Dragon Dance - orphan_account - House of the Dragon (TV) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Egg of Ill Omen

Chapter Text

It was the peak of summer when the dragonkeeper came before King Viserys and knelt upon the patterned floor of the throne room. The heat of the day was sweltering, and even the usually jovial king had grown weary of the royal proceedings. The keeper’s fingers trembled as he awaited leave to speak, the final petitioner of the day, as it were. Sweat beaded on his bare upper lip.

“Speak,” the king commanded, resting his chin boredly upon his fist; though he was still careful of the blades which lined the arms of his iron chair. It was well known that the King was prone to cutting himself on the thousands of blades that gave form to the throne. Whether that was an ill-omen, it was not a dragonkeeper’s place to say.

“I come bearing exciting news, Your Grace,” the keeper said, fighting to keep the quaver of anxiety from his voice. It was known that the princess Rhaenyra was dearly beloved to the reigning monarch, and that he was deeply protective of both her chastity and her—

“Well?” Viserys half spat, clearly disinterested in whatever the keeper had to say. He sipped from a fine goblet, chilled wine spilling down the front of his fine doublet in his apparent drunkenness. “Spit it out.”

“The dragons Caraxes and Syrax have produced an egg, my liege,” the keeper kept his head bowed low. All of the dragonkeepers knew of the untold law of the Targaryen dragon horde… and he was quite certain that so too did the King.

The King stilled for a long moment, puzzling over the announcement. Ordinarily news of new eggs would be presented before the Small Council, not before the King’s court. But these were extenuating circ*mstances, surely the King would understand this.

When the monarch still did not speak, it was Corlys Velaryon who intoned confusedly, “Why is this news of significance to the court? Could this not have waited until the next meeting of the Small Council?”

“No, my Lord,” the keeper replied without raising his head. “It was of the utmost importance that the King be informed with great haste. You see there is a—

“There is a belief,” the King cut the keeper off, shifting uncomfortably on his throne as though the very blades were pressing into his flesh. “That should not be discussed openly before the court, for it is a tradition that has followed the Targaryens from Old Valyria. Otto, summon Rhaenyra, my heir, these circ*mstances must be discussed within the privacy of the Small Council Chambers.”

When the servant called upon Rhaenyra she was in the Godswood enjoying the heat of a summer’s eve in the shade. She leafed mindlessly through a tome which chronicled the Targaryen conquest; the details of which she was already intimately familiar with, but she still derived joy from the tales. Most interesting to her were the stories of Queen Visenya, who had wielded Dark Sister against her many enemies and rode astride the great dragon Vhagar. Dark Sister now belonged to her uncle Daemon, and she decided she would ask to hold the blade the next time he visited.

“Princess?” Her attendant called from the cool succor of the indoors, “Princess your father has summoned you to the chambers of the Small Council.”

Rhaenyra closed her book, “So late on a summer’s eve?”

The servant merely shrugged at the question, a sort of casual gesture which only the Crown Princess allowed her people to get away with.

Leaving her book in her chambers from reading that night, she adorned her shoulders in a simple shawl and made her way to the chambers of the Small Council.

There she found several key members of the court waiting in their seats as her father looked out the windows and onto Rhaeny’s hill and the dragon pit which crowned it.

“Father?” Rhaenyra said breathlessly, “You had me summoned?”

King Viserys turned to face his progeny, expression tense but otherwise unreadable. He motioned to one of the ornate, high backed chairs, “Please, sit, Rhaenyra. We must discuss something of great import.”

Wordlessly she sat, sensing the discomfort present in the room. She folded her hands neatly on the table in front of her, allowing the servant to fill her goblet with wine as her father began to speak.

“My child, your eighteenth name day has come and gone and you are as of yet unwed.”

“Is that what this is about?” the Princess spoke swiftly, “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more—

“There has been an omen, Rhaenyra,” the King announced. “A sign from the Gods themselves, Gods which predate even the Seven. A thing of Old Valyria is upon us this day.”

Rhaenyra was shaken by this, her father was by no means a pious man, but never before had he forsaken the Seven so readily in front of her, “...father?”

“You are an unwed Targaryen woman, Rhaenyra, and your mount has laid her first egg.”

“Syrax?” Rhaenrya startled, excitement replacing her worry at the prospect of a baby dragon in the pit.

“Syrax,” her father agreed, “Sired by Caraxes.”

“Caraxes? But uncle Daemon isn’t—

The doors to the small council chambers burst open, revealing a small retinue of Gold Cloaks huddled about the high-held silvery head of one Daemon Targaryen.

“Brother,” he announced, striding past his men and sliding easily into a chair. He rested his chin against his palm, speaking cool and smooth, “I have been in King’s Landing nigh on a fortnite and it is only now that you call upon me?”

Two weeks and he hasn’t bothered to visit, Rhaenyra thought, pursing her lips into a thin line. Ordinarily when he returned from Dragonstone he brought with him gifts of gemstones and baubles for the Princess, and of course the joy of an evening of lively conversation.

“Trust me brother I take no joy in this thing,” The King said, sinking into his seat at the head of the table.

At the solemnity of his brother’s tone Daemon straightened somewhat in his seat.

“Syrax has laid an egg, sired by Caraxes the Blood Wyrm. It is an omen from the Gods of old Valyria, one we should heed lest we be faced with a doom to rival that of old,” King Viserys explained, and the room fell into eerie, bated silence, awaiting explanation. “It is said that if the bonded dragon of an unwed Targaryen mates with the dragon of another, the two riders are to… recreate such action. A Dragon Dance, it is called. It is old, primeval magic which followed us here from Old Valyria, magic which the priests of the Seven are helpless to combat.”

Rhaenyra sat in stunned silence, violet eyes wide. Her cheeks felt hot, a stripe of pink forming across her pretty features as she tried desperately not to look at her Uncle Daemon; the bonded rider of Caraxes the Blood Wyrm.

“To what end is this Dance supposed to lead,” Demon’s voice was hot, low and sharp. The sound of it sent a shiver up Rhaenyra’s spine and she sat up straighter in her chair. Scandalized by the entire ordeal. “Rhaenyra may be unwed by I am promised to Lady Laena Velaryon.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?” Corlys cut in.

“Enough,” the King silenced them both. “This supersedes the realm of mortal bonds and the Velaryon family must simply accept that.”

Corlys wore an expression of utter disgust. But he too was of old Valyrian blood and would not openly call into question the King’s ways.

“And why deliver this news before half of your small council, could we have not kept this in the family?” Daemon asked.

“As Targaryen’s are wont to do,” Otto muttered under his breath, clearly exasperated with the entire situation.

“The Omen,” Visery’s explained, sinking further into his chair as though he wanted to disappear into it. “My Council deserves to know the truth of it, especially if there is to be a Targaryen bastard about come springtime.”

Rhaenrya made a small noise of complaint, growing ever tired of having her womb discussed as though it were real estate set and ready to be claimed by the highest bidder. A bastard, and by Uncle Daemon?

“There won’t be,” Daemon said, finally catching Rhaenyra’s gaze. His eyes were reassuring and calm, supplying all of the steadiness the Princess needed to weather this new, unexpected gale.

Visery’s tipped his goblet of wine back into his gullet, swallowing deeply of it as runnels of deep purple streamed their way past the corners of his lips, staining his golden collar.

“I pray you are right,” he said, finally, with a deep huff as he slammed his cup down on the table. His lavender eyes shifted to his daughter, pinning her in her seat as she squirmed in discomfort, “My dearest Rhaenyra, do you understand what you must do?”

“Yes,” she said, maintaining a look of stony countenance despite the flush which still laid siege to her fine features.

“I understand.”

Little more discussion was had that night of the duty at hand. The Council adjourned quickly and quietly, leaving only those of Targaryen issue in the small chamber.

“Y-you,” Hiccup, a very drunk Viserys slurred at Daemon. He pointed an accusatory finger at his brother, “You had better treat her well or,” hiccup, “Or you’ll hang from the mud gate.”

Daemon only hummed in response, twisting his ring about his finger.

It was, much to her own surprise, Rhaenrya who spoke up in her uncle’s defense, “Father, Targaryen’s have been… laying with their own for generations. This isn’t some novel thing.”

“It is not what I had planned for you,” Visery’s lamented, sinking into his chair and covering his face with his eyes. “Thrown to my libertine brother like some… some sort of—

“Stop!” Rhaenrya shoved back in her chair and slammed her hands palms down onto the heavy, dark wood of the table. She would hear no more of it, she would not be some passive observer in the loss of her own maidenhead, and she certainly wouldn’t become a victim. Daemon was handsome and strong and noble in his own way. Would it truly be such a travesty to lay with him, just once? “If what you say is true, and this dragon’s egg could herald the destruction of our house, then I will do what must be done. As you said, I am past my eighteenth name day, perhaps this will be what spurs me forward towards marriage.”

Daemon watched her with quiet admiration shimmering behind his eyes. She saw this, and flushed again beneath his stare, suddenly very bashful.

“Marriage to him?” Visery’s drunken visage turned to one of utter terror glancing between his beloved daughter and heir and his brother.

“No,” Both Daemon and Rhaenyra spoke at the same time.

But would such a thing truly be so terrible, Rhaenyra thought?

That night she dressed down into a light sleeping gown of thin, violet satin. With her silver-gold hair loose about her shoulders she lay propped up beneath the canopy of her four poster bed. By candle light she leafed through the early days of the conquest; tales of Aegon and his sister wives who were both beloved to him.

Targaryen’s had always kept their bloodline pure through such incestuous maintenence. She supposed it would be her duty as well, though her uncle had seemed certain that she would not conceive when they lay together. And they would lay together, lest her father’s fears come true and the House of the Dragon fall. Though it seemed nothing would happen that night. Until…

“I forgot to ask about Dark Sister,” she murmured, preparing to blow out her candle when there came a soft rap against her door.

