Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A few days quickly flew by after the prince and princess’ Valyrian wedding - but neither of them noticed.

Tangled in each other for days with no end, only the maids coming every morning to change the bedsheets and the servants bringing new trays of food were an indicator of how many hours had gone by since the last time they were interrupted.

The soft singing of little birds came to announce the rising of the dawn,

“How do you feel this morning, princess? I fear to be exhausting you.”

Rhaenyra stirred, a content smile tugging at her lips.

A shiver ran on her neckline, for the flames of the fireplace had run out, and the maids were too frightened to disturb their peace - and other daily activities - to spark them to life again.

Though she always made the effort to put on a nightdress before going to bed, for her uncle liked to watch her wearing lace, somehow she would always wake up bare - for her uncle liked nothing more than to take whatever gown she had slid into off.

“Don’t be crass,” she chastised. “Though I could do with breakfast today.”

Daemon hummed as he towered over her, his soft voice a prettier song than the cardinals’ that used to sing by her windowsill at King’s Landing. No such birds could fly here, they were not meant for the island’s weather.

For a while, Rhaenyra had missed them - but new birds had taken their place.

Life went on, even after what you tried, father.

“Don’t you break your fast everyday, dārilaros?”

“Not hot breakfasts,” she narrowed her eyes, escaping his grasp. “Not when you keep me in your arms long enough for it to grow cold.

“What sinner I am,” Daemon sighed, “to enjoy having my wife in my embrace so much I allow her to starve. Call for the Kingsguard,” he suggested. “Isn’t this treasonous?”

“Be quiet,” she chuckled, as he grinned, but he wasn’t done.

“Guards, guards! Come here and help, the Princess of Dragonstone is famished!” he hailed, until she made him roll over, pressing her hand on his mouth to silence him.

“Stop that,” she laughed, and still she could feel him grin beneath her palm, her long curls falling on his face. “Why would I do with you should you be arrested?”

The prince bit her fingers, stroking the curve of her jew.

“Enjoy your meals in peace and quiet, I assume.”

Rhaenyra feigned to consider the possibility, before a wide smile spread on her lips.

“A few hot breakfast isn’t worth such a loss,” she declared, sealing her decision with a kiss.

Her husband laughed, locking his hands behind her neck, keeping her close, breathing in her ear, slowly invading her once more.

Cold breakfasts weren’t so terrible, after all.

Otto Hightower’s body was discovered at dawn, when the king waited on his balcony to watch him leave his castle and disappear forever - but the former Hand never came out.

The Kingsguard dashed to the Tower of the Hand, frantically knocking on the door, but heard no reply.

For a good reason.

Alicent cried, her sworn protector not strong enough to prevent her from running to her father’s chamber as soon as she was informed of his death.

You do not need to see this, my queen, the soldier said, but she didn’t care.

Her mother had not been dead for five years that she was once again confronted to the Stranger - it felt unfair.

She screamed, blood dripping from Otto’s wrists as he was moved from his bath, his fine clothes still on, the pin of his former station still hanging on his doublet. He was pale, his lips blue, only the water of his bath was scarlet.

“What happened?” she wanted to know, turning to Viserys, her eyes full of tears streaming down her face. “Why would he do such a thing?”

Nausea seized her, a consequence of disgust as much as the babe wrestling in her womb.

It had never been in Viserys’ nature to feel guilt - not until he had regretted neglecting a daughter her whole life, wishing for a son.

Not until he had demanded of her to kill a man - his own brother.

For you too, I might be a penitent, a beggar, for the rest of my reign.

Yet he wouldn’t bend the knee for anyone else, he wouldn’t cry over anyone else.

And he had made a promise.

“I dismissed him,” he confessed, and his wife squinted her eyes. “I should have done it moons ago.”

Her answer was a bitter question, it came as a growl.

A little girl suddenly motherless, fatherless.

“Why?”

“I think you know.”

She had a funny face when assailed by sorrow, he noticed. So different from the day she had entered his chamber for the first time, eager to comfort him in the loss of his late queen.

You really were a child back then, he realized. Now that she had gone from maiden to wife to mother, she could no longer be just sad, she also was angry.

At herself, at her husband.

At her father.

Alicent didn’t need Viserys to remind her that Otto had spied on the princess, stalked her until she would sin, until she would fail in her duty, all to have her cast aside and replaced by her half brother.

The king might have been lenient on Otto right after the incident, and then too obviously upset by Rhaenyra’s wedding to the Rogue Prince.

No matter how much she had argued against it, Viserys had let it take place, and she had never quite understood why.

It almost took a year but your plan came back at you, father, Alicent gathered, closing her eyes. You thought you could trap the king, force his hand, manipulate the whole court to play along your rules.

And when it failed, you could no longer bear the shame.

The queen watched as the silent sisters stitched Otto’s injuries, wrapping him in a simple, plain shroud. No gold, no fancy patterns, no luxury would accompany him to the underworld.

Would anyone welcome you there, father, or only the lives that you wrecked in your ascend?

She thought of Rhea Royce, forced to remain wed to a man who despised her, who did nothing but plead and beg to be parted from her.

There were furies in hell, she was aware, she often feared to hear their screams at night, in the shape of unwilling brides.

They wouldn’t show him any mercy, she believed - and perhaps, in that knowledge, there was revenge.

Justice.

Will Baelon The Brave thank you for your service, or will he put you on trial? It was his death that had permitted Otto to stand by the Iron Throne for decades, after all.

What a disturbing idea it was, that perhaps Viserys’ father might have perished on earth only to reign over the seven hells, waiting for the hand that had stolen his place, his title, his son.

A king with a crown of bones rather than the seven gods you’ve always revered, father. How will that work for you?

“Should we wait for your brother to come to court, Your Grace, to proceed with the funeral?”

Alicent wetted her lips. Her father had sinned when taking his own life, and the High Sparrow, should he hear of it, would demand him to be beheaded and buried on an unholy ground - and Gwayne would either accept or refuse, only biding his time before wishing to avenge his death.

Like father, like son, he would follow Otto’s steps, and wish for their blood to be installed on the Iron Throne, build an altar to their father’s memory and call him a saint, a martyr.

“No,” she replied. “I shall write to him about his demise and his death both, and gladly welcome him at court if he wishes to see his gravestone to mourn - and when he does, he will swear fealty to the king and his heir again, along the rest of his house.”

Our house.

The maester nodded, and left, leaving the queen alone to grieve the father she had lost and the one she wished he had been.

Oh, father, Alicent regretted when he was buried underground, for fire was the Targaryen way, and he was no dragon.

He would decay, and be eaten by worms, and left alone on a hill facing the sea, and his ghost would howl at night, desperately longing for the Reach, longing for a soul, yearning for someone to hear his plea.

But no one would - the rest of his family would stay in the Reach, his grandchildren would be burnt on pyres when their time would come - and Alicent was a queen, she wouldn’t be abandoned on the top of nameless hill for no one to cry over her grave.

If you only hadn't been so restless into making Aegon the heir.

Aegon and Haelena were too young to understand the chagrin of their loss or understand the weight of death, but as they stared at his namestone, their own mother’s heart turned to rock.

She thought of the babe growing inside of her - another boy, probably. The first of her children who would grow without her father’s insights, his knowledge, his sense of wisdom.

Will you be the first of us to be free?

The wind howled, Viserys turned his head to her, but her face was blank, her tears dry.

Not a daughter, anymore.

Only a mother.

And when the king took off the pin of the Hand that someone had dared to put on his gravestone, as a sign of respect Viserys wouldn’t tolerate, Alicent didn’t protest.

It wasn’t easy to focus on whatever the chamberlain was saying.

You had to leave this room eventually, Daemon had whispered in her ear, deep within her, moving slowly, almost painfully. She didn’t care for lectures, for lessons. Even as just a girl, she had sighed and endured in silence the wise speeches of her septas, and had only waited for them to be done.

One cannot simply hold the Princess of Dragonstone hostage in her own castle.

She wished he had, foolishly, recklessly.

He is so old, she would complain, everyday that she would go to her study, and listen to him, and watch over taxes, laws, petitions. His words fell like ashes in my ears.

Daemon had laughed, and fucked her mercilessly.

Rhaenyra still felt the pressure of his fingers on her limbs, an ache between her legs, one that only called for more.

She mindlessly tugged on her necklace, trying to forbid her fingers from climbing down and finding the other collards of rope her husband had wrapped around her skin, a reminder of his love.

A smart way to tether her to him even when afar, even studying.

You’re very skillful at this, she had contemplated while he was working on his gift, tangling rope after rope around her waist, her shoulders, her breasts. How did you learn?

Daemon hadn’t really known, like he remembered the gestures coming from a past life. You’re my muse, dārilaros.

In the moons that they had spent on the island, she had learned that he couldn’t restrain her and not kiss her, as if one couldn’t go without the other. The silk, the gold, the rope - they were nothing but kisses and bites in disguise.

I could tie you up forever, he had whispered in the morning. Might chain you to me should this lesson last too long.

He shouldn’t murmur such promises, Rhaenyra had mused, for she might be tempted to taunt him, to challenge him.

Let me be queen and then take me, ravish me, she would sing. Crown me, then make me kneel.

It would set the land on fire, and perhaps she longed to get drunk on the smoke.

The old chamberlain tilted his head, feeling like he was once again speaking in the void.

“What do you think, princess?”

Fortunately, she had learned to listen while having her mind wandering elsewhere.

