young woman now squaring up to her. She will admit that her mind had been in a daze since Daemon arrived and all but declared his intentions to wed her in front of the entire court.

Maybe she had let her girlish infatuation override her other senses these past couple of days. But she had not forgotten herself in the face of such slander against her dragon and to an extent, her family. 

“My queen, your brother is making the same folly as Criston Cole did. Syrax saw a threat.” Rhaenyra spat, the golden white gown- embroidered with twining golden leaves and ivy was tight-fitting along her bodice- sweeping over her legs in a swirl layered by tulle and Myrish lace. 

She faced Alicent head-on, her amethyst eyes narrowed challengingly with the fire she hoped could be felt by everyone around her.

Alicent nearly growls, (or growls as much as a proper lady of her station can) and sends a pleading look to her father’s way, “Will you truly let this happen? Let the whims and wishes of your daughter hurt your wife like this?”

“Hurt you? Hurt you?” Rhaenyra nearly guffaws at the absolute audacity. It was honestly Laena and Elyse holding her back from scratching the bitch’s face. 

Everyone looks to her father for her answer.

He was too stunned to reply, and when he did with a whispered, “... He did sign up for it .” the entire royal box implodes.

“This must not go on!”

“Most undignified!”

“The seven will curse us all!”

“I’m getting more wine! Corlys, my love, want any?”

“An insult to the Hightowe- to the crown! ”

“You must end all this, your grace or I fear-”

Gods, it was pandemonium. And Rhaenyra found herself torn between going over the partition to soothe Syrax or letting her father bear the brunt of everyone and she means everyone’s quarrels over her. 

If only Daemon entered the challenge the minute he arrived. If only he had used those times they spent together already asking for her hand or hells, even carrying her over his shoulder to go to Dragonstone and be done with all this bother!

And Daemon - She turns all around her, willing her uncle to materialize so that they could fix this mess together…

But then he turned once… then twice… Where… where was he?

“This is all your brother’s fault, your grace!” Otto Hightower raved, “He should not have been so blatant and as inappropriate to ask your daughter’s hand i-”

“Hey, where is Daemon?” Laenor asks loudly, breaking off the tension with just those four words.

For a split second, Rhaenyra resented him.

He was abandoning her again just when he made all those sweet promises into her ear about the pleasures of marriage and of sweet, silver-haired babes.

A hum fills the air.

The haunting melody rising and carrying an almost long forgotten history and an unbreakable connection.

“ Drakari pykiros…

Tīkummo jemiros…

Her father stood up as they all turned their heads to the source of such eerie tunes. “What… who is…” 

But he knows it. Rhaenyra knows it too.

Rhaenyra looks to Princess Rhaenys just to be sure, and she nods sagely.

“ Yn lantyz bartossa…

Saelot vāedis…”

They noticed that Syrax was no longer looking at Ser Gwayne Hightower, who was currently sprawled on the ground, his breaths shaky and his eyes wide- with… fear? Wonder?

Syrax had her back turned from them, her great wings blocking their views and her tail no longer swinging in agitation but one of open curiosity at whatever was in front of her too. The smallfolk, who just so happens to be seated where Syrax had turned, were also gaping with awe. 

“Hen ñuhā elēnī…

Perzyssy vestretis…”

“Prince… Prince Daemon… Is he singing a song?” Lord Strong blinks once. Twice. Thrice just to be sure.

“No… not just a song…” Rhaenys answers softly, her eyes welling with emotion. 

How long has it been since the older princess has heard it? Was it when her father was still alive, whole and healthy, and used it to soothe Caraxes? Or was it her grandmother who hummed it to Silverwing during the last moments of her life?

“Se gēlȳn irūdaks…

Ānogrose…”

Syrax finally moves her wing, her purrs reverberating throughout the entire pit.

There he was; petting her girl’s great muzzle in gentle strokes, his entire being totally enraptured by the beautiful being in front of him-

“The dragon’s lullaby.” Viserys gasps.

Daemon.

— 

Syrax trilled happily, and her tail whipped from side to side. But not from agitation, but from anticipation. Like a puppy after waiting for her master to finally coming home.