There were only two people in the entire world who could pass her guards without her leave, and one of them was in a dead drunken stupor in his own quarters for the night. The other, meanwhile, was much more difficult to account for.

Without her leave the door creaked open, revealing the high cheekbones and fine features of Daemon Targaryen backlit by the torches from the hallway.

“Uncle,” Rhaenyra greeted him, not bothering to hide the peaks of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her night dress. So it would be this night, then? Her mouth dry in anticipation, suddenly at a loss for any clever words she might have used to goad him forward.

“Little Princess,” he greeted, shutting the door gently behind himself. Heat rose in her cheeks at the endearment, once spoken so innocently, now suddenly laden with new, hungry meaning. Yes. Yes she was his ‘little princess’ wasn’t she? Soon to be in far more ways than the one.

“I came to speak with you privately,” he said, and he sat on the edge of her bed, still dressed in his day clothes of a fine black shirt and trousers. The shirt lightly hugged the musculature of his chest, intriguing her in a way no man had ever intrigued her before. In truth all of these budding, carnal sensations were new to her. The way the firelight played across his silvery hair and into the depths of his violet eyes made her knees weak beneath the coverlet.

“We are expected to lay together,” her Uncle explained as though she herself hadn’t been there for the announcement.

“I am aware,” she said guardedly. Not yet ready to relent and give this man everything, but close.

“And how do you feel about this development, Little Princess?” he reached forward to cup her cheek, caressing over her smooth, warm skin until her chin was pinched between his forefinger and thumb. His lips were parted. She reached out as well, pushing a few strands of soft hair back to tuck behind his ear. His handsome mouth split into a small smile. “I have always been protective of you,” he admitted, “and to think that I might have you in this way… I must admit, it pleases me greatly.”

“Will you do it tonight, then?” Rhaenrya asked, leaning into his touch. Each time he called her little princess it fanned the flames between her quivering thighs.

“Do what? Little one?” He breathed, eyes flashing in hungry question.

“f*ck me.”

He stiffened on the edge of the bed, openly gazing at her lips, his thumb caressed her cheek, “Say it again.”

“f*ck me,” she repeated, and he rolled her onto her back, leaning over her from his place on the edge of the bed.

Looming, he growled low and dangerous, “Such filthy words from the mouth of the heir.”

“The heir will say what she pleases,” Rhaenrya emphasized her gender knowing how her acquisition of the crown over him still frustrated him to that day.

“The heir will learn to keep her mouth shut unless she is directly spoken to,” Daemon groused, and he kissed her hard on the mouth, dragging his body to fully pin her to the goosefeather mattress.

Rhaenyra moaned into the kiss, realizing beneath the slide of his sure mouth that she had always wanted this. She wanted nothing more than to be her Uncle’s little princess.

Without breaking the seal of their hungry lips he reached between their bodies, hiking her evening gown up her thighs and revealing that she wore no underthings. He laughed against her lips, then broke away, fingers moving deftly between her thighs.

“Have you ever touched yourself here, Little Princess?” he rumbled, voice low and carnal.

He parted her wet folds with his fingers, stroking along the cleft between her legs as she bit her lips and shook her head ‘no’, emitting a wordless squeak as he quickly located her cl*t and began to circle it with two fingers.

“You’re so wet for me, Princess,” he whispered roughly, nibbling at her ear then beginning to make his way down the curve of her throat. “I bet you’re achingly tight.”

With his free hand he undid the buckle of his belt, pushing the lacings of his trousers aside he freed his co*ck which bounced heavy and long against the bed.

Rhaenyra stared at it, gawking openly at the size of him as he took advantage of her distractedness. He sank a finger into her up to the second knuckle, earning a sharp exhale from the princess who blinked confusedly at the new, tight sensation of something inside of her.

“Oh you are tight,” he praised against her collarbone, “You’ll make such a lovely sleeve for my co*ck, Little Princess.”

Rhaenyra blinked rapidly before timidly lifting her hips to meet the gentle egress and ingress of his single digit, “I-I’ve never…”

“I know,” he shushed her, taking on a suddenly reassuring tone, even as he took his hard co*ck in hand and began to stroke it between their bodies. He crooked his finger lightly, backwards towards her entrance, earning a squeal of delight from the heir who began to move with him. “We won’t tonight. But I want to show you how good I can make you feel, Princess.”

“It feels good,” she nodded sharply, swallowing thickly. Her whole body felt flush and tense, the wet noises stemming from between her trembling thighs combined with her soft moans and Daemon’s encouraging grunts had her riding a wave of pure bliss like she had never known.

Pressure began to mount between her legs as Daemon slipped a second finger into her c*nt, joining it with the first in those steady, intoxicating crooking motions.

“Do you feel that, lovely?” he whispered against her temple. His dick looked angry now, red from his constant touch, beading a pearly fluid at the tip. “Do you feel how your insides flutter around me?”

“Yes,” Rheanyra half pleaded, fists curling tight into her sheets, knuckles white. Her whole body was trembling, every inch of her pale flesh flushed a pretty pink. Daemon began to speed up his ministrations between her thighs.

“You’re going to come,” Daemon puffed, and Rhaenyra watched his thick co*ck twitch in his palm.

“C-come?”

It was a concept with which she was unfamiliar. She knew that men spilled their seed during intercourse, but come? Was that what the woman did?

“Yes,” Daemon rasped, and he pressed his fingers in up to the last knuckle, “Come for me, sweet Princess.”

Had she been standing her knees would have buckled in that moment, she cried out as her body arched into a line of tension. Daemon caught her noise in a kiss, lips stealing the very breath from her lungs as she felt him rumble deep in his chest. Pearly white liquid painted her midriff as he continued to finger-f*ck her through her org*sm.

He kissed her throat tenderly as she came down. His fingers slipping out of her, he made a show of sliding them between his lips and tasting of her essence.

“You did so well, Little Princess,” he praised, tucking himself back into his trousers. He sat up while Rhaenyra remained prostrate on the sheets, covered in a thin sheen of shining sweat and the cooling ropes of her Uncle’s seed.

“What was that?” She asked softly, lid fluttering with newfound exhaustion.

“That was a preamble, lovely,” he replied, and he bent at the waist to kiss her temple lightly.

“Are we going to lay together?”

“Not tonight.”

“But the omen—

“It can wait another night Rhaenyra,” Daemon said, but he did not move to leave. He seemed content to sit and stare at her as she dozed in the afterglow of her very first climax. “What were you reading when I disturbed you?”

Blinking away some of the haze, she sat up on her elbows. His violet gaze moved openly and appreciatively to the small mounds of her breasts.

“An account of the conquest,” she answered him, producing the book from where it had laid forgotten during their tryst. Then, abruptly, she remembered, “Can I see Dark Sister?”

A small smile curled at the corner of her Uncle’s handsome mouth, “You want to hold my sword?”

The double meaning hung in the air between them for a long moment before the Princess burst into laughter, “Yes! Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Then you’ll have it, Little Princess,” Daemon promised.

And for a moment they forgot about duty and prophecy, and they simply were.

Chapter 2: The Dragon Dance

Chapter Text

Three days passed and she did not see her uncle again. It worried her some, that he would come to her in the night, touch her so intimately, spill his seed across her belly then simply vanish. Perhaps he was simply fulfilling what he saw as a duty to his family, to the crown. Perhaps Daemon Targaryen did not find his niece beautiful, or fair, or any of those things that knights thought of maidens in the stories she’d read as a girl.

Not that she desired to be a damsel in distress, at least she hadn’t until the moment it had been suggested that Daemon bed her. Never before had she longed for the strong arms of a man about her body, never before had she so burned and yearned for the touch of a man-thing. All of her fierce independence melted away into subtle supplication at the mere mention of her Uncle’s name.

It was frustrating, maddening even in a way she could not begin to explain, not even to herself. She was not in love with her uncle, she declared to herself again and again. As she walked the gardens, as she read in the Godswood, as she balanced a dinner knife against her palm. She was not in love… but she was smitten, in a way. Seven help her, it was an agonizing thing to be infatuated with an object so beyond her in years, though he did fall beneath her in station. She could command him to do it, she supposed. To f*ck her like she so deaperately wanted him to. But she wouldn’t. Because she wanted more than anything for him to command her. To be his ‘little princess’ like she had been when he pressed his fingers between her thighs and made her come.

She could take another to her bed, she supposed, to pretend it waa Daemon over her, inside of her. Ser Criston Cole was always close by her side, he was young, handsome, would do well enough, she supposed… but he wasn’t Daemon. And she was close, so close to the real thing the thought of substituting another in his place was trifling at best.

It was on the third night of this maddening lust-fueled fever that he made an appearance once again, arriving as a late dinner guest to Viserys’ table in the Red Keep.

The King immediately dismissed his guards to wait outside of the supper chamber, waving a dismissive, bandaged hand towards them.

Daemon gave a graceful nod towards his brother, then another towards Rhaenyra as he took his seat nearest the Princess, before an empty plate and a platter adorned with a plump, suckling pig and a bevy of candied vegetables. He wore fine blacks and reds which served to punctuate the flowing silver of his hair and the soft lilac of his irises.

Rhaenyra stared at him openly in her displeasure, as did the King.

“Brother,” Viserys began, laying his fork down beside his plate. “We must discuss the omen further, it seems.”

“Always so serious,” Daemon cut himself a healthy portion of pig and piled some vegetables onto his plate. “Why not ask after my wellbeing before we get on with that breeding nonsense? Never so much as a ‘hello dear brother, fare thee well?’ from his royal highness.”