“I agree with you,” she replied, smiling. “Send a raven and order the maesters from the Citadel to send you the records of what their festivals cost us. Surely some money can be spared there.”

The chamberlain hummed, then nodded, surely surprised that she had paid attention at all. Then, she wasn’t a little girl anymore, unlike the last time she had visited the castle.

On this island, at least, she already was a queen.

Rhaenyra crossed her legs, proud of herself, but bit her lip in the process - for her husband was a cunning man, and he wouldn’t be that easily satisfied with only a clever, invisible harness of ropes that she would hide under her dress.

They had to run lower, to find their way between her thighs, to form a knot nestled within her folds - one that would itch, and burn, every time that she would move.

That is cruel, uncle, she had happily cried when contemplating his own work, and she had wrestled against him.

Daemon had bit her shoulder and caressed her skin, his fingers testing the strengths of his bindings, the knots, the pressure of his harness.

Come back to me soon, he had commanded, and I shall show you mercy.

As she watched the sun slowly setting, she knew it was her cue, her final warning. He wouldn’t like her to stay in her study after nightfall, as if the god of the night might kiss her skin better than he would.

“We better call it a day,” she announced, rising from her seat with gritted teeth, trying to ignore the building pressure between her legs. “Have a good evening, good sir.”

The steps that separated her study from her chambers seemed like a whole continent, yet she walked, forbidding herself to moan, to growl in frustration, or even to curse her uncle’s name.

She forced her legs to keep walking - even if she only wanted to kneel and tug on the rope; even when she wanted to scream his name until he would come here, and take care of it himself.

What would the Kingsguard think I was to stop there, in the middle of the stairs, unable to carry on? she wondered, laughing inside. That I am mistreated or on the contrary, well looked after?

Maybe she should have said no, the first time that he had suggested trapping her in a web of his own, just to remind her to whom she belonged to when she was forced to leave the sanctuary of their bedroom.

But it was such a bliss to stand bare in his arms while he would pace around her, an archer and its prey, wrapping a thin rope around her neck and commanding her to kneel, patting her head and tightening his trap around her waist.

Rhaenyra wasn’t much of a dancer - but this dance, she could dance forever.

She didn’t knock, she didn’t need to.

Often, Daemon would be wandering around the island or dealing with affairs of this island on his own - but tonight, she knew he would be there already.

Waiting.

He smiled as soon as she arrived, the door being shut close behind her quietly.

“There you are,” he said, closing the book he was reading. “I thought I might have to come and fetch you myself.”

The princess glared as she stepped in the room, the sunset casting lovely colors all around. She loved the warm shades of the evening - pink, soft red, orange; if she was a goddess, the island would always bask in such a rainbow.

“Would you?” she asked, tugging on the collar of her dress, the fabric thick enough to hide the rope device that had tormented her for the entire day. “Or would you have enjoyed the thought of me squirming all night long?”

Daemon shrugged, pouring himself a goblet of wine.

“It would be a waste to have you squirm so far, dārilaros.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, letting the slippers slide off of her feet as she walked to him slowly, leisurely.

A torment and a revenge, for he already beamed with impatience.

He had also endured his share of torture, she assumed, thinking of her while remaining alone, remembering the rope he had placed around her frame, the smart knot, still tied to the rest of the harness, that he had carefully nestled where he would gladly slide himself later.

Like a promise, like fate.

Her uncle drained his cup, quivering - and his wife waited, her gaze daring.

“Take off your dress.”

Rhaenyra held her chin high as she obeyed, pulling on the straps of her gown, letting the red lace pool at her feet. She should have worn a corset with such a dress, but he had forbidden it.

What would be the point of two cages, princess?

Daemon hummed as she revealed her naked skin, exposing the ropes that ensnared her all day.

With cold fingers, he traced the marks that they had left; soft imprints that resembled nothing like the purple flowers that often bloomed at his touch, nor the violet petals born at his fingers like lavender in the spring - but still, it adorned her better than jewels.

“You’re beautiful, wearing nothing but fading light and ropes.”

The coldness of his touch left her shivering, and his hand climbed down to her breasts, his thumb drawing loving circles on her perked nipples.

“Tell me - did it hurt?”

Rhaenyra bit her lip.

“No.”

He almost sounded disappointed, but he knew that the truth was elsewhere.

“Did it burn?”

At that, his niece nodded, and Daemon smiled, satisfied.

His hands still ran on her, like the wind in the branches of a willow.

“Good,” he breathed, leaning to kiss her collarbone, making her gasp as he tugged on the rope, still finding a way to tighten it after hours. “You’re a dragon, you know how to dance on fire.”

“Dragons remember,” she replied, seeking his gaze, finding it ablaze. “Once I am your queen, I might order you to spend every day like this - as payment for today.”

The prince chuckled, pressing his chest to her back, sliding an arm around her waist.

“Such a happy prospect.”

She had no time to muse that in the meantime she would enjoy being at his mercy - so docile, so compliant; so utterly vulnerable and pliable at his demand.

Unable to hold a dagger at his throat, weaponless, devoid of any other kind of will but to earn forgiveness - even it felt like he was the one apologizing, everytime that he kissed her, everytime that he restrained her.

I shouldn’t have ever left you, she heard in the shape of moans, of grunts. All I shall ever do is to keep you.

It felt good to be desired.

In a swift gesture, he took her in his arms and threw her on the mattress, so soft that she laughed, until he followed her, his whole body on hers, keeping her in place.

Her husband kissed her, swallowing the last echoes of her laughter.

Following his movements, she got on her knees, his lips hot on her and his hands warming up as he stroked her shoulders, her arms, her belly.

He stayed there for a while, she noticed, drawing circles around her belly button, and she wondered if he thought about her endeavors as often as she did.

He liked to take his time, as if she was a map, a tapestry he needed to know by heart.

You already do.

“While you leave me waiting, husband?” she challenged him, her hands tugging at the many little knots of her endless web of ropes. “If I had known, I might have just worked in my study longer.”

Daemon huffed, catching her wrists, cladding them together behind her back.

“Smart mouth that you are,” he replied, managing to untangle one of the ropes of her handmade harness only to tie her hands. “Still haven’t learned patience.”

She liked to wrestle only to test his strength, his patience - and he liked to be stronger, she had learned; to be the smart prince that had outsmarted her father’s little plan, that had trapped her underneath him and happily ravished her, as if she had been gifted to him on a silver plate.

And she had been, in truth.

In her memories, so often, she played the scene again - but in her head, she would never try, she would kneel, and surrender.

It was what she offered him, always.

Once her wrists were secured, he released his grasp, only to shift on their bed and have the freedom to take his breeches off.

“Have I not been patient enough today?”

“You must have been,” he replied. “But I wasn’t there to see it, was I? My princess sitting still, being a good pupil for another man…”

Rhaenyra cursed, and again, he laughed.

Yet he didn’t make haste to take his own clothes off, taking his time while she squirmed, impatient and sore, playing with the new sensation.

He should have sent her to work with her hands tied in her back, she mused, and have the walls of Dragonstone whisper about it for weeks.

“Did you cross your legs?” he wanted to know when he turned back to her, crawling over her like a spider over a prey. His fingers traced the ropes under her breasts, where sweat started to drip. “Or was it too painful?”

What was better - to ignore the pressure building between your thighs, or to embrace it?

Finally he was as bare as her, and as he taunted her, his voice low and his breath tickling her ear, she felt his length on her thigh, as daring as his hands grabbing her hip.

She took a deep breath as he tugged on the strands that led to her crotch, earning a loud gasp.

“Answer me.”

“All day,” she replied, her cheeks blushing. “All day long, uncle.”

“Hmmm,” he breathed, and one of his hands reached for his own length, pleasing himself on his own, never leaving her eyes, the sight of her bound and compliant. “What a good girl you are, dārilaros.”

Rhaenyra liked the praise, but she didn’t like having to watch rather than stroke - yet her hands were too secured behind her back, she only struggled in an attempt to break free.

“Should we do it again tomorrow?” he suggested, and she shook her head. “No? Here I thought you liked to remember me whenever you walk away. Maybe I should relent in my attempts to always leave a mark.”

“Don’t let me walk away,” she begged, bending her leg, trying to trap him nearer, closer. “When the morrow comes, just shut the curtains, and pretend that dawn never rose.”

The prince smirked, using both of his hands to open her legs, leaning against her and leaving a trail of wet kisses from her chin to her stomach.

“I just might,” he promised, biting her inner thigh. “And when I do, remember that it was your wish.”

For a while again, he just teased her, stroking both him and her, telling her to enjoy the bliss of being captured and held preciously, pampering her with kisses and soft bruises.

As much as he loved to see her walk in golden dresses and silver jewelry, nothing suited as much as this - flowers and ropes, the simplest forms of love.

He played, like a cat with a little mouse, pleasing her, edging her, until she couldn’t bear it.

“Take it off,” Rhaenyra begged, but Daemon just smiled. “It tortured me all day…”

“Ah, but here is something you shall never learn with anyone else, my love,” he whispered, grabbing the strand of rope tied to her crotch. “There is such a thin line between pleasure and pain.”

Slowly, he started to tug on the rope, and instantly Rhaenyra hissed, jerking her head back - for the sensation was new.

It might have been there for hours, it felt nothing like the hand of a lover expertly giving her joy, a wicked sense of pleasure as he tugged on the strands, the knot nestled in her folds applying a strong pressure right where she needed it, wanted it.

“Is that good?” he asked, aware that it was. It was written on her face. “Use your words, my love.”

