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Laenor knew he was marrying into a strange family — he had heard the rumours about what prompted the King to offer him his daughter, after all.
Laenor knew his cousin Rhaenyra was a sweet girl, but gossip and tales told in taverns made her sound mad, even though he did not believe all of them.
He was still wary of her, though.
However, he also thought the King to be out of his mind. Even if the rumours about the Princess coupling with her uncle were true, it was not the reason to chop the man’s head off, especially not in the presence of the aforementioned Princess, who was pleading and begging and kneeling.
But Laenor guessed being King changed some things in his cousin’s brain. He could not explain it otherwise.
Some said the Princess had her lover’s head embalmed and kept it on her bedside table, sometimes even sleeping with it, holding it like she would hold a child. He hoped this particular rumour was not true — Laenor had known Daemon, and he was a good man, but seeing Daemon’s face distorted by death would probably be too much for him.
During his wedding, Laenor got all the proof he needed — his bride was indeed mad, although maybe not to the extent the gossip implied. She touched no wine and no food, spoke no words but her dry marriage vows, and when she kissed him on the cheek, Laenor felt like he was kissed by Stranger himself. The bride wore white — it was not to put an accent on her virtue that had been allegedly tarnished, as some Andals might have thought. No, Laenor knew that in Valyrian culture, white was the colour of mourning, and the accessories she chose for the feast were strings of rubies draped around her frame like drops of blood.
When the time came to consummate their marriage, Laenor dragged his feet to the chamber where his new wife waited for him. He hesitated in front of the door, for women’s private parts were of little interest to him, and he was not sure he would be able to perform, but at least he was relieved not to see an embalmed head anywhere close to her bed when he entered.
He would not be surprised if she took small mercy on him and just hid for the night.
As Laenor tried to unlace his clothes, his drunk fingers not very obedient, the Princess spoke:
“Do not bother. I am with child already.”
Laenor frowned. Of course, she was. Well, the rumours were true, after all.
He would lie if he said he was not relieved to hear that, for it meant he could continue with his life and not even pretend to care about the marital bed.
***
The Princess delivered a healthy son — the court was worried she would not, for the girl barely spoke these days. Rumours flew, claiming that the mother’s insanity and melancholy would surely transfer to the babe, but the boy was lusty and perfectly healthy, screaming and kicking, calmed only at his mother’s breast — the first time he was put into her arms, the Princess smiled cryptically, but it was a smile nonetheless — a rare sight these days.
The whole family gathered in the rooms occupied by the Princess and her babe. The King appeared happy, remarking the similarities between the child and Ser Laenor, something that made the Queen roll her eyes, for the babe was unmistakably Valyrian but had nothing of his supposed father in him. Still, everyone gave polite compliments.
“And what is his name?” Princess Rhaenys asked, playing with the boy’s small fingers.
“I wanted to call him Jof —” Ser Laenor began, only to be interrupted by his wife.
“Daemon,” the Princess said sternly, more strength in her voice than they had all heard in moons. “His name is Daemon.”
The King clenched his jaw and fists, the name of a traitor making the delight of having a grandson vanish. The Queen sighed in poorly concealed disgust. Princess Rhaenys froze, moving away from the babe like it had greyscale.
Only Lord Corlys was glad for his good-daughter’s idea, for it was infinitely better than honouring his son’s dead paramour. The wise Sea Snake clasped his hands and smiled.
“Daemon Velaryon. What a fine name!”
The boy would inherit the throne as Daemon Targaryen, but Corlys preferred not to think about it just yet. After all, children died all the time, and who knew — his son might sire other sons on the Princess who would get better names.
***
“Should we put an egg into his cradle?” Her father asked when he was having dinner in her rooms, looking at the boy she kept on her lap.
Rhaenyra shook her head, pushing the food all over her plate, wanting nothing more than to see her father finally leave.
The King frowned — his daughter was always fond of dragons, and since the babe — the King still refused to refer to him by his name — was the future of House Targaryen, it was surprising Rhaenyra did not want an egg for him.