He dropped his voice to mimic that of the King, and Viserys’ face reddened at the mockery as Daemon pressed a fork full of food past his handsome lips. Rhaenyra was stunned by his blitheness towards the whole ordeal; three nights previous he had shown her his co*ck and now he was referring to their delicate situation as the ‘breeding nonsense’.

She took a long drink of her wine; sweetened with summer honey. She would need it to endure.

He was sitting close enough that she could kick him beneath the table were she so inclined. Lucky for him, she was not… yet.

“The curse has already begun to take hold,” Viserys said, and he raised his hand, pulling the bandage away from his palm to reveal a deep, black wound. “This happened only yesterday and already it begins to fester and rot. Never before has the Iron Throne cut me so deeply.”

“So?” Daemon spoke around his food. But under the table he made a slight movement, placing a hand on Rhaenyra’s knee. His thumb circled there protective and promising, and she relaxed slightly into her seat at the unexpected but welcome contact. “Brother you cut yourself upon the throne at least twice a moon. How is this any different? I question whether there truly is a curse.”

Viserys' nostrils flared and Rhaenyra remained mum, confused by the juxtaposition between Daemon’s words and actions. His touch held promise and tender care, but his words were blatant and cold.

“I promise you it is real, brother. And I know you claim to hold great love and loyalty for House Targaryen. If you truly do then you shall… shall…

Daemon grinned and his hand broad hand settled into a tight grip on Rhaenyra’s knee, “I shall… f*ck the crown Princess?”

His mouth split into a goading smirk, lips slightly parted in amusem*nt.

It was then that Rhaenyra realized her uncle had simply wanted to hear the humiliating words from her father’s sober lips; the admission that he had lost something, that Daemon had won. Perhaps not the Iron Throne, but something equally as precious; the maidenhead of the King’s own daughter and heir.

“Yes,” the King groused, fists balled tight on either side of his untouched plate.

Daemon lifted a carafe of dark wine and filled his goblet to the brim. His off hand never left Rhaenyra’s knee as he continued.

“Now that you are sober, my dear brother, and several days of distance lay between us and the precipitating incident with the dragons, I feel we should further discuss the details of this arrangement.”

“What more is there to discuss?” Viserys snapped, wine goblet raised halfway to his lips, “I grant you a single night with that which I hold most dear in the world. Must you boast?”

“I am not boasting,” Daemon countered. “I am merely considering the many outcomes the arrangement could produce. Outcomes we, as Targaryens of royal blood, must entertain lest we weaken our own hold on the crown.”

“Then speak your piece.”

His hand caressed lightly up Rhaenyra’s thigh as he spoke, touch steady and reassuring. Heat began to bloom in her middle and she shifted under his fingertips, earning her a knowing glance from her uncle, “What if the Princess were to become pregnant, brother? I am promised to another, and have heard whispers that you were considering the prospect of a Velaryon marriage for her as well. Would you truly allow a child sired onto the heir to the realm to be born a bastard when he could be a creature of pure Targaryen lineage?”

The King lowered his head slightly, as though in shame, “I had already prepared for this eventuality. There are…ways of preventing a pregnancy before a man’s seed takes hold.”

Rhaenyra blanched at this tacit admission of guilt. That her father was so willing to use her body like a tool; to use her to satisfy the omen and then eliminate whatever consequence might take hold in her womb, frightened her. Whatever child she might grow heavy with as a result of this fateful tryst would not be unwanted by any means, at least not by her. Though she supposed her own opinion on the matter counted very little when the game of thrones was being so expertly played around her.

Daemon must have felt the renewed tension in her body because he resumed his gentle stroking of her knee as if to say; do not worry, I have a plan.

The Princess trusted her Uncle. She imagined the words in High Valyrian; I have a plan. She felt more certain of herself than she had in three days. Uncle Daemon would not allow any harm to come to her, she was sure of it.

“Very well,” Daemon said. “And should the Court discover the truth of Rhaenyra’s maidenhead?”

“They will not,” Viserys answered flatly.

Daemon raised a pale brow and dropped his hand from Rhaenyra’s knee, much to her regret, “Very well then.”

He rose to his feet, having eaten his fill, “I shall be off, then.”

“Remember your duty to your house,” Viserys called after him.

The silver haired man gave a dismissive wave of his hand, leaving the father and daughter to finish their supper in stiff silence.

That night Rhaenyra half expected to spend another evening alone when there came a knock at her door. Again, without waiting for her leave, her uncle entered her quarters. In one hand he held a flask, and she wondered for a moment if he was drunk until he sat beside her on her bed.

He did not smell of liquor, and his violet gaze was clear and steady if not a bit solemn.

“Tonight is the night, Little Princess,” he said, voice low and soft. The tenderness of it sent a shiver down her spine. “You have told me that you want solitude more than anything. I cannot give you that.”

When he cupped the side of her face in his hand she raised her own to touch him. His skin was warm and surprisingly soft beneath her fingertips, though she could feel the calluses of his palm against her cheek.

“This curse is real, as real as the Old Gods of Valyria are. We must do our duty to our house and satisfy its terms.”

“I do not want this to be an unpleasant thing for you,” he spoke in the smooth glide of High Valyrian. “iksā olvie gevie.” You are very beautiful

He kissed her forehead first, then her lips, soft and chaste. Rhaenyra, ever eager, tilted her head to deepen the kiss, but her uncle pulled back. He lifted the flask, helping her to a sitting position on the mattress.

“This,” he explained quietly, “Is moon tea. It is what the whor*s use on the Street of Silk to prevent unwanted pregnancy.”

“Oh.” Something about it, about the tea and her uncle offering it saddened Rhaenyra deeply.

Seeming to sense this, Daemon shifted closer across the sheets, “It is your choice Little Princess, whether or not to drink this tincture. But I promise whatever the maesters have planned for you will be far more unpleasant than some vile liquid.”

The Princess blinked at him, amethyst eyes wide and uncertain, “...what if I desire neither the tea nor my father’s own machinations?”

Daemon blinked several times in what must have been disbelief, then his chest puffed with something like masculine pride as he said, “It is your choice, Little Princess. But know that if you were to become with child, kesan daor ivestragī iā issaros renigon ao.” I would let none lay so much as a finger upon you.

He spoke the last sentence in High Valyrian as if to punctuate the sincerity of his promise.

Rhaenyra’s face flushed, and then her countenance set into a look of utter determination as she took the flask from his hand. For a moment he looked crestfallen as she unscrewed the cap, but then, instead of pressing the rim to her lips, she lifted the flash over the side of her bed and promptly spilled its contents onto the carpet. The liquid was dark and foul smelling, and would surely stain.

“The Gods of Old Valyria demand this of us, correct?” She breathed, already hot between her thighs in anticipation of what was surely to follow.

“Yes.”

“Then what comes of this must also be their will. Who are we to forsake the wishes of the Gods of our ancestors?”

“None but mere mortals of the flesh,” Daemon agreed, and he was leaning over her, hands caressing up the sides of her thin nightgown. His eyes flashed hungrily in the low light of a single, guttering candle, and this time when he kissed her it was with the utmost urgency.

Rhaenyra wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, fingers winding into his hair as she moaned into his mouth. One of her legs hitched over the narrow line of his hips, already eager and grinding herself into him, back arching off of the bed. Her breasts pressed flush to his chest and he hummed into her mouth, deliberately slowing the kiss before parting from her with a low, rattling, “Easy, my Little Princess.”

“Jaelan ao,” I want you, she half panted half pleaded of him, “Please, Uncle.”

Her hands caressed down his neck, nails biting into the fabric over his shoulders. He shuddered at the contact, then sat up with his knees bracketing her hips. He stripped himself of his soft linen shirt, revealing the panels of rippling, scared, lean muscle hidden beneath.

Rhaenyra shifted backwards, sitting up to touch his pecs, then trailing her fingers down his abdomen. His muscles jumped beneath her fingertips. Her violet eyes were glazed, entranced by his ethereal beauty. She traced his scars; each one contributing to the silvery constellation that was his body.

“I am not the beautiful one,” She marveled. And he caught her wrists, pulling her forward and into another slow, lazy kiss. Their tongues slid against one another’s, and they moaned into each other’s mouths as Daemon began to touch her breast over the thin fabric of her nightgown.

“iksi gīda gevie hae zaldrīzoti,” We are both as beautiful as dragons, he answered her. And then he lifted up the hem of her nightdress, freeing her of it and baring her to the warm air of her bed chambers.

He stared at her, eyes roaming the curves and lithe musculature that made up her sensual form. His lips parted, and he exhaled loudly, but said nothing for long enough that Rhaenyra became bashful, raising a forearm to cover her breasts.

“No.” He caught her hand, “No, Little Princess you are perfect.”

Rhaenyra lowered her hand and licked her lips, staring back at him, holding his predatory gaze. She felt much like the harts must have felt when her father hunted them, her heart thundering with the thrill of the chase. And yet she was not afraid of his hunt, but exhilarated by it. By the desire that pooled in her uncle’s amethyst eyes. Eyes that so perfectly mirrored her own in their want, need, and hue.

“Lay back,” Daemon commanded, deadly soft, and she did, letting her head come to rest on her pillow.

She felt him shift his weight down the mattress until he was between her bare thighs. His hands caressed them, thumbs circling on them as he lowered his head and hummed thoughtfully at the sight of her dewy folds.

“You have such a pretty c*nt, Little Princess,” he praised, then he blew lightly against her folds. “sīr lōz, byka dārilaros.” So wet, Little Princess.

“For you,” she breathed, pushing up and onto her elbows so she could watch her uncle feast.