Rhaenyra didn’t, but she nodded. She nodded frantically - and it was enough of an answer for him.

She blamed the septas who taught girls so little - that intercourse was a duty and nothing more.

There was so much to learn, to discover; and most women might never know about it, for she couldn’t fathom a more dedicated, passionate lover.

The whores of the Street of Silk must be missing you.

He slid one of her legs over his shoulder, and the new angle allowed her to experience it all over again - the sensation was emphasized, like pouring oil on a wild fire.

Daemon accelerated his pace, drunk on the sole sight of her. Forgotten was the wine, her moans were a siren call.

“I’ll make you wear this again,” he threatened, he promised, and she arched her back, feeling herself close. “And you’ll thank me for it, each and every time.”

Kneeling, crying, laughing.

“Yes, yes,” she agreed, her mouth wide open, twisting her wrists, longing to run her fingers in his hair, to break free from this cage only to tie him to her.

Daemon grunted, rubbing himself against her, catching her jaw, as if she was clay in his arms.

“One of those days, I will ask to pick between silver and gold.”

His niece blinked, leaning her head in the pit of his shoulder.

“Silver or gold?” she repeated, trying to follow - but all that she could catch were drops of sweat, the dew of desire on his naked, hot skin.

She felt his fingers stroll on the bones of her neckline, before clawing at her throat, bending her neck, kissing her pulse.

“What would you say if I craved you so much that I collared you, princess?” he asked, and she whined. “A circle I would seal, one that you could never take off - would that be love, or madness?”

In any other circumstances, she would have fought, she would have wrestled and fled, for she was no slave, no captive who needed to be tethered and leashed not to run away.

Daemon’s cock hardened against her.

“You’d wear a crown and a clasped necklace of my own,” he imagined with his eyes closed. “A queen and a thrall, all mine to ravish.”

Yet she couldn’t unseen the prospect of him being soldered to her, for should she ever accept to wear that evidence of gentle submission, he would be the soldier, the slave, the penitent - and the collar only another good reason for him to keep his hands around her neck, jealous of the manacle, envious of the device, fitting her neck forever.

“Please,” she breathed, opening her teary eyes.

He kept playing, stroking, his cock hardening. She was so pretty begging - yet he longed to see her squirm wordlessly, devoid of her songs.

With her voice, she could compel him to do anything - to live, to die. Whatever her wishes, he would drown.

He roughly grabbed her jaw, his thumb caressing her lower lip.

“Please what, princess?”

“Take me,” she pleaded, rocking her hips on his lap, seeking his warmth. “Before I…”

Of course, he never forgot her deepest desire - for their love to bear fruit, for seed to take root.

The prince smirked, willing to comply with such a demand; yet not without enjoying a last few strokes of rope, taking in the sight of her whining, the tears of torment and bliss shining in her lilac eyes.

“Next time I’ll take you gagged,” he promised, two of his fingers finding their way in her mouth. “The sounds you will make, Rhaenyra…”

Rhaenyra held his stare as she slightly sucked on them, and he enjoyed the feeling as much as the spectacle. It was a suitable way to keep her silent, too.

Sometimes he just wanted to keep his palms pressed against her lips for as long as possible, to feel her breath on his hands, to listen to her wild heartbeat when yielding, when cornered.

She swallowed, on edge, her skin on fire his now wet fingers found her folds, and her most precious nerves. All of the sudden she was free, the ropes falling from her body, releasing her wrists.

The things I might say with my eyes, should you take away my voice…

Fighting the ache in her arms, she threw them both around him, her legs opening for him to enter her swiftly. She was wet enough as it was, after such a long teasing; and still, she gasped as she welcomed him, his hips kind and unforgiving, slamming against her.

“Am I forgiven, dearest?”

Rhaenyra hissed, moving at his pace, following his current.

“I’m not sure.”

He grabbed her rear, drawing her closer as he thrusted.

“What might help you make up your mind?”

The princess tried to think, for he was always so pleased to bring her gifts - at some point, she rarely knew what to ask for, anymore; and then, in the end, she rarely wished for more but flowers and creative restraints.

Still, she looked around, and the fading sunlight caught her eye.

“Diamonds.”

Daemon raised his brows, clearly surprised.

“Diamonds?” he repeated, hiding his face in the crook of her neck, getting lost in the jasmine scent of her hair.

“Diamonds,” she confirmed. “Tied to strands of gold.”

He scowled, not understanding the request. She already possessed diamonds - and rubies, sapphires, crystals, in any forms and in any shapes; rings, necklaces, tiaras.

He wasn’t against always commissioning more, buying more, for he was enticed by the idea of her bathing in precious stones, a hatchling in a sea of gems.

Yet he couldn’t quite read her mind.

“Why?”

Rhaenyra smiled, and her desire seemed so absurd, so silly, so sweet, while she was rubbing in white satin sheets, a beauty devoured by a beast.

“To hang them above our baby’s crib, so that every silver lining looks like a thousand suns.”

The prince smiled, kissing her tenderly, trading hard thrusts for softer waves.

He would give her diamonds, he decided, ones that he might go and dig up himself - and as many sons and daughters that she might wish.

And when they cried out each other's name, though daylight had died, and the night had fallen, in his eyes, she was a suncatcher.

The raven arrived a few days later, and the rope marks had not yet totally faded from her skin when wrapped herself in a robe, opening the door to the servant who had knocked on the door.

“I beg your pardon to come in this early, princess,” the maid said, averting her gaze. “My prince.”

“Hmmm.”

Daemon said nothing, not making a single effort to hide his nudity, for he quite enjoyed being caught in his niece’s bed every morning. Most servants knew when to come, how to leave a tray on the table and mind their own business, looking at the sun rather than at the bed, and praying for birds to sing louder.

Deep down, he hoped that Viserys had his own spies in the castle, and that they were fervent servants, reporting to him their every move - and every sound they would make, for the whole castle to hear.

“A letter,” she announced. “From King’s Landing.”

Rhaenyra smiled, and the young girl left her be. Breakfast would come up soon, but the letter had arrived first; surely the maesters had deemed it urgent.

She broke the red wax sigil of her father and unfolded the parchment, bracing herself. She wasn’t impatient to read what the king ought to tell her - if he thought about her late at night to tame ravens to fly in the dark; if his failed attempt prevented him from sleeping.

Does it haunt you the way it haunts me?

The prince noticed how she tensed. He wished that the cooks had been fasted to prepare breakfast, for he would prefer her to face whatever news Viserys had to share with a full belly.

“Should I read it first, dārilaros?”

Rhaenyra shook her head, even if it was tempting to simply let her husband handle politics, and family matters. He had flown to King’s Landing, delivered the unhappy news that her father wouldn’t be a grandsire, after all - sparing her the painful duty of having to fight tears and write a letter with trembling fingers.

Daemon waited, and his wife started to read. Surely he expected Viserys to send some wise, kind words to her, since he hadn’t been granted the chance to comfort her in person - and probably never would.

In truth, it had been a fortnight since the prince had gone to the capital, and no letter had arrived since, neither from Viserys, the queen, or a maester.

Not even a bitter hand, which Daemon had ordered the dismissal.

He wasn’t prepared for what he was about to discover, frowning as Rhaenyra blinked, squinting her eyes, obviously wondering if she had read it all wrong.

“What is it?”

The princess stayed still as she lowered her hand, meeting her husband’s wary gaze.

Maybe he expected news of war, of conspiracy - some bitter comment that Viserys might not have been able to keep to himself.

Everything but this.

“Otto Hightower is dead.”

It was Daemon’s turn to scowl, fathoming that perhaps it was a dream, still.

“What?”

Rhaenyra nodded, sharing the confusion.

“He slit his wrists in his bath, right after my father dismissed him, and ordered him to return to the Reach,” she explained, walking to hand him the letter. “Read it yourself.”

Daemon did, avidly taking in the information.

“The funeral already took place,” he read with a grimace, wondering why they were learning of this so late, and not right after it had happened. Was it your way to protect your daughter, Viserys? “Gwayne was forced to ride to King’s Landing and pledge his loyalty to the king again - and to you.”

The princess nodded once again, as surprised as he was. She shouldn’t have been, for the Hightowers had been among the first to bend the knee - but then, it had been a few years before Aegon’s birth, and many of them were surely expecting him to be named as heir in her stead.

“It was Alicent’s wish,” she added, pressing a hand to her belly, also wishing that she had eaten something before receiving the disturbing news. Isn't it wicked to hear of death, and think about luck? “I wonder why.”

Her husband shrugged, setting the letter away.

“Because she might not be as stupid as I thought,” he stated with a bitter laugh. “The choice is hers: to either rise against you in the name of her father’s revenge - or to protect her son, for he wouldn't be spared, should her house rebel.”

Rhaenyra swallowed, for she didn’t long to think of rebellion, of battles, of slaughtering even children as annoying as her half brother was.

In another life I would have held your hand at your father’s funeral, like you reached for mine after my mother’s.

Her throat was suddenly thirsty, and she wished for something to calm down her nerves, and soothe the sense of nausea that seized her.

She turned to Daemon, looking outside, lost in his own thoughts.

“How do you feel?” she asked, reaching for a pitcher of water. “Your lifelong enemy is dead.”

“Such a shame,” he replied, clasping his hands behind his back. “It must have been quite a show.”

Good Otto, finally six feet under, he mused. Oh, I might have paid to throw dirt.

The princess huffed, not surprised by his comment.