“Do you not want him to have a dragon?”
His daughter raised her eyes, looking at him for the first time in almost a year.
“He already has a dragon, Your Grace.”
***
The Princess took her leave to Dragonstone as soon as the maesters allowed her to travel. She took her son but did not insist on her husband joining her, so Ser Laenor stayed in the capital, enjoying the company of squires, before returning to Driftmark.
Rhaenyra’s presence was not missed, for she was more of a ghost than a person since the day her uncle’s head rolled. She rarely talked to anyone, and it seemed that only her son had the privilege of seeing her smiles — to him, the Princess was always kind and beaming. The boy appeared to only love his mother, too, always calm in her arms but red-faced and crying whenever someone else tried to hold him.
This was why the departure of the Princess and her heir was seen as a good omen. The court breathed out in relief when the golden dragon took to the skies — and even more so when the Blood Wyrm followed them, for the beast had been ferocious since the death of his rider.
Rhaenyra did not take just her son, though. A certain sword was missing from the armoury — the King had locked Dark Sister in a chest with three locks, yet every single one was broken, and the ancient sword was missing, no doubt hidden among the Princess’ belongings.
The King had no strength to scold his daughter for it — she did not even talk to him these days. His wife told him that he should not be surprised — he had killed her lover in front of her, and even if the antics of the Princess disgusted Alicent Hightower, her husband’s astonishment at why his daughter would not speak to him exasperated her more.
Everyone settled into a comfortable routine soon — the Princess was ruling the castle that was hers by right, Ser Laenor was drinking and exploring the pleasure houses of King’s Landing, and the King lived in oblivion like he always did.
***
Prince Daemon barely knew his father. It was a man who came and went, always reeking of wine and sea salt. Daemon did not like the smell of his father’s presence, and ever since he was but a small babe, he wrinkled his nose whenever his sire was close or tried to hug him.
His mother, on the other hand… His mother was everything to him.
They were inseparable — she took him flying, she let him share the room with her instead of sleeping in the nursery like all children had to, she taught him how to speak and how to walk. Everything he knew about life came from his mother.
Daemon knew his mother was a sad woman — everyone around him said so — but he never saw anything melancholic in her eyes when they were spending time together. No, for him, her eyes were always burning with amethyst fire, and she never denied him anything.
He was a spoiled little Prince, many said, but his mother glared at anyone who dared to begrudge her son anything. Sometimes, he thought she was not treating him as a child but as her equal, and it made him swell with pride, for his mother was a true Targaryen Princess, beautiful, fierce and clever.
The fact that she never called him “son” also influenced his perception, perhaps.
She was the one to introduce him to dragons — first, she took him to the skies on her she-dragon, and when he was older, she brought him to Dragonmount, showing him the red dragon who seemed to freeze in his presence.
“He is yours,” his mother declared, squeezing his shoulder.
She was proved right when he mounted Caraxes at the age of seven, tying his mother’s record as the youngest dragon rider of their family. She smiled and kissed his cheek when he was back, trembling in the thrill of flying.
He was the third rider of Caraxes — after Prince Aemon and Prince Daemon.
He long wondered whether the previous rider of his dragon was his namesake. His mother’s uncle was not spoken of often, but whenever someone raised the topic of the dead Prince, his mother seemed to follow it hungrily, like flowers followed the sun.
Rogue Prince, he was called. Killed by the King himself, although no one told him of the offence his grand-uncle had committed.
When he was eleven, his mother gave him a sword — it was Valyrian steel and still too heavy for him to wield, but she put it in his hand firmly, looking attentively at him. It was Dark Sister — one of the most important swords in the history of the whole world.
“She is yours,” his mother said, in the same voice as when she showed him Caraxes for the first time. Daemon did not know what made her so sure he was worthy of his grand-uncle’s sword, but it made him work even harder in the training yard, fighting through exhaustion to excellence.
Daemon lived with his mother and was content with his life — the skies were blue, and the air smelled of freedom. Storms sometimes came, but they went away as inevitably as the day turned into night, and even though he often wondered about his family outside these walls, they all mattered less than his mother.