To begin he licked a long, hot, wet stripe up her center, causing Rhaenyra’s thighs to quiver. He repeated this motion several times, holding her gaze over the flat plan of her middle all the while. There was fire in his eyes, lust that tinted his irises the deepest, shadowed indigo in the low light of the room.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he made a show of brushing his lips against the hard bud of her cl*t before carefully taking it into his mouth and giving it a gentle suck.

Rhaenyra nearly fell backwards into the pillow, mewling loudly as he mouthed against her, “Please, Uncle! f*ck me, please, I’m so ready.”

Daemon pulled away from her cl*t momentarily, blowing on it gently before replying in a cool, even tone, “You are most certainly not ready for my co*ck, Little Princess. byka se ȳrda iksis skoros iksā.” Little and tight is what you are. He gave her ass a light smack before hooking his arms around her thighs and pulling her roughly back against his mouth.

He sucked her cl*t slowly, taking his time working her through the new sensations that ravished her body. Then he delved lower and further, allowing the deft muscle of his tongue to penetrate a few scant centimeters into her tight opening.

Rhaenyra wailed at this, lurching upwards and forwards she buried her fingers into her uncle’s hair and pressed his face firmly into her c*nt, demanding further friction and contact.

To appease her he returned his attention to her cl*t while pressing a finger against her opening. She gave easily, and he slipped inside up to the third knuckle, immediately settling into a steady crooking motion that had the Princess lifting her hips off of the bed in time.

When she was slick and wet enough, which didn’t take long, he added a second finger, spreading her open wider and reaching deeper.

“Oh please, Uncle,” she mewled. “Please, please, please, I’m so close.”

She was going to do that thing again. Coming, he’d called it. It was as if her body were balancing upon a precarious precipice, threatening to pitch over the edge into the bottomless abyss that was a rapturous org*sm.

Her walls began to tighten and flutter around him, insides pulsing with impending org*sm as he began to pick up the pace and apply more pressure to her cl*t. He pulled his face back slightly, allowing the edge of his teeth to just barely brush over her cl*t as her hips bucked and she came on his fingers with a shout.

There would be no doubt in the minds of the guards outside as to what was transpiring between uncle and niece behind the heavy doors of her chambers. But neither of them cared as Daemon slurped against her wet, swollen flesh, carrying her through the aftershocks of her second ever org*sm.

When he pulled away the bottom half of his face was shiny with her essence. She smiled at him as he wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. He smirked back before stepping off of the bed.

“What— oh,” he stripped himself free of his trousers, allowing his large co*ck to bounce then settle between his legs, the base wreathed in a neatly trimmed mass of gold-silver hair.

Rhaenyra stared at it for a long moment. Insides suddenly woefully empty. It was pinkish, angry looking and veined. Heavy enough that it hung low against his thigh, the head peeked out from the hood of his foreskin almost cutely, if it weren’t otherwise so imposing.

“Rōva,” big, she praised softly, and Daemon’s nostrils flared.

He did not ask if she was ready, they were well past that.

“Little Princess,” he growled as he pushed her back into the sheets, crawling up and over her body. He loomed over her, eyes dark, muscular body a line of tension as he reached between them and parted her sopping folds with the head of his thick co*ck. “My Little Princess.”

“Aōhon,” Yours. She nodded frantically, placing her hands on his shoulders. She bit her lip, looking between their bodies as he let himself glide through her folds, her essence glistening on his shaft.

“You’re my woman, now,” Daemon declared, voice low and rumbling in his chest, and then he sank into her in one swift movement, all the way to the hilt.

Rhaenyra gasped at the sting and stretch of his co*ck pushing into her c*nt. Something inside of her seemed to snap and give way at the size of him, and for a long moment she could only puff her cheeks and shift her hips as she tried to adjust to his intrusion.

Daemon gave her a single moment. A bead of sweat already forming on his temple from the effort of controlling himself. Then he began to f*ck her, slow at first, but building momentum to a steady pace. Their hips slapped, lewd sounds filling up the room in sweet carnal symphony as one dragon made love to another.

Rhaenyra winced through the first few pounds of his hips, but quickly began to find some pleasure in the stretch of his co*ck, and the friction of his shaft sliding along her walls. The sound of his heavy balls clapping against her ass had her panting and clawing at his shoulders and back. Leaving raised pink lines along the pale canvas of his skin.

“Mine,” Daemon chanted over her. “My Princess. ñuha byka dārilaros.” My Little Princess. “Mine, mine, f*ck, mine, mine.”

Rhaenyra nodded frantically, pulling him into a searing, sloppy kiss. Their teeth scraped, lips smacking wetly, and they groaned into each other’s mouths.

“Aōhon, aōhon, aōhon,” Yours, yours, yours.

Her hands dropped to grope at the firm globes of his ass, urging him into her harder and faster as she began to mount that precipice for the second time that night.

It was a kairotic, fateful moment of climax shared between the two of them. Prince and Princess. Uncle and Niece. Targaryen and Targaryen. Dragon and Dragon. The curse would be broken, the omen forestalled, but more than anything it was a rush of divine pleasure shared between two people.

Daemon lost all control, narrow hips beginning to jackknife his co*ck into the wet, hot, tight depths of Rhaenyra’s c*nt. She seemed to seize up around him, tightening and massaging in a way that had him roaring his pleasure over her. Frantically, he reached between their bodies and began to circle her cl*t with two deft fingers, desperate to bring her over the edge with him.

Rhaenyra bucked against him, meeting him thrust for thrust. The addition of his fingers had her wailing, back arching off of the mattress as his hips began to stutter and he delivered a few, deep, rough penultimate thrusts.

“Daemon!” She shouted his name, grip tightening on his ass as a rush of wet spread out from between her thighs, lubricating his final thrust as he sheathed himself and spilled into her. There was a bloom of wet heat between her thighs, and Rhaeyra saw white as she came.

They lay there in one another’s arms for some time, still joined though Daemon had begun to soften inside of her.

They panted and kissed lightly in the afterglow, savoring the casual intimacy that bloomed between them.

“I told you, you would make a fine sleeve for my co*ck,” Daemon teased as he finally pulled free, rolling onto his back and tugging Rhaenyra with him. She pillowed her head on his chest, tracing invisible designs into the sheen of sweat that covered his pecs.

“So that was f*cking?” She asked, innocently.

Daemon’s co*ck visibly twitched at the sweetness of her innocence, but alas he was too thoroughly used to make much use of himself.

“Yes,” he answered. “It’s different from what men and women are expected to do in the bed chamber.”

“How so?”

He ran a hand up her bare back, pulling her closer to him. A small smile graced his lips, “Married men and women are expected to copulate, nothing more. Here, this, what we did was real. It brought real pleasure.”

“Then we should do it again,” Rhaenyra propositioned, propping herself up on an elbow she gave a playful smile.

She’d never wanted to lie with a man, not before this. Not before her uncle. And she surely had no intentions of fulfilling marital duties with anyone, not after this.

“Hmmm,” Daemon hummed thoughtfully. “The curse is broken. Syrax and Ceraxes egg is accounted for. Your father would not approve.”

But he was only pretending to feign disinterested. Rhaenyra could tell, and so she kissed him lightly on the lips.

“And if I’m pregnant?” She teased.

His answer was low and suddenly serious. Voice dangerous he pulled her into another kiss, then whispered softly against her mouth, “Should you be pregnant, I will move mountains to ensure our son sits upon the Iron Throne. Perzys Ānogār. The Dance may be done but my duty is neverending.”

Rhaenyra shivered, sinking down against his chest once more.

“Stay the night,” she entreated.

He said nothing, but he stayed.

Chapter 3: Fire and Blood pt. 1

Chapter Text

A full moon came and went, and on the eve of autumn’s first day Rhaenyra, much to her sorrow, bled.

Her father was pleased at the news of her stained sheets, the King able to maintain the facade that his daughter and heir was chaste and pure. But Rhaenyra was bereaved at the loss of a child that never was; what she had come to view as the singular linchpin which would catapult her safely into the arms of the one man she truly wanted; her uncle.

One morning as they broke their fast Viserys spoke jovially over a rasher of crispy bacon, “Dear daughter, I have good news.”

Stomach sinking, Rhaenyra clutched her fork with white knuckles, lips tugging into a tight, forced smile. She had been remembering a rather pleasant dream in which Daemon took her in the sept beneath the eyes of the Seven. She was warm between her legs until her father spoke, then she instantly cooled. Body going rigid, uneasiness swirling in her gut.

“And what would that be, father?”

She already knew, she had sat in on many Small Council meetings as a cup bearer. She knew her hand would be sold off for a high price. She knew the value of her royal c*nt and womb.

“Now that all of this ‘Dragon Dance’ foolishness is behind us I have obtained on your behalf a grand match!”

Foolishness? She could have spagt with her outrage. She and Daemon had saved house Targaryen from a downfall to rival that of the Doom of Old Valyria.

She couldn’t help herself, “I am not some heifer to be sold off, your Grace. I am the heir to the Iron Throne.”

“You are not being sold off,” Viserys’ tone darkened.

Rhaenyra gave a snort of discontempt, laying her fork down on the table. She wanted desperately for a cup of wine at that moment, something hazey and warm to take the bitter edge off.

“Laenor Velaryon is your chosen suitor,” the King declared. “He is a fine lad, in time I am certain he will become as dear to you as your mother was to me.”

Laenor Velaryon… wasn’t the worst match she could imagine. She had met him in their shared childhood, and he was of Valyrian blood, just as she was. He was even bonded to a dragon, Seasmoke. A young mount, but nimble in the air. All in all he was well suited to serve as King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms.

But he was not Daemon Targaryen.

He wasn’t cunning like Daemon. Nor was he as tall. He was younger than Rhaenyra, not older. And his dragon was nothing compared to the majesty that was the Blood Wyrm Caraxes.