It might not be too late to go back and spit on his grave, she thought - but out of decency, kept it silent.

He turned back to her, and she could read in his eyes the things he didn’t care to voice: that the man who had strived to keep him as far from court as possible was finally gone. What had Otto ever been but a thorn at his side, constantly by the king, pouring poison in his ear, calling hemlock by the prince’s name.

If Viserys had never allowed his marriage to Rhea Royce to be annulled, it was on him.

If his life had been about earning the respect of a brother rather than his affection, it was on him, too - for Daemon’s efforts had been all made of glass, and Otto had always done his best to shatter them on the ground.

It is over now, he realized. Truly, it had been over long before his demise, ever since he had left the Red Keep alive, and escaped his brother’s wrath and influence.

Yet, he wickedly hoped that his face had haunted the old man when he had sliced his skin with a piece of glass - that he had nightmares of his hand being the one taking his life, staining the water of his bath.

“Do you know what it means, princess?” he asked, the hint of a smile on his lips. “That we were right; you really hold your father in the palm of your hand.”

Rhaenyra didn’t respond, for it was nice of him to say we when really it was him working for her, fighting for her.

“I am glad we weren’t summoned to the funeral,” she said, ringing the bell, because she really was hungry, and she longed for eggs on toast, sausages, and cheese - all the things that she usually didn’t crave for at dawn. “He might have done as you said but I don’t want to see him,” she stated, pinching her lips. “I don’t want to forgive him.”

The prince knew how she felt. For him, too, forgiveness was a foreign oasis.

An horizon he wasn’t certain that he would ever reach.

At least it led me to you, he mused. Fate might have a dark wit.

As if feeling her discomfort, he put his hot palm on her stomach.

“Maybe it is why he didn’t write sooner,” he suggested, kissing her temple. “So you might not feel forced to return. I doubt it was a great event, anyway,” he added. “He was dismissed and meant for exile, and in the end, took his own life; a sin the Seven do not condone.”

How must you feel, Alicent? she couldn’t help but wonder, for she was now fatherless, motherless. Like she felt, sometimes, even if her own father still walked the earth.

She would make sure to write to her later in the day, she promised herself, and might light up a candle at nightfall - if not for Otto’s dear memory, then only for her former friend, who always used to kneel in the sept, looking for a glimpse of her mother.

Seeking for a comfort in the arms of the gods, since her parents never cared enough to hug her often.

Rhaenyra bit her lip as her husband kissed her skin - but he didn’t get to do much more, for the princess’ handmaid finally brought up breakfast, and to his surprise, she was quick to tell her to come, and dashed to collect the tray.

Curious, he thought, yet when went back to bed to eat, and scowled, asking what?, the prince only shook his head, smiling.

“Nothing, my love.”

Silently wondering if a life hadn’t been traded for another.

A letter reached the shores of the capital on a chilly morning, bearing the sigil of House Targaryen.

It had been long enough, the king mused, for his own raven had left the capital almost a fortnight ago, and the island was a short fly.

For dragons, at least. Maybe not for crows.

He expected simple words, thank you, father, would be enough. It would be a sign, a faint promise that one day, Rhaenyra would come back to talk in person, if she was ready to exchange regular letters with him already.

Tell me everything about your life, dearest, he wanted to beg. Spare me no detail - your studies, your days. Your husband, even.

Eagerly, Viserys waited, already extending his hand - but the servant looked sorry, slightly afraid of disappointing the king.

“The letter is addressed to the queen, Your Grace.”

On the other side of the diner table, Alicent arched her brows. She hadn’t worn the black more than the twelve days of mourning decency demanded of her - and had long stopped to wear it when her brother had arrived to publicly bend the knee again.

No, she had resumed to wear light blue dresses, like the ones she used to wear when she was still just a girl, just the Lady Alicent.

Until the day her father had forbidden her to wear them again, the color too gray, too childish. It didn’t fit her womanly curves enough.

She was the queen, and after her father had been buried deep in the earth, her only command had been to the seamstresses - to make her a whole new wardrobe, in the colors she truly liked, a shade of her own.

A new life had started to bloom in her body, in any case. She could do with more dresses.

“Thank you,” Alicent said, taking the letter.

Smiling, as she read the princess’ words. She certainly hadn’t been expecting them at all.

Viserys tilted his head, wanting to know what Rhaenyra had to say; but his wife wasn’t willing to share.

“Good news?”

“Nothing important to you, husband,” she replied. “Only nice words of sympathy.”

The king hummed, knowing her enough to gather that she would elaborate. It wasn’t in her nature to be secretive - not with him, at least.

Yet, in her silence, he knew.

Forgiveness wasn’t a debt.

A new moon came without Rhaenyra noticing, for the days were long and the night far too short.

“Do you reckon salmon might swim somewhere near Dragonstone?” she asked one morning, playing with her food, not touching a thing.

The prince observed her twisting her fork without taking a bit of the content of her plate.

A book in his hand, he pretended not to be that interested in the ways of life of fishes.

“Why do you ask?”

Rhaenyra shrugged, for despite the chamberlain teaching her how to read tax reports, often she surprised herself thinking of types of food she had only heard about, or read about.

Sometimes as often as she dreamed of her husband’s warm embrace, of the tightness of his ropes, of the strength of his arms when he caught her in a corridor and was challenged to take her there, without dashing to a quiet room, nor to a bed.

“Elinda tells me it is a common breakfast dish across the Narrow Sea,” she explained, frowning at her usual morning meal. “It might be better than what we’re being fed here everyday.”

It was difficult to conceal a smile.

“What is wrong with our cooks here?” he asked. “I didn’t notice any change.”

The princess seemed disgusted, putting her plate away, getting out of bed, reaching for a juice to erase the sour taste she could feel on her tongue.

“Maybe you don’t pay enough attention.”

The chamberlain would have to wait today, she decided, for she would visit the kitchens and decide on new menus for the following days. Maybe they needed to inspect what was farmed and grown on their soil - perhaps there was something off with the way food was sheltered, or conserved; unless the harvests had been disappointing.

Still only half focused on his reading, Daemon watched his wife opening her wardrobe, picking a dress herself. Usually she would let Elinda choose, for she trusted her good taste - but lately she was upset.

My corsets are too tight, she would complain some days - unless it was one of those days where the fabric would feel itchy, or she would have indulged herself at diner, and she would feel trapped, ensnared in a gown too small.

Too tight.

Have I offended you? she had once angrily turned to Elinda tying the lace of her cleavage, though she truly was her favorite lady in waiting. You’re hurting me.

Poor girl, Daemon had reckoned. He would make sure that she would be well compensated for her patience.

“I do, my love,” the prince promised, turning a page. “I assure you, I do.”

Indeed, his eyes were always open.

Watching the moons turn, and their bedding staying clean.

The nights by the sea were beautiful - in another life, Rhaenyra liked to imagine her first time in a man’s arms being rocked by the song of the waves.

She looked at the beach from the balcony, wondering if her husband would allow her to stroll there this late, whether alone or with him. He loved to have her for himself in the dark, she was aware.

Would you permit the god of the sea to catch a glimpse of us?

Without thinking of it, she played with her crown of braids, letting each of them fall on her back, untying the knots. It was a relief, the pressure finally fading from her head.

Only when she watched her natural curls reach her hips did she seem to notice how many months had passed since she had escaped her father’s castle, for her hair had grown so much.

Maybe I could make it a ladder, someday, she mused. Or a prison, and trap you in my web.

She took a deep breath of the salty breeze, the only cure against the nausea that often seized her of late.

Her hand fell at her side, stroking her belly. Rhaenyra wasn’t quite certain if it was still empty or finally full; and she was not in haste to make sure that it was.

Those doubts, she kept to herself, for she still remembered the weight of the disappointment the last time she had thought to herself with child, the sense of defeat difficult to swallow.

Yet it hadn’t felt this way, the last time, she told herself. Her appetite hadn’t been off, and nausea not that strong.

Her breasts had only been oddly sensitive - not painful, and she hadn’t felt overwhelmed by the simple thought of being rude to her favorite lady, apologizing every morning for her rude tone.

It is alright, princess, Elinda always swore, taking her hands in hers. No harm done.

She was a kind soul, always sounding as if she knew a secret that Rhaenyra wasn’t quite yet certain she carried.

But they’re just signs, not certainly, she reckoned. Only Gerardys could tell for sure.

And she was terrified of having imagined it all over again.

Would you be tied to a mad woman, husband?

On the threshold of the balcony, Daemon watched, his arms crossed on his chest.

His wife had just taken a bath, and the sea breeze smelled of her scent, the lemony salts that he had bought to Braavosi traders the last time that they had docked here. She wore nothing but a clear, thin nightdress that hid nothing from his prying eyes.

Not the color of her skin kissed by the night, nor the curves of her body.

So slightly changing, he could swear.

Her deepest wish granted.

“What are you doing here, dārilaros?”

Rhaenyra’s hand immediately dropped from her middle form, startled by the familiar voice.

A gesture Daemon noticed, but did not comment.

What he might think of her new habit to breathe in the scent the night, she knew not, she had never asked.

“The evening is beautiful,” she replied. “Summer might be here soon, I believe.”

Spring is always so short, he contemplated, her breasts only hidden by the length of her hair. Of this one, a blossom would soon be born.

As she shivered, he now was certain.

“Hmmm.”

Rhaenyra peered down at him. He had just taken a bath, right after, basking in hot water as much as in the steam of her own bath, using the same salts, imagining her between his legs.