***
He was thirteen when he heard it for the first time.
Daemon was no longer a boy who could sleep in his mother’s bedchamber — even though deep inside, he still longed for it. Nevertheless, he was a grown lad now, and he wanted to seem even more mature than he was, so he finally moved out of her rooms to his own.
One night, he could not sleep. Nightmares were plaguing his slumber, and while he tried to convince himself that they were just empty dreams, Daemon wished to be comforted by his mother. She always knew how to reassure him, what to say. Her embrace was warm, and she was his safety.
After some consideration, he decided that he would start to be brave sometime soon, but not today. Daemon got out of his bed and took a candle to find his way to his mother’s chambers.
He knew there would be no one but his mother — his father rarely came, and when he did, he slept in another part of the castle. No, his mother would certainly be alone.
Yet there were guards patrolling the corridors, and Daemon was embarrassed they would notice him going to his mother’s rooms — so he hid in a dark alcove as they were passing by.
“The lad looks just like him,” one of the guards said. “No wonder the whore named the bastard after her uncle.”
“Aye, he did fuck her good, did he not? One night — and she was bred.”
They both laughed, disappearing behind the walls as they moved past him, but Daemon’s heart clenched.
Were they talking about his mother? Calling her a whore? Daemon did not know what they meant exactly, but he was old enough to know about women selling their bodies to men, and his mother was certainly not one of them.
He wanted to chase them and cut their tongues for talking like this about his mother — whore, bred… Was she not their Princess? They had to pay for their words — and he was his mother’s protector, so it was his duty to prevent any offence to her.
Yet he was paralysed by the subject of their discussion. They did not just call her a whore — they called him a bastard.
Daemon’s lips quivered. He could not be a bastard — he had a father, and it was certainly not his dead grand-uncle.
But as he stared at his reflection in the basin of water, which someone had left in the hallway, illuminated by a single candle, he thought about his father again — his skin had deeper colour, and his hair was not as smooth as his. His father had purple eyes, his mother had amethyst, and Daemon had lilac — more subtle than the hues of his parents, but was it really so significant?
His father never yearned to spend time with him beyond necessary — sometimes, when he was sober enough, he would entertain him with a story or let them practice in the training yard together, but Daemon knew there was no great love for him in his father’s heart. He did not mind it — his mother was everything his father was not, and he was happy.
However, now he was wondering whether he was even his father’s son.
Daemon rushed to his mother’s room on the verge of tears. He wanted her to tell him the guards were lying, slandering her name out of envy or anger. He wanted to know there was no truth to their insinuations, for Daemon did not want to be a bastard.
He did not knock, just bursting in. His mother was not sleeping; she was sitting in bed and staring out of the window, covers wrapped around her like a cloak.
“Mother!” Daemon exclaimed, dashing to her. He wanted to be held like he was a small child again, but he was a Prince, and he could not allow himself to be weak.
“What is it, my love?” She asked him, smiling at him. Something was troubling her, but he was selfish in his desire to know the truth — too selfish to care for her feelings, too eager to uncover the mystery.
“Am I a bastard?”
He wanted to be strong, he did — but his voice was weak, breaking into half-sobs as he looked at his mother. She would probably be angry with him now, he thought, bowing his head.
“You are not, my dear.”
She was so calm, so confident in her words. But why would the guards imply it, then? If there were no grounds for it, no one would talk about his grand-uncle and his mother this way.
Daemon decided to go all the way in, even if the truth could kill him.
“Am I your uncle’s son? Is this why you named me after him?”
His mother’s eyes glistened with some foreign fire — just for a split second, she seemed younger, angrier — but she shook her head, patting his head.
“Does it truly matter?”
She did not deny it. Daemon felt his heart fall — she did not deny it. She did not say he was silly for asking such a question, and neither did she ask where he had heard the rumour from. No, she was completely unbothered by his inquiry, as if she had listened to the same accusation a million times before.