“Father,” Rhaenyra began in earnest, folding her hands primly in her lap and sitting up straight in her chair. “Have you considered the possibility that Syrax and Caraxes mating was a sign from the Seven, or even the Old Gods of Valyria?”

Viserys scowled, “What do you mean?”

She could tell he already took her meaning, but he wanted her to say it aloud anyways; perhaps it was some sort of verbal trap, or maybe he simply wanted to confirm something he found particularly unpalatable.

“I mean… father, what if Daemon and I are meant to be wed in the tradition of our house? Fire and blood, father. The ‘Dragon Dance’, the omen, it was all a sign.”

“I will not listen to this nonsense,” the King dropped his cutlery in a clatter. “You will not be wed to that lecher. He comes often enough to gain my forgiveness only to forsake it again for his own wants, Rhaenyra he is not fit to be King Consort, he is not equipped to govern, nor protect the realm. Whatever has transpired between the pair of you is in the past, and I will hear no more of this blather!”

The Princess pursed her lips, silencing herself in the face of her father’s outrage.

“Besides,” Viserys snapped, shoveling a spoonful of seasoned potatoes into his gullet. “Daemon has been promised to another since his lady wife passed. Laena. Laenor’s sister.”

Rhaenyra paled. That was right, she had forgotten in her own passions that her uncle was betrothed.

“I… must go,” she stood up swiftly gathering her skirts about her. “I, um, the septa, she had asked me to meet with her in the sept this morning and I forgot in my eagerness to break my fast.”

“Very well,” Viserys saw through her lie, but did not argue. He was the King, and he would have his way whether the Princess liked it or not.

Rhaenyra spent much of her morning wandering the red keep, pacing from room to room aimlessly, pondering her circ*mstances. She wanted to be queen, she wanted to rule. She could accept the reality of doing this with Laenor by her side, but her heart still ached for another. Her own uncle. The man who had surreptitiously claimed her maidenhead in an ancient carnal ritual meant to preserve the prosperity of their house. The man who touched her body with fingers like fire. The man who made her come with his fingers and his lips and his co*ck.

Daemon Targaryen.

Oh how she had hoped she would become with child. Oh how desperately she had prayed for that eventuality; before the shrine of the Mother in the sept, before the heart tree in the Godswood, even at the foot of her bed each night with the Gods of Old Valyria dancing namelessly behind her eyelids.

Eventually coming to a small outdoor courtyard which overlooked the city, the Princess leaned against the parapets and cupped her belly tenderly. If only his seed had taken hold and quickened, if only her body had not betrayed her, she and her father may have been having a very different conversation that morning.

Viserys loved his brother, even with all the misgivings he had towards the man, and he would not allow any son of his precious daughter and Daemon be born anything but a full-blooded Targaryen. If she were to become pregnant then Viserys’ hand would be forced in the matter.

But that chance had eluded her. Daemon was gone back to the Vale of Arryn to attend to some of his late wife’s estate. He was thousands of miles away. Sadly the love they made in her dreams would not do the job.

Sighing, she pressed her hand to the top of a parapet, peering off and into the distance where she spied the dragon pit atop Rhaenys’ hill. Perhaps a ride would clear her mind. She gave the order to her guard, who accompanied her through the familiar, crud-caked roads of King’s Landing to the dragon pit where Syrax awaited her.

The golden dragon practically purred as the dragon keepers saddled her; stretching her wings and preparing for flight.

Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile as the beast nosed her hand lightly, asking to be pet on her head, between her horns was her favorite spot.

“How is your egg?” The Princess asked as she stroked her fingers delicately across the dragon’s cool scales. “Do you miss Caraxes? Do dragons fall in love?”

Rhaenyra didn’t fancy herself in love, at least not yet. But she was certainly smitten in her own way. Smitten with her uncle, of all people.

Of course she received no answer but soft trills and snorts.

Over their heads the sky was overcast by a blanket of blue-grey clouds. They appeared like the undersides of waves on the Narrow Sea, giving a suffocating feeling to any who cared enough to peer up at them. But the air was cool with the coming autumn, the breeze only slight. A perfect day for flying in Rhaenyra’s opinion.

Once Syrax was saddled the Princess climbed upon her back, feeling the sturdiness of the dragon’s body under her hands and between her knees. She was reminded, as they pushed off of the dusty earth and began to ascend into the skies over the city, of her Uncle Daemon teaching her how to fly when she was very young.

The love between them then had been much more innocent than it was now, but the bond between them had still been present as he taught her how to take a beast between her thighs and ride.

First Caraxes with Daemon at her back, then Syrax, younger and smaller but swifter.

She longed for the simplicity of those far gone days. She longed to ride with her uncle again. To feel his sturdiness and warmth at her back as she made the sky her own.

The Princess leaned into her dragon’s neck, feeling the musculature flex beneath the thick sheath of her yellowy scales. The cool wind whipped in her face as they soared out over the Blackwater. Their reflection on the waves was naught but a pinprick when they reached the apex of their flight.

For a moment, taken by the wind, and the warmth of her dragon between her knees, and the sharp scent of the salt air, Rhaenyra Targaryen forgot all of her woes and worries. For a brief moment she was wind and sky, salt and fire and blood coursing through her veins as King’s landing became nothing more than a reddish speck against the rolling countryside of the crownlands.

She closed her eyes, breathing in the freedom.

And then she was nearly taken from the sky as Syrax collided with something much larger, redder, and more unwieldy in its flight as it emerged from a low hanging cloud.

“sh*t!” The Princess swore as they tumbled and began to plummet towards the black waters below. Syrax spun, twisting and righting her massive body as best she could as her wings beat desperately against the air. She shrieked in desperate panic as her rider adjusted and twisted with her.

Over them Caraxes was mostly unbothered, staggering only slightly before once more taking wing and rocketing himself through the air. He curved his neck downwards, cooing at Syrax lightly.

Rhaenyra’s violet eyes widened at the sight of him, a brilliant smile painting over her lips even as Syrax struggled to reorient herself in the sky.

“Uncle!” She shouted, and Daemon peeked over Caraxes’ long, writhing side to glance at his niece as Syrax finally regained full control of herself. He didn’t shout back, and he was too distant for her to make out his expression as he rode hard and fast back towards King’s Landing.

She followed after him, tailing him and eventually coming to fly side-by-side with him, wing tip to wing tip. She grinned, edging Syrax over slightly and causing Caraxes to jolt.

“Are you trying to kill me, dear niece?!” He shouted over the rush of wind and beat of leathery wings.

Rhaenrya only threw her head back and laughed loud and boisterous. The sort of sound she hadn’t made in months. Flying beside her uncle, even as they began to descend towards the dragon pit together, was an exhilarating experience. The wind whipped through their silvery hair, and the cloud muddled sun still managed to shine brightly in the violet of their irises.

For a brief few moments the Princess knew joy, and she wanted to never touch the ground again. She wanted to fly with her Daemon forever, to make the very skies their domain. The wind was their kingdom, the clouds their disparate castles.

They raced towards the city, thrashing one another lightly occasionally, laughing as their dragons snorted and shrieked in mild irritation.

When they landed in the dragon pit Rhaenyra dismounted quickly and ran to greet her uncle. It took great effort not to launch herself into his arms as he approached her with a co*cky half smile written across his handsome face. He had cut his hair, and it was tousled and wild from the wind.

He pushed it back and out of his face.

“Princess,” he greeted her, voice warm, familiar.

She remembered what he had called her when he f*cked her, Little Princess, and her core knotted at the memory of it. How could she ever be expected to behave normally around this man again after they had lain together in ritual copulation?

The ritual… she hadn’t gotten pregnant. She needed to tell him. Her expression fell some.

“Caraxes is making eyes at Syrax,” he observed as the keepers corralled the dragons. The Blood Wyrm was indeed peering at the golden dragon with a tilted head, fluting his vocals at her.

“Perhaps they shall have another egg,” Rhaenyra suggested, and her uncle gave her a knowing look.

“Perhaps. Though you may be wed by then.”

“You know already?” How long had Viserys kept that truth from her? Did Daemon already know she wasn’t with child? Was he disappointed? Did he share in her sadness and grief?

“Your father sent word to the Vale a week ago. I suspect for reasons I will… elaborate upon once we find ourselves with a bit more privacy,” he said.

Rhaenyra nodded, “It is past time for lunch, dear Uncle. Would you join me for some refreshments in the keep?”

“Certainly,” Daemon agreed, and he offered her his arm as the royal guard formed up around them. Perhaps it was too blatant a show of intimacy, but Daemon didn’t seem to give a single care, so neither did Rhaenyra.

They sat in the garden eating little sandwiches and sipping honied wine. A few guards loitered at a distance, but none drew near enough to eavesdrop on the low, subtle tones of the conversation between uncle and niece.

“Iksan daor lēda riña,” I am not with child, Rhaenyra admitted tearfully. She sniffed, holding back the floodwaters of her emotions, though her chest was tight and there was a stone in her throat.

Daemon’s expression fell, almost impercetably, “I suspected as much when your father sent word of your betrothal. gaomagon daor limagon. iksā gevie.” Do not cry. You are beautiful.

The Princess flushed slightly at the complement, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Why did he send word to you before informing me?” She asked.

“To vex me, I suspect,” Daemon rolled his eyes. “Or perhaps simply to dash my hopes of what could have been.”

Rhaenyra said nothing. They had shared in those hopes.

“Laenor?” Daemon said, raising his goblet, he pretended to be interested in burgundy liquid within the glass. He swirled it in his cup. “A Velaryon is a fine choice, if you ask me. Noble, and gentle that one. You can ask for little more in an arranged match, Princess.”

“I suppose,” she fiddled with her rings in her lap, her words were soft and demure, “But I do not want for gentleness, or nobility.”