He, too, seemed to have thought that the stars were quiet witnesses. They wouldn’t tell that the prince and the princess liked to stand naked on their balcony in the night.

“It is peaceful, isn’t it?” she asked, turning her face back towards the sea, to the clear sky, the starry night. “To stand here, and not fear any storm.”

The weather was kind to them, it was true - yet not as soft as her voice as she embraced a dangerless life, the simple gifts of the zephyrs, allowing their dragons to soar over their heads, a tranquil river of scales that resembled ancient stars. What a legacy, he mused. Peace.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Maybe the stars really heard us when we married,” he suggested. “The Seven are deaf to their worshipers’ prayers, they never bother to witness weddings.”

“One of my ladies once told me that the moon is a dragon egg; that it once danced too close to the sun, and dragons were born.”

Daemon knew this story, too. In some memories, he was certain to have been the one telling her that peculiar story.

He walked to her and wrapped his arms around her frame, his hands stroking her hips.

“Can you imagine, dārilaros? The stars being our allies, and soon, granting us a hatchling of our own, your womb matching the moon.”

Rhaenyra quivered, her eyes watering stars she believed to be dead.

A faint hope awakening in her heart, as she suddenly wanted to squirm, feeling the soft flutters of wings in her lower belly.

That couldn’t simply be the fruit of her imagination, she was sure.

Still, it was too soon, she reckoned.

“One day,” she replied.

Daemon’s hands climbed up to her stomach, kissing the shivers that ran on her neck.

For a moment, he had thought that maybe she might speak up, tell him about her doubts, the strange feelings that might startle her.

“One day,” he repeated, agreeing to her quiet plea.

To be sure, before celebrating.

And when they would, he would thank the night, the many nights that would have led them to that kind of bliss.

The night when he had held her first, kissed her first.

The night when her hand had faltered, her heart fluttered. She had been a dove, and by sunrise, she had been made his - he would cherish the memory forever.

Whatever night or secret dawn had guided her to the sea breeze in the dark, only to take a deep breath and deal with the life he knew was blooming within her, he would thank, he would bless.

Even the nights when he would pretend not to know, not to notice, he would also remember.

“Come back inside,” he whispered, but she raised her brows, teasing.

“No,” she replied. “I crave an open sky tonight, husband.”

The prince smirked, running after pillows and soft blankets, making a nest as they sank to the floor.

While she welcomed him inside of her, hot and quivering, she looked at the stars.

As he grunted her name, he was deaf to her silent grateful prayer, the fluttering in her belly wilder than before.

The next moon arrived, but already, Rhaenyra had stopped to pretend not to see the signs, not to embrace her strange appetite and the way she would cry, often, too often.

Her handmaids always kept bringing her new white satin sheets, and every morning, they would be clean, unstained.

A not so secret victory, and her husband would stay silent, and kiss her lips.

Her handmaid took the cloche off of her plate one morning, and the princess frowned, looking at the orange fish accompanied by spinach.

“What is this?” she asked, confused, for she had written menus herself for the cooks.

“Smoked salmon, princess,” the girl replied, wary of her reaction - whether it would be anger or cries. “At the prince’s request.”

Rhaenyra turned to him, still pretending to read by her side in bed. He looked so innocent when she scoured his face, as if he hadn’t been the one ordering the dish to be changed and brought up to her.

In truth, she wondered how many books he had really read of late.

If it wasn’t just an act, while keeping an eye on her.

“You did say that you craved it, didn’t you?”

The princess nodded - it had been such a long time ago, before she had started to suspect anything, she had forgotten about it; that simple request that had just crossed her mind and that she had immediately forgotten.

But her prince had heard, and her every wish was a command.

She knew not how difficult it had been, for he ought to have traded it with foreign fishermen, ones that sailed to rivers where such fishes would swim during the spring.

Rhaenyra pouted, and without reason other than joy, tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

Even if they still hadn’t exchanged a single word about the changes in her body, her mood, Daemon just chuckled, for he knew.

And she knew that he just knew.

“I don’t know why I am crying,” she lied, but he just hummed.

And kissed her tears, too.

The prince had always been aware of his niece’s sweet tooth, hence he ordered that the kitchens ought to be constantly full of cakes, pastries, candied lemons and oranges - just in case his princess would fancy it.

Sitting on his lap, the lemon cake was even sweeter when fed by his hand.

She didn’t feel heavier, he reckoned watching her cross her legs, her tongue licking her own lips - an enticing sight, and he tried not to think of it too much, for she would feel it, given her current seat.

Yet her curves had changed, her dresses were definitely getting tighter.

“Your lady in waiting told me that the seamstresses were on their way here,” he casually said, stroking her face.

Rhaenyra’s tone was light.

“Why?”

“Just in case, I assume.”

Even without reason, his well spoiled princess wouldn’t argue against more leathers, more dresses, more gowns - now she had a very valid motive to stand still for dressmakers to take her measurements and sew her new clothes.

His eyes were asking a question, the same endless question she hadn’t yet dared to answer, afraid that an envious god might hear, and take away her gift, her secret.

Her baby.

Daemon tilted his head, a strand of hair falling on his face. His hair was growing swiftly, too. Soon they might be almost as long as they used to be, long enough to be braided.

But never for war - never again.

“Are you scared?”

Rhaenyra knew he didn’t mean war, or duty, or family.

His hand pressed on the bump of her stomach was evidence that his concern lay elsewhere, with the not so secret life nestled in her womb.

“I must learn from my mistakes,” she explained, playing with her ruby rings. “And not celebrate what might still be taken away.”

“Hmmmn,” Daemon breathed in her ear, picking a piece of candied orange for himself. “What did I tell you last year, dārilaros? You cannot live your life in fear.”

At that, the princess smiled, for the memory seemed to come from a grave, from a life she had forsaken and forgotten.

“I remember that.”

“And I remember your answer,” he said, his other hand strolling on her knee. “Are you still longing for solitude, darling mine?”

Maybe it was time to overcome her own fears, along with her mother’s, Rhaenyra mused, while he looked at her with intensity, with adoration.

Not living in the moment hadn’t cost her mother her life, she had to remember. Being constantly wary, and careful, and so vigilant had not saved her, in the end.

It is superstition, only, she told herself. Say it aloud.

Say it loud, it is the future that you carry in you. Not the past.

Not demise.

She didn’t need a maester to confirm what she knew in her core, what her body screamed, what her heart whispered.

Here it is, your wish, your prayer.

A child of your lover’s blood, as you so desperately begged for.

A smile finally flashed her face, a shooting star in daylight.

His hand was the one she reached for, as she opened her mouth, defying time and gods to come and fight her on this ground.

“How could I, uncle, when I carry you with me in breath I take?”

Daemon widened his eyes, arching his back. Their tangled fingers found her belly, and they stood there for a while, staring at each other in wonder.

“You’re so precious, Rhaenyra,” he breathed, contemplating the treasure that she was. “So precious to me, ñuha jorrāelagon.”

Precious might have just become her favorite word - and he didn’t need to say more.

In his presence, the princess basked, the princess beamed; and when her uncle’s muscles slightly tensed, his jaw clenching, she could almost hear his thoughts before he even voiced them.

“I must tell Viserys,” he stated, a hint of tiredness in his voice. “Unless you would like to write.”

Rhaenyra briefly considered the possibility, for she had wished to be the one telling him, that one time she had thought herself with child. It had been pride, and also a slight.

Life won, father, she had meant. We won. You lost.

“No,” she answered. “You can tell him.”

The prince scoured her features, noticing the worry and the anger both, the way her cheeks blushed in the most delicious shade of red, and how she started to play with her fingers.

He arched his neck, waiting for her to confess her dread.

“What if it is not enough?” she eventually suggested. “Otto is dead, his son was forced to pledge himself to me - but they won’t be the only one reckoning that Aegon should inherit the throne instead of me. You said so yourself.”

And Alicent carries another child, another boy, probably.

It was a lifetime ago, or so it seemed - yet Daemon remembered the show they had watched, the disrespect, the way his niece had tried to conceal her annoyance and anger both, watching silly men mock her claim, simply because she was born a woman.

Daemon cradled her head, his heart light, a laughter hidden in his throat.

“Worry not,” he whispered. “Some oaths are not that easy to break.”

Rhaenyra lifted up her chin, scowling, but her husband didn’t say more, and only fed her more sweets, to soothe her mind.

In silence and bites of lemon cakes, they both could hear loving promises echoing from past lives.

Viserys watched the Red Wyrm fly, hearing his song from afar.

Once again, Caraxes flew alone - and this time, he did not try to hide behind the false hope that Rhaenyra might share her uncle’s saddle.

You really are gone, are you not, daughter? he mused. Perhaps I should have also let your mother free, a long time ago.

Daemon’s feet touched the ground, and his brother was the only one waiting in the courtyard - along Lyonel Strong, the prince noticed with a smirk.

Do you strive to do as you are told, Your Grace?

The king swallowed, for indeed the princess wasn’t anywhere to be seen - yet he knew not if his brother could see him watching above his shoulder, just in case; if he was happy to witness such distress, such disappointment.

Such sorrow, barely matching the one he had caused him.

“Brother,” Daemon said, taking off his leather gloves, his longer hair braided in his back, even if in a short one.

“Daemon,” Viserys replied, waiting a second before turning to his friend. “You must remember Lord Strong,” he added with a constricted smile. “My new Hand.”

The prince arched his brows, pretending to be surprised - but of course he was not, and the king's hard gaze went without saying.