It could mean anything, he told himself. Mayhap, she was just tired of explaining it to people and enduring the whispers — she probably did not want her son to pester her about it, too. Daemon sighed, clinging to this version, refusing to think about what else her brief response could mean.
“Can I sleep with you?” Daemon asked, biting his lip. “Just tonight.”
“Of course,” his mother replied with a soft smile.
***
When he turned fourteen, something woke up in him.
He was excelling in the training yard, in flying, in his studies. Yet nothing seemed enough these days — Daemon felt the constant burn of desire he had just uncovered in himself.
In the evenings, he would retire to his chambers and take himself in his fist — it seemed like he needed release all the time, finding himself hard at almost every thought.
One night, his closest friend, the son of the Dragonstone’s castellan, tugged on his sleeve before Daemon had a chance to retire to his bedchamber and go through his regular routine, helping himself.
“Let me show you something,” the boy, who was a few years older than Daemon, whispered.
He supposed he did not mind adventure — and he was genuinely intrigued about what the older boy wanted to show him.
They sneaked out of the castle to the town that lay on the shores of their island. Daemon had been there many times before, talking to people with his mother or going through the market when she allowed him to buy something for himself. But tonight, his companion was leading him deeper, to the streets Daemon had never visited.
They were obscure and mysterious, and Daemon could not help but gasp when his friend dragged him into a building that seemed to bustle with music and laughter.
It was a strange place — it was full of people who were mostly naked. Daemon looked around, bewildered, for he had never seen so many nude people at once. Mostly, there were women, but men also paraded their nudity like it was a badge of honour.
“What is this place?” Daemon asked, swallowing thickly.
His friend turned him. “A pleasure house. Has your mother not told you?”
Something about the way his companion smiled and sounded unnerved Daemon, but he could not say what it was exactly. No, he was too focused on the parade of bodies — people were kissing, laughing and fucking.
Daemon felt hard in his pants, the mere scent of lust overwhelming him. Men with pretty women on their laps, women pleasuring each other, endless pairs joined in the lecherous dance of flesh… He did not know where to look, for he wanted to see everything at once.
“You can pick any free one. This one over there is good with first-timers,” Daemon’s companion nodded at the tall brunette who was swinging her hips in some kind of seductive dance that enchanted Daemon.
Yet he had little interest in her. She was pretty, of course, but it was not something he wanted. Daemon moved through the crowd, staring almost indecently, marvelling at all the forms of this art of coupling. There was a beauty to it, he had to admit, beyond the hot feeling it seemed to send all over his body. Daemon’s cock was hard, yet he could not find a single woman he wanted to take to bed.
None of them looked like what he sought — a warm, soft body, silver hair, big bosom, gentle touch. Daemon was sure they all were skilful in their craft, and a few of them even touched him, trying to entice him, but none of them looked like his perfect woman.
None of them looked like his mother.
Terrified at the thought of desiring his mother, his perfect mother, in such a carnal way, Daemon found his way out of the establishment. He tried to breathe, in and out, but the image of his mother’s perfect form did not leave him. Standing at the back door of the brothel, he found a way to his pants, gripping his length. It was wrong and harrowing, but he only needed to move his hands for some second before he spilt his seed all over his hand and arm, all because of the image of his mother’s lips whispering something sweet and reassuring to him.
It was shameful, Daemon told himself, fleeing the town and finding his way back to the castle. His mother was too perfect for him anyway, and he knew she would never see him in any way other than him being her son.
Oh, he hated being her son.
Daemon had imagined being with a woman many times before — he dreamed about finally trying this act, becoming a man. Yet when he had an opportunity to do so, all he could think about was his mother.
He tossed and turned in bed that night. Her image did not leave his mind, and he got hard time after time, heat spreading all over his body. There was no one to ask about what that desire meant — the fire his mother ignited in him was no longer kind. No, it was a blaze, all-consuming and dangerous.
Daemon wanted his mother to be the woman who would teach him everything about fucking — just like she had taught him how to speak, how to walk, how to fly. She had been his guiding light in everything; could she not be his teacher in this as well?