“Perzyro udrȳssi…

Ezīmptos laehossi…”

The rhythmic melody is an ancient Targaryen tradition, believed to soothe and calm dragons, fostering a deeper connection between rider and beast.

“Hārossa letagon…

Aōt vāedan…”

But Daemon was not just singing for Syrax.

He was offering her about the bonds of blood, of uniting their blood, the same dragon blood that has been shared for centuries before, once more. 

“Hae mērot gierūli:

Se hāros bartossi…”

He inches closer to Syrax’s golden neck. The young she-dragon preened at his trailing touch. He can see his princess with the rest of the royal family at the corner of his eye, watching his every move. Rhaenyra's hands gripped the railing that separates him and her. 

“Prūmȳsa sōvīli

Gevī dāerī…”

They will fly freely, beautifully, as they were always destined to do. 

The second Daemon’s hand was placed over Syrax’s heart, everyone knew it was all over for them. 

“Prūmȳsa sōvīli

Gevī dāerī…”

He finds the latch. It clicks open.

“Prūmȳsa sōvīli

Gevī dāerī…”

His hand clutches at the jewel and steps back with slow, steps.

His song was over with a mesmerizing voice and precise cadence. His heart still beating in his ear and his bow to the great golden dragon lower than he’s ever given his own brother.

“Lēda aōha henujagon, Nyke kirimvose syt se irudy, Qeldlie Dāria.” He says lowly, the dragon bowing in response to his respect.

With your leave, I thank you for the gift, Golden Queen.

Her job done, her choice made, Syrax looks to the sky and lets out a mighty screech. 

Caraxes answers after her, a long trilling note that spoke of longing, and then-

Syrax was taking off. The chains that had held her down inexplicably unlocked and Daemon smirks as he watches Rhaenyra’s mount joining her mate in the clouds.

With the dragons gone, and the dragon pit finally having settled into a tenuous sort of peace, Daemon then looks to Ser Gwayne.

The uncharacteristically soft demeanor the Rogue Prince once showed, is now gone without a trace. Replacing it was a cold sense of fury that made the young man scramble backward with every menacing step the man, who had just shown his prowess as a dragon tamer, take.

“Your family will answer to the insults you have said in this very court.” He intoned with barely concealed rage, “And know that, unlike that unholy beast as you call her, I will give you no warning when I decide to strike.” 

He could swing the sword now, put an end to the boy’s misery and so that Daemon himself have no life debted to him. 

But he has a feeling, that after the true colors the boy had shown today (as well as his father and sister who were now glancing at him with a mix of panic, humiliation, and rage) that the Hightower’s reign is about to come to an end. 

He leaves the man to the dust as he goes over to the royal box.

The court is entranced, and most definitely more than a little scared. The common folk is loving it as they gave their prince a round of applause for his valiant display. 

And Rhaenyra smiles.

“I will not bore you with wordy praises that you no doubt have already heard before, nor with treasures I have taken loot from my time at the Stepstones. Your pretty hands should not be marred by such dirt .”  He says in a rush and Rhaenyra chuckles, her blinding smile impossibly wide.

“I will also not tell you about the strength our family name can give you should you have me as consort when you, yourself, are strong enough to bear our name on your own.” He pauses, studying her, committing her features into his memory.

“When I sang my song, it was not the thought of victory, honor, or the thought of you as a mere prize that spurred me on.” 

The crowd gasps as Daemon bends the knee.  

He honestly should have done this a long time ago.

“It was the thought of being by your side,” He looks up to Rhaenyra, a true Valyrian goddess wrapped in gold, walking upon this green earth. 

“- of cherishing every moment with you, and of building a life you will shape for us and of this realm, and of choosing you over and over and over again, that brought me down on my knees for you for we-”

He takes a steadying breath, “Ao se nyke issi vēttan hen perzys. Hen prānot hae mērȳ zālagon indīliks.”

King Viserys stared at his brother with a look of disbelief. Rhaenyra exhales. All those who are not of Valyrian descent could only imagine what he had said, but the truth of it was written all over his besotted ( disgustingly besotted) face;

But you and I are made of fire. We have always been meant to burn together.

He presents Rhaenyra with the jewel that he had retrieved from Syrax’s chest.