Look what a good puppet I am, he would have snarled. Dancing on your strings, following your commands.

He liked to believe it was Rhaenyra’s will, her whims that he was fulfilling - but deep down, he knew.

“What a good choice,” Daemon happily commented, and Lyonel wasn’t a fool. He could also read in the prince’s smile that his name had been murmured in the king’s ear. “I always thought you were the most honorable man in my brother’s council.”

The Hand bowed his head.

“You flatter me, my prince.”

Daemon chuckled, and his laughter echoed in the courtyard.

“Shall we go inside, Your Grace?” he asked. “I might not have sworn an oath, but I do carry an important message.”

He made no effort to hide the content in his voice, nor the way his violet eyes shone. For a second, Viserys was scared - but his brother gloated.

Dear me, he thought. What can it be?

“Follow me,” he said.

Lyonel wondered if he ought to go with them, but Viserys waved his hand, and just like that, he went the other way. Otto Hightower would have argued to be present, he knew. He wouldn’t have permitted the meeting to happen without him, if he could prevent it - always so eager to give ill advice, to prompt his opinion without being asked.

He would be a different kind of Hand, Lyonel decided. It was a difficult role, and unforgiving position - and the king had chosen a girl to inherit his throne. When her time to ascend would come, it wouldn’t be bloodless.

We might make good use of such a warrior, as her husband and consort.

Viserys closed the door to his study behind him.

“I see that Rhaenyra didn’t come with you.”

“Indeed.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Viserys longed to ask about her. His brother was the only one able to feed him details about her life, her thoughts.

The chamberlain sometimes wrote, but he could only share information about her studies.

Gerardys would only talk about her health, the Kingsguard would only mention that she was well cared for. Well cared for? Viserys had mused, the first time he had heard of it. What is that supposed to mean? But then, he had quickly understood that it wouldn’t be in his interest to ask for more detail in that field.

The prince spoke first.

“I was sorry not to attend good Otto’s funeral,” he said, and his brother rolled his eyes. “I understand it was a grim affair.”

“There is no need to pretend, Daemon,” Viserys replied. “Is that why you came?”

“I would have flown sooner if it was.”

Viserys waited, but he clearly liked to play the taciturn nature. Once again, he didn’t dare touch the pitcher of wine.

Years ago, he would have already drained a cup.

Perhaps it was also the king’s punishment, to never have a conversation with his brother again, over a goblet of burgundy.

“How is your wife?” he asked, to Viserys’ utter surprise. “Mine tells me she believes to carry another boy.”

“She is fine,” the king warily replied, wondering why the sudden interest in her condition when Daemon had rarely even mentioned her name at all - or the ones of his other children. None of them had ever interested him like Rhaenyra had. “The maesters say the babe is growing quickly.”

“Hmmm.”

Another silence filled the room while Daemon paced, and it was Viserys who had to drain a goblet of wine to soothe his nerves.

“Will you tell me about Rhaenyra?”

The prince had been expecting the question.

“My wife is thriving,” he replied with a smile. “As well in her studies as in her other affairs.”

Viserys didn’t dare to ask about her other affairs, since some of his brother’s clever letters still haunted his dreams, scaring him for life.

“She worries about the future, however,” he added. “Good Otto is dead, gone, buried - but she is wise enough to know he wouldn’t have been the only one reluctant to welcome her as queen, when the time comes.”

The king frowned.

“His whole house swore to me, and to her, when he died,” he reminded him. “The queen herself demanded it - whatever quarrel they might have wished to spark, their cause is a headless snake.”

“Dead snakes still bite, Viserys,” Daemon stated. “Other houses might find common cause with them, should you fail to please them - should they feel spoiled during your reign.”

He didn’t need to mention names, the king was able to guess.

He also could guess that this statement wouldn’t come without requests.

“What would you have me do?”

Daemon sighed, knowing that his solution was drastic.

“Promise Aegon to the Kingsguard.”

Immediately, the king widened his eyes, wondering if he had heard correctly.

“I beg your pardon?”

The prince didn’t flinch.

“Declare it today,” he continued. “Swear that when Aegon becomes a knight, he shall join the White Cloaks, and swear his life to you, and to your heir,” he said. “He will take no wife, father no children, hold no lands…”

What greater honor for a man but to be ready to die for their queen?

“You are mad,” Viserys breathed, shaking his head. “The council will never tolerate such a folly -”

“Swear him to the Kingsguard,” Daemon repeated, firmer, “and your other son to the Night Watch, should your wife bring forth another boy, as the maesters foretell,” he insisted. “Stand tall, Viserys. Make it clear to the world that no boy shall ever sit the throne after you. Make it clear so that no viper can pretend that you changed your mind once you lay alone on your deathbed.”

To have two sons forbidden to ever wed, to ever become fathers when they committed no crime but to be born males was lunacy, it was insane.

“Think of it as a way to keep them safe, too,” Daemon added. “Many would have them slaughtered for their princess’ sake, too. Isn’t it mercy, in the end? Tell your queen that, if she argues against it.”

The boy the king had dreamed about for decades - forced to remain pure, to wear a white cloak that he might never stain.

“The Night Watch is a merciless land,” he stated. “Only beggars and criminals are sent there - and you would have a son of mine live in exile, to the Wall?”

Daemon nodded.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “The Lord Commander of the Night Watch constantly deplores the lack of good men. Make the boy his pupil so that he might replace him. Once Rhaenyra ascends, and her position is secured, she might release them from their oaths, if she wishes. If it is safe.”

Have them swear their lives to their sister, to their queen. Fill their heads with nothing but duty and loyalty.

“This is insane,” Viserys grumbled, pointing his finger at him. “Even you must realize how lunatic this is.”

“Do it,” Daemon said, unyielding. “Tie your boys to oaths that no one in the realm would dare to break, worse than a coup, almost as cursed as kinslaying. Do it, and only your second daughter shall have a claim to the throne - another girl.”

Even them shall know no one would rally behind her banners - they would find no real ground to attack, if they meant to replace a girl by another one.

“Is this Rhaenyra’s wish?” Viserys wanted to know, fury in his eyes. “Does she realize how our line might go extinct, should I sacrifice two of my children to this plan?”

“It is my wife’s desire that her position is secured and the vipers uprooted,” he confirmed, wetting his lips. “And you do not have to worry about Rhaenyra’s line.”

In his wrath, Viserys almost missed the last part of his brother’s sentence - until it struck him.

Daemon could read that it finally reached him. Surprised, confused; happiness, even, was written all over his face.

“Is she with child?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft, sounding like a frail little bird afraid to fly. His brother nodded - and it suddenly made sense. His visit - his gloating. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” Daemon said, the hint of a content smile on his lips. “She is showing.”

Viserys gasped, falling in a chair in an attempt not to collapse.

My child, he mused. My dear, dearest child.

“Is Dragonstone suited for this?” he urgently asked, agitated. “Gerardys hasn’t dealt with childbirth in decades…”

“He will do just fine,” Daemon stated. “And he won't be alone. We will summon midwives. Rhaenyra prefers it.”

The king nodded, his thoughts roaming in his head. He thought about Aemma, about Alicent, about his own mother - about the little girl he had neglected for the most part of her life.

He knew she should be praying for a boy, for a fine prince to become his mother’s heir, one day - but recklessly, he also prayed for a girl, a small princess that would resemble his daughter.

Not that he would see her grow up, far away on an island.

“Shouldn’t she come back to court?” he dared to suggest, his guts clenching. Used to everyone bidding his wishes, he had never learned one could miss someone so much, so painfully that it prevented him from sleeping, from dreaming of anything else but to see her again. “My first grandchild, Daemon…”

Another punishment, to be sure.

“When did you become a firm worshiper of the Seven, brother?” Daemon asked. “Our father wasn’t, our mother did not worship anyone but him. Does your faith come from your first wife? The Arryns are known to be pious.”

Viserys swallowed the lump in his throat, instinctively reaching for Aemma’s ring around his finger.

“Why do you ask?”

“I merely wonder,” the prince replied, shrugging. “Are you absolutely certain that the Father is watching over you, that the Mother is the one that blessed your new queen with two boys - who blessed my wife with a child - or is it just a habit?”

The king didn’t know - he hadn’t really ever taken the time to think about it.

He could only wonder if his brother took great pleasure in always referring to the princess as being his.

“State your point, Daemon.”

Daemon coyly smiled.

“It doesn’t matter, I suppose,” he said. “One day, soon or late, you will have the answer.”

Viserys’ patience was thinning.

“And?”

Daemon reached for his brother’s own goblet of red wine.

“Think of your daughter’s forgiveness the same way,” he explained, and his brother blinked. “Whether the sky is empty, or it is not. Rhaenyra might find the grace to forgive you, one day - or she might not. Whatever the outcome, in the meantime, you are alone, Viserys.”

The shock of such an answer washed over the king like an angry wave, had not been sitting he would have fallen.

Like the world cracking open under his feet.

What about you? he wanted to scream. You were always with me.

But Daemon’s gaze left no room for a possible argument. The trust, the friendship - Viserys had let it die, he had been the one to kill it.

“I will write to you when the child is born,” Daemon coldly stated.

“You won’t be flying here?”

“No,” he replied, looking outside. “My place is with her.”

Not with you.

Viserys’ heart shattered like glass.

That storm, he had guided.

It had been born at his command.

“I had nothing before Rhaenyra,” the prince contemplated, aching to take the sky, to cross the sea, to breach the gates of Dragonstone and bury himself in her embrace.