But as he thought about his mother, his hands travelling to his cock again, Daemon understood she could never be his first — she deserved a man who knew how to touch her.
So the next night, Daemon returned to the pleasure house to finish the education he had started.
***
He wondered why they never visited King’s Landing together — but his mother always simply told him the capital was dangerous for him and that she was miserable there, preferring to keep her visits to a minimum. She was still the King’s heir, and sometimes, her presence was necessary — but Daemon was almost offended at how his grandsire never seemed to desire to see him, his only grandson.
The topic of his mother’s children had been raised many times — or rather, the lack of them. Sixteen years old, Daemon was still her only son — she never desired another child, she had explained to him once, not when she had him, her precious, perfect boy.
Daemon was no longer a boy. And he was pretty sure he knew the truth.
He was a bastard — born out of a passionate encounter between his mother and her uncle, something that got him killed. He pieced it together long ago — and he was not angry at his mother. No, he was sure she loved his father, his real father, and while it was comforting to know she knew happiness once, Daemon found it unfair that his mother was subjected to a lifetime of tragedy and an empty bed.
He did not tell his mother he knew the truth — there was no need. She would deny it — they stood to inherit the throne, and there was no good in giving voice to the ghosts. But Daemon knew it was the horrifying truth of his birth — he began growing in his mother’s womb the same day her lover, his father, was killed.
He was proud to bear his father’s name, ride his dragon and wield his legendary sword. Now that he knew about the role the man played in his mother’s life, he yearned to fill the shoes of the man who gave him his blood before dying in the throne room, all for a chance to be happy. Daemon wanted to be his mother’s fiercest defender, wanted to be her strength and her stability — and he did try his best.
The only place where he could not live up to his true father’s legacy was her bed.
His mother was lonely — a woman of breathtaking beauty. She was desired by many still, but she never took a lover. No, Daemon knew she was on her own for sixteen years — an awful fate, something Daemon could not fathom. He had already fucked almost every whore on Dragonstone and beyond, and secretly he hoped the word of his activities reached his mother. She never spoke to him about it, trusting his judgment, but gods, Daemon wanted her to speak.
He wanted her to be proud of him — or furious at him. He wanted to show her the craft he had learned, to finally please her. She did not deserve to have an empty bed — she deserved so much more.
She returned from the capital the other day more tired than usual. They had dinner together, but she was lost in her thoughts, and Daemon was lost in his lust. She was perfect — no whore could match her, and he searched everywhere. Daemon favoured older women — he looked for wide hips and ample breasts, not the awkwardness of youth — and still, they all paled in comparison to his mother.
“Has the King upset you?” Daemon asked, noticing her distraught mood. His grandsire was capable of that, he knew, despite not even knowing the King.
“The King and Lord Corlys both,” she sighed, reaching for her wine. “Nothing you should be concerned about, my love.”
He did not like how she dismissed him — like he was still a little child who did not understand the world. Those men wanted something from his mother — and he would like to know what it was.
“They upset you. I should be concerned about everything that makes you sad.”
There was that look in her eyes again — as if she was not looking at him but at someone else. For the first time, Daemon thought that she might be seeing his father in moments like this, and the thought was oddly comforting.
Wherever you are, Father, know that I am taking care of her.
She pushed away the plate. “Well, they want me to have more children with your father so we could secure the succession. As it stands, Driftmark will pass to your father, but after his demise, there will be a crisis — for you will seat the throne after me.”
Daemon tensed. The way she called Laenor his father annoyed him — he could not understand why they were still playing this game. She knew he was not Laenor’s — everyone knew.
But if it brought her comfort, then he would allow it.
However, the thought of his mother having actual children with Laenor disgusted him. The man was fond of squires and young knights, and Daemon cared not about it, but the thought of his mother being touched by him — by anyone, really — made him furious.
Daemon clenched his fists in a sudden wave of anger. His mother was too perfect for Laenor’s babies.
But he glanced at her form and felt a fire burning inside. Daemon wished to see his mother pregnant — she would be even more beautiful, he knew. Her breasts would grow larger, her hips wider. She would glow, and Daemon licked his lips, thinking about how much like a goddess she would look if she were to bring him a brother or a sister.