“Oh?” Daemon lowered his goblet slightly, peering over the rim at her with a lavender stare. “Then what is it that you do want for, Princess?”

“If I cannot have what I want, then I would prefer solitude to becoming a broodmare, even to one as gentle and kind as Laenor is said to be.”

Daemon pondered this for a moment, gaze returning to his cup. Gingerly, he placed it on the table and leaned forward, eyes flashing indigo beneath the shadows of his long, pale lashes, “If you cannot have ‘what you want’? You could bring another generation of dragon riders into this world with that Valeryon boy.”

Swallowing thickly the Princess gave a self-assured nod, “Yes. I suppose I could.”

Then, she leaned forward as if in challenge and offered in High Valyrian so the guards had no chance of deciphering her words, “lēda ao kostan gaomagon keskydoso.” With you I could do the same.

“Niece.” Daemon retreated in faux shock.

“Uncle,” Rhaenyra replied, quirking a pale eyebrow.

They held one another’s gazes for a long moment, violet melding with deeper violet. Finally, Daemon broke their stare, reaching for his cup once more and sipping lightly of his wine. Rhaenyra lifted her own pewter goblet and did the same.

“ao daor ivestragon ra hae bona,” You cannot say such things. Demon’s voice was already smooth as honey, but in his mother tongue his tones were simply dripping with suave. Still, despite his warning, he reached forward and brushed a crumb from her cheek with his gloved thumb, “byka dārilaros.” Little Princess.

The words had Rhaenyra instantly wet and wanting between her legs, and she rubbed her thighs together discreetly, but she maintained a mask of contentedness outwardly, so as not to alarm any of their guard retinue or alert Daemon to the impact he had on her.

“You are sworn to Laena, Laenor’s sister,” Rhaenyra remarked. “Are you pleased with this match?”

“Better than my bronze bitch,” Daemon replied, a touch coldly. But when Rhaenyra scowled his tone warmed again. “I suspect we will see much of each other, being in-laws.”

“kessa daor sagon— it will not be—

“Enough?” Daemon finished for her. “It must be.”

“Daemon.” She glared at him, confused as to why he was suddenly so evasive. Had he not f*cked her silly? Had he not tried his damndest to get a child on her? Did he not want to be a King? Had he not just called her beautiful? Perhaps her father was right. Perhaps he was a simple lecher who had enjoyed deflowering his niece only to forsake her in the present.

He seemed to key on on her train of thought, because his eyes grew sad; apologetic, almost.

“Princess,” he began, and he reached forward to take her hands in his. His were sturdy and warm, even through the leather of his gloves. “kesi mazverdagon iā ñuhoso. Perzys Ānogār, lī issi īlva udra.” We will find a way. Fire and Blood, these are our words.

The Princess shivered slightly. Blood. She understood what it meant, then. Not the blood of their enemies, but that which ran in their very veins. Their dragon blood, meant to be guarded, cherished and kept pure. We will find a way.

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to reply, but at that very moment Ser Criston Cole appeared.

“Lord Daemon,” he said. “The King has summoned you to the Small Council chambers.”

By then the afternoon sun was beginning to hang low in the sky behind the clouds. A few drops of rain began to pepper their clothing.

“Me as well?” She asked.

Ser Cole shook his head, “No, Princess. Though Queen Alicent was looking for you from what I understand. Preparations are beginning for your wedding.”

Rhaenyra shuddered at the thought of spending even an ounce of her time with her stepmother, “Fine.”

“Rhaenyra,” Daemon said in warning as he stood to leave with Ser Cole. “Behave.”

“Of course, Uncle,” she batted her lashes at him, and when he gave her a knowing look she poked her tongue past her lips in his direction.

He smiled.

That night, after hours of sorting through fabrics and patterns and tasting of dozens of little cakes, Rhaenyra stumbled exhaustedly into her quarters. Alicent had spared no expense towards her once-friend, and though now their interests were not always aligned, she still seemed to care, somewhat.

Whatever motivated the Queen, it was too much for the Princess, who was now thoroughly sick and tired of people.

There was a fire burning low in the hearth and a small plate of biscuits sitting on her table. Beside them was a sack. A conspicuous thing, one she had not placed there herself.

Ignoring the biscuits, she opened the sack to reveal a pile of filthy peasant clothes. She raised to tunic to sniff it, and found it was scented of vomit and beer. She winced.

“What is this?” She whispered to herself, rustling through the rest of the bag’s contents. Trousers, shoes, a hat. When she reached the bottom she found a simple scroll of parchment bound in a plain black wax seal.

Breaking the seal, she found a small hand drawn map, and a series of instructions written in High Valyrian.

Little Princess. Follow this map through the secret halls of the red keep. I will meet you outside. Do not forget to dress appropriately, we will be disguised as common folk. Fire and Blood.

-Your Uncle.

Tugging the tunic over her head, she grinned.

Fire and blood. Perzys Ānogār.

Blood of her blood. She would gladly meet him in the night. Perhaps she would become pregnant yet.

Chapter 4: Fire and Blood pt. 2

Chapter Text

He was hooded when she met him on the stairs outside of the castle, near the cistern. Silver hair peeking out from beneath the drooping, dark fabric, he greeted her with a wry smile, eyes cast the deepest indigo in the shadows. Immediately, without a word, he took her hand.

Where he ordinarily wore gloves his hand was now bare, and she could feel the many calluses that lined his fingers as he interwove them with hers. His touch was like fire on her skin, as though he were drawing the very flames from her dragon blood.

“Come,” he beckoned, quiet and cool. “Little Princess.”

The endearment sent a shiver straight up her spine.

“Where are we going?”

“To carouse as ordinary folk do, my niece,” he gave her a sideways glance and a small, smug smile. “If you are to rule you should know how your people live by night.”

Rhaenyra could not contain the small sound of delight that fled her lips. She squeezed his warm hand, appreciating the size of it compared to her own. How he dwarfed her in so many ways. And yet he was wrapped around her little finger, she knew it to be true.

“Here,” they stopped at a small, poorly lit pub called the Winking Skeever. On its low hanging sign, illuminated poorly by the lights from within, was an unfortunately painted rat with one eye closed in a wink.

Daemon tapped the sign, causing it to swing on its hinges, creaking loudly at the rust rubbed. A few drunken rabble rousers stumbled out and over the threshold of a rickety door. They reeked of piss and beer. Tentatively, Rhaenyra sniffed the air; it stank of sweat and of putrid filth. In the distance she heard a woman shriek with laughter.

“Come,” Daemon squeezed her hand and led her inside.

The quarters were cramped with foul smelling bodies dressed in filthy clothing. The bar was packed, but Daemon managed to claim them a small round table in the far corner, in the shadows to help to disguise their true identities. A gold cloak sat nearby with a stout woman in his lap, and Daemon pulled his hood in tighter about his high cheekbones to prevent himself from being recognized.

He fetched them some drinks from the barmaid, two flagons of dark ale sloshing and frothing to fullness.

“Have you ever been drunk, sweet thing?” He asked of her as he placed the flagon in front of her.

“Not really,’ she admitted sheepishly. “Only a little warm from wine at supper.”

Her uncle grinned, “Then drink, byka dārilaros.” Little Princess.

Rhaenyra sat up straighter in her chair, shifting her head as if to push her hair back when it was really all trapped beneath her hat. She squared her shoulders, then took a tentative sip; the liquid was bitter, but somehow also a touch sweet. She drank more deeply of it, letting a rivulet of foam run down from the corner of her mouth.

When she had drained a third of the tankard she set it down, drawing in a deep breath as the ale bubbled in her belly, pleasant and warm.

Daemon reached out with a thumb, wiping away the extant ale that stained her cheek.

“I am not so little anymore,” the Princess declared, giving a proud incline of her chin. “I dare say I am a woman grown, dear uncle.”

The wayward Prince gave a slight snort, sipping of his own drink, “The drink makes you bold, little one.”

Rhaenyra took another swig, feeling warm from her fingers to her toes. Perhaps the alcohol did embolden her, but she was not about to let this chance pass her by. She would prove herself to her uncle, he would make love to her again, she would get with child, she would marry him. It was a shaky plan, reliant on many, many variables which were out of her control, but it was all she had in her half-drunk state.

And then there was the simple fact of her mother’s death which horrified her more than anything else, conflicting with her own desire to become a mother to kings.

“I must be bold if I am naejot sagon dāria,” to be queen, she repeated herself, grinning up at him co*ckily, still sober enough to speak the incriminating words in High Valyrian. “I am not so little anymore.”

Daemon’s expression darkened, eyes hardening slightly in the flickering shadows of the pub, ever moody, he replied, “Do grown women have their husbands chosen for them?”

Rhaenyra reeled for a moment. Taking another draw of her ale before and pondering his sudden change of cadence for a single drunken moment. Yes. All across the Seven Kingdoms noble women were betrothed against their will each day. What was he implying? That she renounce her throne? That she become common? Anger flared in her chest, her face reddened and she could have spat at his feet, she was so outraged by his presumptuous attitude.

“It is not my choice,” she hissed, low and dangerous across the table.

Daemon leaned forward, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger he tugged her face closer to his. His smile was teasing, goading, all of his severity melted away in an instant, “You are naejot sagon dāria, you say? You have a choice.”

“iksan daor dāria,” I am not queen. She said, “Not yet, at least. My father’s will supersedes my own.”

Daemon hummed, then dropped his hand, leaning backward into his chair once more. He crossed his arms over his chest and said so softly his niece had to strain to hear him, “If you could choose…”

“You,” she said, instantly.

Daemon smiled, small and confident. Then he drained his ale, and indicated for Rhaenyra to do the same to hers. When they were through he left some coin on the table and took her hand again leading her as she stumbled slightly back out and onto the filthy streets of Kings Landing.