“Of course,” Viserys grunted, for it was true. He only used to be a second son, a disinherited prince, a landless man.

Daemon insisted.

“Nothing, Viserys.”

In that second reply, while his brother had said nothing more, in his tone, this time he heard it.

The visceral sound of a mated beast, a sailor enamored with the wind.

Flowers bloomed in the king’s lungs, but they instantly died, suffocating him.

Here I always thought you were incapable of love, he mused. Now that you are, I shall never see it.

He had been like the Doom, a disaster that had divided their house - he would stay in the capital, and his daughter would remain across the sea.

All he would strive to do for the decade to come would be to build a raft, and sail to her, build a bridge to her.

And to his brother, if he could - but Daemon and Rhaenyra were dragonriders. They would always be too high for him to reach, even if to tackle them to the ground, to chain them both to his throne.

“I never wanted this,” the king swore, close to tears. “I only dreamed of our house standing as one.”

It was my dream, he reckoned. I wanted it more than the Conqueror.

The faded memory of a boy being acclaimed as he was being crowned was gone from his head - he only longed to catch glimpses of his daughter’s life, even if distant, even if there only were echoes.

Even if it is only a breath of a happiness you will keep to yourself.

Daemon drained his cup, eager to leave.

“You made your choices.”

He really was fearless now, Viserys realized. No longer under the yoke of his brother’s wrath.

How much will you have changed, the next time that I see you?

Will it be years?

Decades?

“The child,” he tried to say, fighting his sobs. “Will I see him?”

Shall I be haunted, not knowing what it will look like?

The sole idea of not watching his daughter beaming in joy hurt his soul. She had fought against it so much, for so long. It had all changed, for she wanted it now.

She wanted it as much as Viserys wanted to be a grandsire.

Daemon put his gloves back on.

“One day.”

The king would have to live with that faint promise, that prospect of a boy or a girl one day flying to him - of his daughter deciding to introduce her baby to her court, to her siblings. To the queen, hopefully.

He grabbed his arm.

“Tell her that I will do as you wish,” he begged, trembling. “Tell her that - tell her…”

A king rarely apologized, he lacked the words.

Daemon watched his brother nearly fall to his knees, tiny tears pricking his reddened eyes.

Maybe he appeared to be the Stranger in his eyes, or some dangerous god taking his daughter away for him never to set eyes on her again - but if such was the case, that god, Viserys had been the one to summon him.

He had been the one to set his house on fire, and he now had to live in the smoke, in the ashes.

“I will,” his brother calmly stated, proving himself to be more gracious, more generous than Viserys would have ever bet - would have ever been, in his stead. “If only for her sake, I will.”

To have a father so weak he lost his voice in an attempt to mend his mistake, he mused. What a misery.

“But her silence, I won’t try to break.”

I won’t push her back in your arms, Viserys heard. Should her heart remain of ice, I won’t summon summer to let it melt.

Daemon moved away, and the king had no choice but to release his grasp on his brother’s clothes. The prince’s face was blank, showing nothing but pity - in his whole life, he had never fathomed saying goodbye to him in this way, for a very long time, not knowing when he would allow him to see his family again.

He might have been used to being sent away - he wasn’t quite yet used to being the one choosing to leave.

There is freedom in being the one walking away.

Wordlessly, he opened the door. Only when it creaked open did Viserys seem to understand that if it wasn’t farewell, it was close.

Never would he discuss with his brother in this way. Daemon was a husband, soon he would be a father - one day, he would be a king.

And Viserys wouldn’t witness the changes, he wouldn’t find happiness in his smiles.

He had lost his little girl, broken her heart as well as her trust - and as his brother turned his back to him, the little boy that had been his little brother seemed to fade away, too.

What would our mother say?

“Brother,” the king cried, desperate, like a man begging a god, a man on a cliff, a dead man in front of a grave.

Daemon didn’t turn back, and Viserys would always wonder if he cried, too.

“Your Grace.”

The king shrieked as he left, Caraxes’ roars soon drowning his own sobs in his song.

When he found the strength to stand up to look at the sky, and catch a last glimpse of the dragon, he was long gone.

And the sky was empty.

Rhaenyra was laying in their bed when he returned, his hair disheveled and his cheeks blushed, the cold air of the wind still on his skin.

She smiled, putting the book she was reading away.

“How did it go?”

He was almost tempted to lean against the bedframe and watch her glow, the small bump of her stomach visible under her white dress. She looked like a bride - like a priestess.

“All is settled, my love.”

She extended her hand to him, and without taking off his riding leathers, he kissed her knuckles and came to nestle his head in the crook of her neck.

His palm on her womb, his nose brushing against hers; her fingers stroking his hair, her soft voice humming peacefully.

Home was made of this, he reckoned when he fell asleep by her side.

On a windy evening, her husband returned from a day in the mountains of Dragonstone, covered in both dust and dirt, his hair sticking to the sweat in his back.

His steps were loud as he walked to their chamber, stopping by the bath room where he could see hot steam, and smell his wife’s favorite bath salts.

Yet the tub was empty when he opened the door, and his pregnant princess was nowhere to be seen.

“Rhaenyra?”

Like a shadow, she appeared out of nowhere behind him.

“Look at you,” she commented. “One could think you just fought a beast in the mud.”

Daemon smirked, enjoying the sight of her in her nightdress, the way the fabric caressed her skin, and the bump of her womb.

As he bent his head to steal a kiss she wouldn’t deny him even in such a state, he noticed that her hair was wet, her skin fresh.

“Did you already bathe?” he asked, seemingly hurt by the thought. “Without me?”

“You weren’t here all day,” she explained. “Was I supposed to know that you would return before nightfall?”

The prince tutted, displeased, his clothes heavy, his muscles sore.

“It is a rule, princess,” he said. “The night must always be ours.”

“Hmmm.”

Rhaenyra walked around the tub, and he watched her braid follow her movements.

From this angle, he really could observe her curves, the child that took his time growing, safe and sound. He hadn’t yet written to his brother - in truth, he didn’t mean to.

This time, even she hadn’t picked her quill to write to him. Whether she was afraid of losing the babe, or feared his reply, he didn’t ask.

“Weren’t you tempted to take a swim in a river?”

Daemon rolled his eyes, taking off his boots, his bare feet finding the cold floor.

“I was dreaming of sharing hot steam with you.”

“You shouldn’t have left me, then.”

He chuckled, for his note had not said much but I will be back soon, love of mine. Do not worry for me, be careful not to slip.

The reason for his trip to the mountains, he hadn’t said.

“What did you do while I was away?”

Her hand trailed the rim of the tub, breathing in the steam as he took off the rest of his clothes. Perhaps she might command the laundresses to burn them, for they were so torn apart they looked beyond repair.

“I have a nursery to prepare,” she replied. “There hasn’t been a baby in this castle for decades.”

The keep might be full of ghosts, full of guardians ready to look after ours.

Finally he was bare in front of her, the last piece of clothing pooling at his feet. Rhaenyra watched, her hand testing the water, praying for it to stay warm a while longer.

“You’re beautiful, princess,” he breathed, not getting tired of the idea of her nesting, looking at tapestries and flowers, picking colors for their child’s bedroom, deciding which crib ought to be brought up to their own chamber for the first moons of his life.

It will be a boy, Rhaenyra often said. The one you dreamed about.

The son only I could ever give you.

Fated, destined.

She was a pretty oracle, he was ready to believe in her omens.

“And you need a bath,” she replied, wrinkling her nose. “Hop in, uncle.”

“I am not a soldier returning from war,” he commented, his hand stroking her womb. “I need not a handmaid to help me bathe.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, frowning.

But it is what I do best.

“You need not to be a soldier to deserve to be taken care of,” she stated, her hand in his dirty hair. “There is a lifetime of warm baths ahead of you, my love.”

The prince didn’t argue, and her hands running on his skin were the kindest of winds.

A mattress had been permanently installed on the balcony, for the prince and the princess enjoyed to look at the stars.

The spring had died to let summer be born, and the breeze was often kind enough to allow them to fall asleep in the open air, and to wake up with the sun.

Daemon loved to look at the moon - now, his wife’s womb seemed to be as round as it was.

“Do you know what day it is, dārilaros?” he asked, threading her hair, her head resting in the pit of his shoulder. “It has been a year.”

A year since he had taken her to that brothel, and a year since they had taken a vow in front of seven gods they didn’t believe in.

A boy had been born since - a fine prince that the queen had named Aemond. Soon enough, he would have a cousin.

For that promised prince, they hadn’t yet chosen a name.

Rhaenyra knew, softly humming.

Often she sang, whenever she thought herself alone. There were only a handful of lullabies that she remembered from her childhood, but she liked to talk to her baby, certain that it could recognize her voice.

“Shouldn’t we have celebrated it with a feast?”

Her husband smiled.

“Later this week,” he suggested. “After all, the people here should celebrate the day of our real wedding.”

The princess agreed, her eyes falling from the stars to her belly.

“It won’t be long now,” she casually stated. “Gerardys says that he is small,” she added. “I can’t help but think that it might make the birth easier.”

Unless…

No, she wouldn’t allow herself to fathom the worst.

“Should we talk about a name?”

“I always imagined myself having a Visenya,” she confessed - but it was no secret. He already knew. “My own little warrior.”

Daemon wouldn’t have any objection. After all, he owned the dragon queen’s sword.

“You so often claim that this babe is a boy, my love. Do you suddenly doubt it?”