It was not meant to be — his father was long dead, and his mother never desired another.
She never desired her son, either.
“What are you going to do?” He asked, struggling to maintain cool composure.
She shrugged. “I care little for Lord Corlys’ ambition or my father’s desires. He cared little of mine.”
He had heard the rumours of her uncle asking for her hand and her begging the King to agree — only to witness the head of her lover roll.
“We have been through this already,” his mother added, standing up. Daemon was not sure who she was talking to — him or his father’s ghost.
***
He could not sleep.
The images of his mother carrying another man’s child infuriated Daemon — and not in a way an older brother might worry about losing the spot of a favourite. He would always be his mother’s favourite, he knew. Even if she had had a dozen trueborn children with Laenor, none of them would have what Daemon had — features of a man she loved, even after all those years.
It was romantic, Daemon had to admit. All those years had gone by without his father, and she still held onto him like he was her everything. But as much as it was romantic, it was painful.
His father was dead, and he was alive. His father could not warm her bed, could not protect her, could not bring her comfort. Daemon could — but she never looked at him with desire. Whenever she glanced at him, she seemed to look past him — as if she saw a ghost.
Gods, Daemon was jealous of his father’s memory.
Memories could not sustain life, he knew. Yet his mother seemed to defy all the laws of nature — she lived as if she was married to a dead man, remaining faithful to him, keeping the space of her bed only for him. Daemon clenched his jaw, staring at the ceiling.
Who were you, Father, to enchant her this way?
What did you have that I do not?
If he was so similar to him as some gossipers claimed, why would she not just beckon him to her bed? If the rumours were true and his mother did raise him as a copy of his true father, then why would she not use him to satisfy the only craving nothing else could? Why would she rather sleep alone than invite him?
Daemon was determined to know today. She had kept enough secrets from him — he was no longer a child, and if she could look at him and see her long-dead lover, then it was fine with him — he would be his father; he would do anything to crawl inside her skin and fill in the last role his father left for him.
He threw away the covers, jumping from the bed. Quickly, he made his way to the rooms that his mother occupied — it had been years since he last sought comfort in her bed, and it pained him. Daemon used to sleep in the same bed with his mother; he used to suck at her breast — why did it have to cease? Why could it not continue now?
He came closer, leaning on the door. He needed to know if she was sleeping.
She was not.
The sounds coming out of her room were her moans and sobs — she was definitely crying, the mere thought breaking Daemon’s heart. Carefully, he opened the door, determined to come to her rescue and chase away all the demons plaguing her thoughts, but as he glanced through the narrow opening in the door, he saw his mother with her legs parted and her fingers going in and out of her cunt.
Daemon suddenly felt thirsty just looking at her — so unusual to him, so open. She was not his mother at this moment — she looked like his father saw her — a passionate lover. Something Daemon could never get — and yet here she was.
She was crying while pleasuring herself, and it was wrong, and he wanted to rush to her and wipe off her tears. This act was not supposed to be about sobs — Daemon hated to see her cry. His mother never cried — but his father’s lover did.
She metamorphosed into another woman he could not recognise. She was someone else, someone from sixteen years ago, and Daemon felt a pang of jealousy that he might have inherited a lot from his father, but he never inherited his memories.
He wished to know how she looked when she was his age. He wished to know her as a child even, a precious girl that, according to the tales, was nothing like a partly insane Princess of Dragonstone. Daemon envied his father that he was there before him — he wished he could turn the time back and be the one claiming his mother’s maidenhead, blooding himself with her, opening her to him.
“Daemon —” his mother mewled, oblivious to his presence, and he wanted to bite on something to let out the anguish. If he pretended, he could think it was he she was calling for.
He felt his cock wake up and harden — all at the sight of his mother open and undone. Daemon retreated, carefully closing the door — he would not get the answers tonight, but he would commence a battle against his own father.