Lying in his palm, gleaming in rubies, crafted with intricate links of shimmering silver-

Was the necklace Daemon gave her years ago. 

It was no wonder that Rhaenyra had not worn a single necklace since the moment this challenge started. Her neck was always bare while the rest of her being was covered in jewels.

She saved that part of her for him. She always knew he would return for her.

He dares to look to Rhaenyra again, “And I will gladly burn for you. If you’ll let me.”

After a short moment of silence (and without any regard for her father and his small council),  Rhaenyra leans over the railing, her hand tracing his chin with silent reverence- he fought the urge to close his eyes and groan at her soft touch.

She was perfect. How he burns for her.

Her eyes clouded with fresh tears. He can hear her heart pounding in her chest, as she shakily answers him.

“How could I not?”

Their audience screams in delight, as the crown princess’ lips crashed against her champion, their bodies and wandering hands radiating with the heat that had slowly burned over the pyre of their shared passion until it finally, finally joined together as one.

Alicent has fainted. Otto is as pale as sheet.

Her ladies cheered while Rhaenys pats Corlys on his back. Viserys is resigned, but to everyone's surprise, there was a slight smile there as well.

But Rhaenyra and Daemon? 

They finally found their home.

—

The couple was married four months later, almost immediately after Daemon’s “mourning period”, if they can even call it that. 

Their wedding night actually did give Princess Alyssa and Prince Baelon’s wild night a run for their money. King Viserys was forever traumatized and could not look at his brother and daughter for a month.

During their early years of marriage, the two royals shared almost every moment of their time together. When they were not busy exploring the pleasures of their marriage and sneaking stolen moments between their duties when they think everyone does not notice (They do, they definitely do), they were making plans for the realm.

Opening trade deals with the rest of Westeros to Essos was a start. Soon, they were criminalizing children fighting pits and building orphanages and shelters for the homeless. Soon, they were taking note from Braavos about sewage systems and canals for cleaner streets.

Ser Gwayne Hightower was gelded before Syrax and Caraxes made him into their snack. When through Ser Gwayne’s interrogation it was uncovered that the Citadel and the Hightowers (especially Otto) had been working together to destabilize the Targaryens and destroy the royals from within… Including the poisoning of Queen Aemma Arryn… 

Let’s just say Syrax and Caraxes were quite well fed by their buffet that day. So much so that Syrax hatched her first clutch of eggs. One golden with swirls of orange. Another, of red and yellow gradience like a sunset.

The Hightowers that were left- children and mothers- was not much to be done about Alicent as she had no active role in the conspiracy but to serve as a way to get the dragon's power to their side. She was just simply a pawn to her father. And the disgraced queen was forever concealed in her new chambers, with only her regret and the quiet as her faithful companions.

Her kids were fine though. Rhaenyra took them in and they too grew to love their older sister. As it turns out, if you do not poison your children with fear and do more than just handing them off to their nannies, they actually grow into decent people.

Laenor sails for Essos with Joffrey to serve as Westeros' ambassador for trade, and Laena marries Harwin Strong. 

9 months after the wedding of Crown Princess Rhaenyra and her Prince-Consort Daemon Targaryen, their twins, Visenya and Baelon were born. There will be more that follow, strengthening the Targaryen dynasty for generations to come.

The dragons sing their song and the realm is at peace, hoping that these two children, will not truly follow their parents’ footsteps and issue another Dragon Heart’s challenge for their sanity.

Ha.

If only.

—

Epilogue

Upon Crown Princess Visenya’s eighteenth nameday, Queen Rhaenyra makes it known that her daughter is in search of a husband of her own.

On the condition that her suitors greet The Wild Cannibal, her beloved mount that she had claimed at only eight years old, who was known to devour the flesh of fellow dragons and will not bat an eye to a paltry human's flesh either. 

Of course, some men never change and there are those who are eager to gain the princes’ hand.

But everyone knew their loss when her younger brother Baelon stroll into the dragon pit in a manner only reminiscent of his father, the Rogue Prince himself, after having returned from the Dornish war that had been threatening their borders, with Senya's Cannie’s favorite treats in hand. 

It would eventually become a tradition for Targaryen women later down the line.

For only a dragon can ever love a dragon.