They ate street food and visited blind, elderly fortune teller who had laid her carpet down on the side of the street.

“Would you like to know your death?” She chanted at Rhaenyra.

The Princess only nibbled her lip, cheeks warm from the ale, and let her uncle lead her away, excited by all of the strangeness and revelry that surrounded them.

They ended up at another tavern, this one called the Dancing Dragon.

“Quaint,” the Princess commented as they passed up the swinging sign adorned with the image of a dragon twisted in dance. She knew of another sort of dragon dance, the sort that had her drunken mind reeling with the sudden onset of lurid memories that made her face hot and her core warm.

Daemon bought them harder drinks this time. The glasses they were served in were perfectly clear, and the liquid itself was an amber-brown color.

“You’re meant to sip this,” he explained, raising the glass to his lips, which he promptly drained with a few bobs of his throat. When he slammed the glass back down onto the table he did so coughing lightly, a smile gracing his handsome visage. “It goes down like wildfire.”

Rhaenyra copied his actions only to sputter and choke on the bitter, fiery liquor that seared her throat and tongue. She swallowed a full mouth of it painfully, blinking back stinging tears as she gasped for air, slumping forward and onto their table.

“I did say to sip it,” Daemon chided, but still he was smirking at her. Mischief flashed behind his violet eyes.

Rhaenyra gave a hard swallow, not yet impacted by the liquor, but the ale was beginning to take hold of her body which was unacquainted to such a quantity of alcohol. Taking notice of her increased drunkenness, her Uncle took her glass and finished the rest of the liquor for her, before she could do any more damage to her ailing taste buds.

“You are becoming quite drunk, byka dārilaros.” He co*cked a pale brow in her direction, then he leaned across the table, gathering her hands in his, he whispered. “Perhaps we should return to the keep.”

“I am not little,” Rhaenyra insisted, ignoring the threat of returning home for the night. She could tell he wasn’t serious. “And I am not drunk.”

Daemon reached out and cupped her cheek, thumb passing lightly over the bow of her lips, “Hmmm, no more drink for you tonight, I think. Though I will have another.”

He procured two more glasses of the amber liquid from the barmaid, dropping some coin onto the bar in exchange. When he returned to the table he drank them both, one after the other, as if the foul fluid didn’t sting like fire on the gullet.

When he was done, he cleared his throat and stood, “Come now. I want to take you somewhere special.”

His voice was suddenly thick with the alcohol, words slurring slightly, though Rhaenyra figured that could also be her own drink-addled ears mishearing him. She felt heavy and light at the same time, as if she were floating atop a sea of rolling molasses. Her skin was warm and her breath was hot and she felt more like a dragon than she ever had before in her entire eighteen years.

“I feel good,” She said, stumbling along behind her Uncle, who was also beginning to slow and falter some.

“Good,” he answered, “You deserve a night of freedom, Little Princess.”

She flushed more deeply at the endearment, and seized his hand more tightly, tugging him off of his path and backwards towards her. Cloaked in shadows, she backed him up against a high, brick wall and stood on her toes, taking his mouth in a hungry kiss.

“I want you,” she begged into his mouth. Then, stronger, more commanding, she declared, “I will have you.”

Daemon made a small sound in the back of his throat, then kissed her again, deep and tasting of dragon fire. Then he pulled away, taking her hands in his.

“We will continue this elsewhere,” he said, words slurring slightly. He pulled off her hat, discarding it in some putrid corner as he led her around a bend, exposing her sliver-gold hair for all to see. “Where there are fewer eyes to spy and ears to listen.”

He led her to the Street of Silk and into some nameless brothel. The air was heavy and heady with the scents of perfume, sweat, and sex. The open floor building was filled with the soft moans of the whor*s and their patrons alike. Daemon led her from room to room by her hand. Past couples kissing and licking and coupling in the shadows. The lighting was dim and greenish, casting everything sickly pale.

“Marriage…” Daemon exhaled, voice low and smooth in a way that made Rhaenyra shiver. They paused for a moment before a display of multiple people all tangled up in one another, f*cking and kissing tasting. Rhaenyra watched in pure fascination. “...is a duty.”

“But f*cking…” he led her into another room, down a flight of cobble stairs. It was darker, and there were various couples paired off in varying states of undress and copulation. Daemon turned her towards him, forehead pressing to hers as he took her waist in his large hands. “f*cking is a pleasure.”

Rhaenyra let out a shuddering breath, hands raising to rest on his shoulders as they swayed back and forth, drinking up one another’s liquor heavy breaths.

“You’ve f*cked me,” she said, glancing down at his lips again and again, alternating between them and the black pools of his eyes.

“I’ve had sex with you, Little Princess.”

She flushed deeply at the word. Not knowing what to say, she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the mouth. He let her, but did not kiss her back. When she dropped back down onto the flats of her feet, he raised a hand to cup her cheek, letting his thumb brush delicately over her lower lip.

“I want to f*ck you, ñuha dāria.” my queen. He exhaled like promise.

And she knew in that moment that he would do whatever she said, complete any task she asked of him. Daemon Targaryen was hers. Her man. Her knight. Her uncle.

All she could do was reply in a quavering tone, “Yes.”

And Daemon kissed her like a man starved for air, drowning beneath the waves, like her mouth, her lips, her tongue were the oxygen his lungs craved, needed to survive. He held her face in both hands and she cupped the back of his neck, kissing him with equal fervor. Her finger trailed up the back of his neck, feeling the gooseflesh she raised there as she curled her digits into his short hair.

He walked them backwards, stepping between each hungry kiss, until her shoulders thumped lightly against a damp, crumbling brick wall. He pulled back, breathing heavy through flared nostrils as he undid the lacings on the front of her tunic.

Everything else faded into nothing as he kissed the tops of her breasts lightly, hands dropping to grip her hips, thumbs circling on the soft flesh beneath her tunic. All of the salacious luridness which surrounded them was drowned out by the volume of his touch and the shadows in his lavender eyes. His touch was electric, his breath the sweetest of liquors against her skin and tongue. He flipped her around and she caught herself against the wall with her palms, gasping softly as he kissed her neck and shoulder, marking her with his teeth and tongue, laying his claim thoroughly into her skin.

Hands sliding around her front, he cupped her chest before dropping to unlace her trousers, which he shucked off of her in an easy motion as they had already been ill-fitting.

“f*ck me,” she breathed pleadingly. She was throbbing and burning between her legs, c*nt fluttering, desperate to be filled by something long and hard and hot. Something imposing that would bring tears to her eyes and stretch her to her very limit.

Bending her slightly forward he kissed the shell of her ear and grunted, “Gladly.”

Here, dressed down as they were, they were totally anonymous, just another couple enjoying the night, drunkenly savoring one another’s flesh. They were neither Prince nor Princess within the lurid halls of the whor* house. They were simple folk. Animals in rut, heady and desperate and hungry.

She felt his co*ck, hard and heavy, press against her back. The tip of it, beaded with precum, dragged down between her cheeks and finally settled against the soft, dewy folds of her puss*.

Fingers curling against the rough hewn brick, Rhaenyra whimpered and pressed back against him. Daemon took his time with her, wetting himself between her lips with long, languid strokes that always ended when his co*ckhead bumped her cl*t, drawing tiny noises of pleasure past her lips.

“ñuha dāria,” My queen. His tongue traced the shell of her ear, and she realized with a hot shudder that he was renouncing his claim to the throne as he laid claim to her body. The realm would be hers, but she would always be his. His Queen. His Little Princess. His woman.

He penetrated her slowly, with a series of small, jerking thrusts that made Rhaenyra bite her lip until she tasted blood on her tongue, sharp and metallic, cutting through the lingering liquor.

When he finally bottomed out, Daemon stilled for a moment, and when Rhaenyra glanced back over her shoulder she found him picturesquely basking in the sensations of her body enveloping him Her uncle’s eyes were shut, head thrown back, lips parted in ecstasy as his hands held her hips flush to his body.

The sight was enough to send another pleasurable shudder through her body, tightening the muscles that sheathed him. He groaned in response, then, slowly, he began to cant his hips in an even rhythm. Only ever pulling out a few inches before sheathing himself again he f*cked her deep and steady, balls clapping loudly against her rear.

“You’re so tight, Little Princess,” he groaned into her ear, nipping the back of her neck lightly, playfully. She arched back as if she meant to take him impossibly deeper. “So tight for me.”

“Just you,” she promised, knuckles white against the wall, wetness dripping down her quivering thighs. “Only you, dārilaros qilōni iksin daor.” Prince who was not.

Daemon picked up his pace at the teasing slight, exactly as Rhaenyra had anticipated he would. Her answering wails at the sudden onslaught of his co*ck drowned out those of the other women in the pleasure house.

Pace faltering slightly as he leaned over her back, he nipped her shoulder again before sinking a broad hand into the hair at the base of her neck. He didn’t pull as an amatuer might, but he twisted, filling up his fingers with silver-blonde locks and gaining better leverage over her body in the process.

Dameon began to pull her back into him with each thrust, their flesh slapping lewdly, the sound echoing off of the dingey walls and low ceiling. ‘

A few sets of curious eyes had turned to them by then, watching uncle and niece embrace one another in glorious f*cking. Daemon’s hood slipped off of his head, but he didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he didn’t care. Rhaenyra could only slam her fists into the wall at the pleasurable stretch of her c*nt and take everything that her uncle gave her.

When he began to twitch and swell inside of her, and her walls began to flutter and tighten in response, he pulled out abruptly, leaving her starkly empty and whining with outrage.

“Why— Eep!”