He was a good man, Daemon was sure. The best even, maybe. But he was dead, and before dying, he took his mother’s heart.
***
“Do not go,” he implored as she was readying herself for the trip to King’s Landing. Daemon could not bear the thought of parting from her, not since the night he saw her pleasure herself and cry.
She lived in his mind — open, aroused, lonely. He wished he had the bravery to just push her against the wall and fuck her roughly, but she was his mother — it was a curse and a blessing. He could not harm her — he did not want to. No, he wanted to free her.
“And why is that, Daemon?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.
She never called him “son”. It was always something endearing or his actual name — but never son, never the title that was his by every right since he came from her womb. Daemon was glad she did not — he loathed being just a son anyway.
Will you call me “uncle” one day if you never had the strength to call me your son?
“I do not want you to. I need you.”
His mother set down the hairbrush, staring at him. There it was again — the fire that burned not for him but for his father, amethyst glowing with something foreign.
“For what, my love?”
He came closer, dropping to his knees and taking her hand in his. If he had to beg, he would. She gave him his father’s name, his dragon, his sword — he grew up so entwined with the man who gave him life that he no longer knew the difference between them. The only boundary was her bed and her body, and Daemon wished for nothing but to merge the son and the father together in a sacred act.
“You miss him, yet you shaped me after him in everything. You named me after him, seeing him in me all these years. If you do, then why do you not let me be with you?”
She looked at him, confused. Was he wrong? Was it his inflamed imagination? No, he was not; he knew it for certain. She made him; she let him grow in her womb to replace his father, and he was ready for the biggest mission of his life.
“I never shaped you, love.” She shook her head. “You are him.”
His mother was probably mad — but he had grown used to it. If she did not see a difference between them, then it was even better — it meant he excelled at becoming his father in her eyes.
“Then let me have you.”
Daemon stood up, grabbing her face and kissing her violently. She did not protest, soft in his arms. Gods, she felt better than anyone, better than anything in his life. His mother was a goddess, and maybe today would bring him to the sensation his father felt, filling her with his seed that became him.
He pushed her to her bed, impatient with her. Daemon cared not for the guards or servants who might hear them — he wanted her so feverishly it could not wait even for another minute. He got out of his clothes and then tore her simple dress in two — she had a great many of those; she would not mourn this one.
“Daemon, love,” she whispered, her fingers tugging on his hair. He gave up on trying to understand who she was talking to — he and his father were about to become the same thing anyway.
He littered her body with kisses, taking in the taste of her skin. She was so beautiful — her large breasts were perfect, her wide hips were made for his love. He played with her nipple, and she let him do all this, touch her everywhere, explore her everywhere. Daemon wanted to take his time with her, but the calling of his lust was overwhelming.
He was a lustful man. He fucked a lot and harshly, never struggling to get hard or perform, but never in his life had he been so ready. The most perfect woman, his mother, was lying under him now, responsive and begging for him. Daemon felt the desire to drive his cock into her, to fill her to the brim and then spend his seed inside her.
She was made for him — she was the only one who could take him, for she was the one to give birth to him.
Daemon ran his fingers over her folds — she was dripping. As he sank one finger in, she moaned and threw her head back. Too sensitive, too famished without a proper touch, she was a lonely woman — but no longer, for he would take care of her.
“Take me, Daemon,” she begged. “I missed you so much.”
He obeyed, raising her leg so he could enter deeper. His tip went in, then his length filled her perfect cunt, and he hissed at how tight she was — she was a mother, yet she felt like a maiden.
She was warm and wet, and Daemon could come from this alone, just from being inside her again. Was it possible to remember the time you spent in your mother’s womb? He was sure it was not, yet he somehow did, feeling at home. He did not need to move, just feel the warmth that kept him safe for nine moons, nurtured him, made him. Daemon groaned in pain and pleasure — he should have returned here long ago.
His mother moaned, too, and grabbed his shoulders, desperate for support. Full of uncontrollable desire, Daemon started thrusting inside, eliciting sweet cries from the lips of a woman that created him — physically, yes, but in everything else as well. He was just returning her debt to her — and oh, he owed her everything.