“No,” she instantly replied, offended at the thought that he might think she would ever be wrong. “This one is a boy. The son you always wanted.”

The Prince That Was Promised, she silently mused - and one day, they would talk about it, if Daemon didn’t already know.

Yet that night was made for joy, not for foreign and distant prophecies.

“What should he be called then, our little prince?”

Rhaenyra looked at the night trying to find the answer in the sky. Sailors used it as a map, after all, it could lead them on the right path.

If their ancestors had any suggestion, they kept it to themselves, for she wasn’t inspired.

Aegon, Baelon, Viserys - perhaps she was tired of using someone’s name, and wanted her first child to have a name of his own, a mind of his own.

Rhaenyra was to be the First of Her Name, her son should have the same privilege.

“I wish to honor everyone who mattered to you,” she said, her voice low. “Your mother, your father. Your little brother, if you’d like. You.”

Daemon rarely thought of the brother that had followed their mother in her grave, shortly after her death - and in truth, he hadn’t ever fathomed to have a boy named after him.

He didn’t ask about her own father, nor her mother.

Too many hard feelings.

“That means a small garrison of babes.”

Once I start to give you one, I will want to give you twenty.

“I wish I knew when it happened,” she wondered aloud, caressing her belly. “What night was finally the right one.”

“A bit of each of them,” he suggested. “Every night that led us here, ever since a dagger fell from your little hand, leaving you alone at my mercy, powerless…”

She wouldn’t have thought, a year before, that she would one day think of that night being more than a curse, more than a nightmare.

It was the beginning of us, she now mused. We countered fate that night.

The stars seemed to whisper in her ear.

“Nyx,” she prompted.

“Hmmm?”

“Nyx,” she repeated. “We should call him Nyx. Isn’t that the god of the night, across the Narrow Sea?”

Everytime that my father would hear it, he would know. He would remember the evening he tried to force to kill you.

Only to lost the people who had mattered the most.

Her husband frowned, for it certainly wasn’t a name that had crossed his mind, ever.

“I doubt that the council would deem it traditional enough.”

Rhaenyra shrugged.

“Fuck the council.”

At that, he chuckled, for curses flew as well on her tongue as High Valyrian.

She jerked her head up, seeking his gaze. The suggestion was odd, she was aware - on the other hand, she couldn’t quite name a single thing that her husband had ever denied her.

“Will you refuse my request on the anniversary of our wedding day, uncle?”

“How could I?” he replied, sighing. “You will be the one to birth him into this world. Your heart knows his name. I can only agree.”

The princess happily breathed, content. She liked the name, almost as much as she liked the idea of the lords and ladies’ faces once they would hear it - so foreign, so unlike any other Targaryen name.

She wondered if her father would turn and turn in his bed, reckoning that it was a slight, much more than if she had chosen to call her own first boy Aegon, after the Conqueror.

The son who would be king after her.

“That’s a beautiful gift, husband.”

Summer was kind enough to let them fall asleep, rocked by the sea breeze.

The halo of the stars as their crown, a good omen for the many years to come.

A scream tore the walls of Dragonstone apart, a few days before the ninth moon turned.

“Breathe, princess,” Maester Gerardys advised. “Now push.”

Rhaenyra did as she was told, the ghosts of the island helping her in her trial. She should have given birth in the waves, she reckoned. The sea would have helped her, it would have followed the current of her hips.

As she crushed her husband’s hand, who hadn’t left her bedside in hours, Daemon didn’t complain.

He had seen soldiers fought - none as bravely as she was.

Soon, the baby cried - and the maester was happy to announce that it was a boy.

The princess cried, hot and tired, collapsing in her uncle’s arms.

“Healthy?” she breathed, and the maester broadly smiled.

“Kicking like a goat, princess.”

Rhaenyra laughed as the baby was brought to her arms - so small, so fragile.

All hers.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” she wanted the whole world to agree. Her cousins, her siblings - they really hadn’t been as adorable as that small babe in her arms, already looking like her husband, or so she liked to believe.

“The finest prince that ever lived, my love.”

The maester could only agree on the statement.

“He is so much like you,” Daemon whispered. “Perfection.”

She kept him near her chest, taking heavy, shallow breaths. It had torn her body in two, and she bled a bit too much, but it had been worth it, she reckoned.

Lifting up her chin, she met her husband’s gaze, full of love and wonder.

“We did it, uncle,” she whispered, smiling above her son’s face. “Life has won.”

Though the babe took his first breath right before dawn, he indeed was given the name of the god of night - as his mother had desired.

“I love you,” her husband murmured in her ear, for her only to hear. “Only the stars and the heavens know how much.”

Only the moon and the sun might have an idea of the ache it had pain, to be ever apart from her.

It really made sense, Rhaenyra later reckoned, on the next morning as she was awakened by daylight, and a dozen little suns in her room.

The reflection of every silver lining that slid in her bedchamber through the window, caught by a mobile of diamonds, hanging over their son’s cradle, at the end of their bed.

She touched them when she could stand, a few days afterwards, her thighs aching and her womb still recovering from the birth. They were light, she mused, and when a yellow egg was put in the baby’s crib, as tradition demanded, she wasn’t surprised.

“Is that what you were doing, all those moons ago, when you returned to me disheveled and covered in dirt?” she asked, and Daemon smiled.

“Among other things,” he replied, his hands running on her neckline. “You wanted diamonds in exchange for forgiveness, dārilaros. They weren’t that easy to find.”

The smith had outdone himself. From forging weapons, working with steel and iron, he had shaped the diamonds into a baby’s toy, a gift - sewed strands of gold to tie the gems to the cradle.

Just the way she had dreamed it.

Daemon kissed her forehead, his lips another kind of celestial gift.

“Are you happy now, dearest?”

A single tear escaped her lilac eye, and it was a gem Daemon wouldn’t tolerate, no matter how pretty she was when she cried.

Who could wish for more?

She nodded, tangling her fingers with his.

Her baby bore the ancient name of the night - but as she watched the diamonds multiply the silver linings watching over him, she also thanked daylight, and the many days that had led them here.

To stand by the side of their first born’s cradle, in peace.

Gone were the memories of loss, of defeat.

His mouth pressed on her neck, he leant to whisper in her ear.

“Come with me,” he said. “Enjoy the sea breeze.”

It was nice to walk a bit after days spent in bed, nursing, resting.

The warm sand beneath her feet made her smile, and when the sea came to lick at their ankles, she simply liked to look at the sun rising, her husband’s arms wrapped around her waist.

Not a single storm on the horizon.

The king of the Seven Kingdoms didn’t sleep well at night.

Neither poppy or nightshade helped him escape the nightmares he often had, of a haunted red room, stained furs, scarlet sheets.

No, no! he would scream, when forced to walk there, and witness so many deaths that he couldn’t quite stomach.

Whenever he would open his eyes, whether in the middle of the night or late in the morning, he would be confused, sometimes surprised that he was still alive, for his bad dreams truly resembled some circles of the seven hells.

“Rhaenyra,” he often breathed, but his daughter never replied.

Not to his letters, not to his startled pleas after his awakenings, not to his prayers whispered in the dark.

Alicent saw, but did little to help. She did not summon more maesters to court, she did not send a note to the physician of Dragonstone for his opinion, even if he was rumored to be greatly efficient.

At last, her husband seemed to have lost all interest in intercourse - and she was grateful for that, and to the princess, if she was the cause of his insomnia.

Yet, for once, after months of restless nights, Viserys slept, soothed by the sound of distant waves, on the balcony of a castle he did not recognize.

He didn’t remember the song of the seagulls of Dragonstone, but Syrax and Caraxes soaring together above his head, he did recall.

“Rhaenyra?” he called, but no princess, no consort, no servant replied. By his feet lay a mattress, and a sea of pillows. He frowned, startled by a new sound, an even foreign one.

A baby, softly cooing in a cradle, surrounded by wildflowers of light, split everywhere in the room.

“Brother?” he tried to call, but Daemon didn’t answer, either.

Is that your son? he reckoned, taking a step on the balcony. The one I shall meet only when he is grown?

Yet before he could move past the threshold, he was suddenly struck, forbidden to pass the gate, as if the suncatcher forbid ghouls, wraiths, spirits to approach the baby.

Viserys tried to fight, to force his feet to advance, but it was no use.

The child’s cradle remained out of reach, out of sight.

“Can someone hear me?”

No one could. In this strange dreamland he had landed in, no one cared.

He was tempted to scream, to yell - but another music echoed in his ears, and he immediately turned, startled, confused.

Daylight was odd, as he stepped forward on the balcony - like looking at the sky underwater, the sun setting in a strange way, a shade he had yet never observed.

The king didn’t look for a long time to the horizon, for his eyes fell on a happy pair, a couple walking on the sand, running to the sea, a silver haired princess wearing a dark blue dress and her uncle still bearing a noticeable, famous sword at his hip.

Dancing in the waves.

Laughing in the sunset light like children, like lovers.

The summer wind was kind, even in his head, he could have sworn to feel the faint kisses of seadrops flying on his face as he watched them from afar.

Happy.

Free.

A white raven flew to the capital the same morning that the king woke up with tiny tears in his eyes, and when the maester announced the birth of a little prince, Viserys wasn’t surprised.

While he didn’t share that strange dream that he had just witnessed, he knew.

His prayer had been granted - he had been shown a glimpse of Daemon and Rhaenyra’s happiness, forever out of reach.

A blessing and an anguish, that he would always remember.