It was impossible to prolong this act, not when her cunt clenched around him, not when she breathed heavily under him. Daemon’s hand pressed at her womb — there it was, the space he came from, the space he intended to fill with his own seed. Was he a wayward son returning home — or was he a long-lost lover finding his way back? Either way, he would do it; he would do what his father did years ago — in her eyes, they were already the same, and now, having made a full circle of life, Daemon was ready to become whole with his father as well.
She moaned something as she came — he did not pay attention. She might have called for her uncle or for her son — it was all the same now. Daemon groaned, feeling his own release — hot streams of seed filling her. He hoped every single drop stayed inside her — he would give her the heirs men around them so desperately wanted from her.
In this, he would be better than his father, for he had only managed to give her one son. Daemon intended to give her a dozen, filling her over and over again, seeing her grow with a child he put in her time after time. She would not need to look at them and see ghosts — no, her other children would be free from this curse.
“You came back,” his mother whispered, caressing his cheek. “The day they killed you, I had you inside me already, and you were growing there, strong and spiteful. You bloomed inside me as your head rolled, as I cried and cursed. You were already inside, growing and taking your rightful place inside me, where you always belonged.”
Daemon did not interrupt her. It felt like a conversation between people who knew each other forever — and he felt lost in her voice, in her delirious words.
“I tried to chase my pleasure, just like you taught me. I touched myself, thinking how blessed I was to have you inside me. How long can a man thrust before getting exhausted? Yet you were inside me for moons, and now you are here again, and all is well, my love.”
He swallowed, already hungry for more. He wanted to fuck her until she screamed and begged him to stop, and Daemon would make sure she never had a single tear rolling down her cheek. He would be dutiful, he would be attentive, he would make her full and happy.
Would his father not want this if he knew what awaited them? His mother was alone, and she only had him. Surely, his father would not scold him for wanting to get as close to him as possible, crawl back, console her, be her support?
Daemon caressed her tired body, imagining all the things they would do again and again. She would grow heavy with child — and he would find a taste of childhood, latching on her breast alongside a new babe. They would be so happy — she would forget all the misfortunes of her loneliness and live happily ever after.
She deserved it — after sixteen years of waiting, he was finally back.
***
Daemon knew how to live inside the walls — listening to conversations he was not supposed to hear had been his favourite activity since he was a child.
Laenor was on Dragonstone again. He aged so fast, Daemon thought — unlike Rhaenyra, who shone, her eyes bright and her lips always curled into a smile these days.
Daemon lamented the knight who called himself her husband did not appreciate female form — he would have noticed how much her tits grew, ready for a new child.
“You can tell our fathers I am with child,” she told Laenor, a bright smile on her face. The knight looked perplexed — he had probably never seen her smile, Daemon realised.
“What?” Laenor whispered in disbelief. “You have not had a man since your uncle died. Is this a jest?”
“Why would I jest?” Rhaenyra asked, her hand travelling to her stomach protectively.
Daemon wished he could come out and kill the knight. He did not deserve the honour of claiming her children as his, but he knew he had to wait. The right time would come once they formed a plan. Laenor would choke in his own blood or drown, Daemon decided, although he still had to polish his plan to perfection. She needed this facade not to get disinherited for the lack of heirs, and once she was Queen, they would not have to hide on Dragonstone. Or, maybe, they would rule from here — after all, Daemon had never been in King’s Landing.
“Fine. Then tell me whose it is. One of your guards’? You never fancied them, not even when your father sent Breakbones your way. What has changed?”
The Princess laughed softly. “Oh, everything. He came back.”
The knight’s face turned white, and he took a couple of steps backwards. “Tell me you did not fuck your son, Rhaenyra.”
“My son? No, I did not.”
It brought little relief to Ser Laenor, for almost seventeen years into this marriage, he finally could see she was that mad.
***
People believed Rhaenyra Targaryen kept the embalmed head of her dead lover in her chambers, unable to sleep without it.
But what use did she have of a head when she had a son?