He twisted her body around, pressing her back against the wall and scooping her up and off of her feet in his powerful arms. He immediately sank her back onto his co*ck, one hand raising to plant against the brick as he resumed f*cking her in earnest.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, peppering kisses over her whole face as he f*cked into her at an ever quickening pace. “So good, Rhaenyra. My Little Princess. f*ck. My Queen.”

It was a risk, speaking her name aloud in such a place. But the sound of it from his lips had the Princess hurtling rapidly towards her own release. Her hands curved into talons beneath his loose fitted shirt, raking pretty pink lines over the pale, scarred skin of his muscular back. Her heels dug into the small of his back, urging him harder as he began to jackknife into her without any real rhythm.

“Spill inside of me, Daemon,” She begged between sloppy, fast kisses, using his name without care. The wall began to chafe against her back as he f*cked her into the bricks, but she didn’t care. The slight discomfort only served to contribute to the overall sensation of being f*cked senseless in a brothel by her uncle dearest.

Her heels curved harder, digging almost painfully into his back as she began to tighten and flutter around him. All of the heat in her body pooled between her thighs, as she continued to beg.

“Give me a baby, Daemon. Give me a byka dārilaros,” tears of absolute pleasure were pooling in her eyes as she babbled on and on. Clasping around him like a vice she came with a series of curses on her lips, followed by more soft pleading for a child as Daemon delivered a few deep, rough, penultimate thrusts.

“Do it,” she begged. “Do it, do it, do it. Fill me up.”

Nostrils flaring, he seated himself and came with a pulsing wave of warmth in her center. He kissed her hungrily through the aftershocks, and when he was through he let her down onto coltish legs.

Noticing that people were staring, Rhaenyra rushed to right her clothes, trousers smearing the cum that leaked down her thigh. Daemon tucked himself back into his trousers and watched her in silence, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Daemon, I—

“Shhhh,” he shushed her, sensing her mounting anxiety. They had been seen. They had cried out each other’s names as they f*cked. He caged her against the wall once more, peppering reassuring kisses up the column of her throat. Then he pressed his forehead to hers, smiling his small, co*cksure smile, “Imagine, the future King of the Seven Kingdoms conceived in a brothel.”

Rhaenyra gave an anxious chuckle, hands raising to caress over his clothed shoulder. She was already pleasantly sore between her legs, “Or Queen.”

“My seed begets sons,” Daemon declared, now the the rush and heat of sex had waned the drunkeness was taking full hold of them both again. He kissed her sloppily, and she kissed him back with equal fervor.

The eyes of strangers had all returned to their own activities. The royal couple left to kiss and caress in what little privacy the brothel offered.

Rhaenyra would need to return to the red keep before the sun rose.

The sky was still dark. The moon hung high above the streets of King’s Landing. There were hours still until the dawn.

Chapter 5: What Fire Cannot Kill

Chapter Text

She dreamed of a fiery mountain. High was its peak and deep was its caldera sloshing with fire and molten rock. The insides of the great peak churned and bubbled and belched noxious gas into the smoke choked air.

Sitting aside Syrax’s mighty back, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen circled the high rim of the volcano. Below it all of Valyria burned, but she remained above all of the chaos, the screams, the choking sobs of the burned and the damned. In her hands she clutched an egg; scaled, shimmering violet with flecks of silver ingrained into its surface.

It was unbearably hot, but she could not let go no matter how badly it scalded her palms.

What is this? She wanted to cry, but she had no voice, all she could do was watch as Old Valyria sundered and smoldered as a sea of molten stone overflowed from the lip of the mighty mountain.

Syrax carried them higher and higher, circling the mouth of the volcano. The smoke was thick enough to crust inside of her mouth and throat, and yet she could still breathe. It was as though the soot invigorated the princess, making her more awake, aware, alive.

Valyria burned and suffocated, but Rhaenyra breathed the fire like it was air.

Then the dragon unleashed a triumphant roar and spread her wings wide then pulled them tight to her sides. The egg did not jostle or jump through any of the movement, as though it were soldered to her palms. Like an arrow pointed downward into the caldera Syrax fell, and Rhaenyra with her, down and down and down they spiraled and the Princess had never felt more free than in this death-dive.

They struck the surface of the lava and a plume of molten red and white sprung up around them, they were enveloped in scalding heat. But the Princess did not burn, and when the egg touched the lava it began to quiver and crack; lilac scales splintering as a tiny draconic face emerged from within, quickened by the heat. It squawked softly as Rhaenyra came to stand within the molten rock, cradling the baby to her chest. It had silver scales and eyes of the deepest lilac.

Fire could not kill a dragon.

Whatever was to come, the Princess would endure.

She woke in a pool of sweat, still feeling the heat of the flames upon her pale skin. Her hair was stuck to her neck, and her palms still burned from the heat of the egg. Swallowing thickly, the Princess cupped her middle through her thin sleep gown, taking the dream to mean two things.

It had only been a scant few nights since her tryst with her uncle but she was sure of it, she could feel it in her blood; she was most certainly with child. That was what the egg and hatchling had represented. As for the rest of it? The meaning was less clear, but she suspected there was some unknown turmoil stirring on the horizon. Something she must endure. A great fire which only the dragon could survive.

And Rhaenyra was nothing if not a dragon.

Excited and anxious about the prospect of pregnancy she sprang from beneath her coverlet and raced to her balcony, peering out and across the keep towards the quarters her uncle occupied during his stay. She wanted to tell him of her dream, to explain to him what its meaning must have been. But it seemed he had not yet stirred from slumber.

Was she a dreamer, now? Like the ancestor called Daenys had been when she predicted the fall of old Valyria? All of it was so very exciting that she nearly went tearing out of her quarters without dressing herself first.

Peeking her head out, she found Ser Criston Cole on watch.

“Please call so I might break my fast,” she asked, a small secretive smile pulling at her lips. “And send attendants as well. I wish to dress and begin my day early.”

And early it was. Shafts of golden-orange sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting the walls with their luminosity. The air was cool and a soft breeze carried across her balcony and into the gardens below.

She ate a quick meal of eggs and porridge to break her fast, then dressed with the help of her attendants in a gown of pale lilac silk which brought out the lavender of her eyes.

Giddy, she practically skipped through the halls of the red keep, following the familiar path to her uncle’s quarters. Ser Criston Cole was fast behind her, white cape billowing as he trailed along loyally and without complaint.

When she reached her uncle’s rooms she turned to Ser Cole and said with as much demureness as she could manage, “If you would please wait outside? I’ll only be a moment. I must have a word with my uncle.”

After a moment of deliberation the Kingsguard relented, “As you say, Princess.”

She cracked the door to Daemon’s chambers without knocking. Slipping into the dark room. The curtains were drawn over the windows and in the massive four-poster bed Daemon slept on top of his covers, bare chested. On his side, arms wound around his pillow as though he were cradling another person to his chest.

Rhaenyra crept up and onto the mattress, waddling forward on her knees with her dress hiked up so as not to tear it. She laid down beside him, facing him, and caressed a delicate finger along the bow of lips, then descending from the corner of his mouth to trace along the line of his sharp jaw.

“Uncle,” she whispered. And his violet eyes fluttered open.

Initially he blinked at her in confusion. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the low light and he fully comprehended her presence with him he seized her by her hips and rolled her onto her back. Rhaenyra bit back a shriek of laughter as he pinned her to the mattress by her wrists, both held in a single broad palm.

“Ser Criston Cole is just beyond the door,” she warned breathlessly, still unable to refrain from smiling. She struggled playfully against his hold on her, but he did not relent.

He pressed a tender kiss to her throat, then another to her exposed collar bone before he finally elected to let her up to sit beside him on the bed.

“What brings you to me so early, my niece? I was dreaming rather sweetly when you interrupted my slumber,” his tone was goading and playful, and he pushed a tendril of hair behind her ear as he spoke.

Rhaenyra nibbled her lip, still feeling decidedly giddy, but she withheld that which weighed most heavily on her tongue in favor of playing along, “And what were you dreaming of, my Prince?”

Daemon hummed low and rumbling in his bare chest. He co*cked his head to the side as he continued to play with that lock of hair, eyes hooded as though he were considering it deeply, “Of a woman, of course.”

Jealousy flamed through Rhaenyra’s blood like righteous fire, but she smiled sweetly anyways, “Oh?”

“Oh, my dear, are you jealous?” Daemon teased, he twisted his head in the opposite direction, angling his mouth towards hers. “You are the only woman who occupies my dreams, Little Princess.”

They kissed then, slow and patient and easy. Daemon tasted of sleep and the wine he had drunk before bed. Rhaenyra savored the bitterness of it as his tongue invaded her mouth.

When they parted, Daemon gave her a genuine smile and asked, “So what brings you to me at such an hour?”

Rhaenyra bit her lip again, sitting up straighter. Her hands dropped to her belly and she she sucked in a steadying breath.

“I, too, had a dream,” She confessed.

“Oh?” Daemon co*cked his head, gazing at her affectionately.

Giving a slight nod she continued, “I am with child. I am certain of it.”

Daemon blinked, “You… dreamt this?”

“Yes,” perhaps it was not so plain as she made it sound, but she was certain of the dream’s meaning.

“Fancy yourself a dreamer then, do you?” Daemon teased, but already one of his hands had dropped to her belly to cover her own. “Have you heard the tale of Daenys the Dreamer? It runs in our blood as surely as fire.”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra agreed. Then she added, “Father will have no choice but to wed us now. He won’t suffer a bastard, not from me, not from his heir.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, “My brother is most jovial, yes, but he is also a deeply stubborn man. His stubbornness is the only thing that has kept Aegon of the Hightower girl from replacing you as heir.”

The Hightower girl. That he referred to his Queen so flippantly spoke volumes as to what he thought of her.

“Our child will be heir,” Rhaenyra insisted.

“Oh yes, he shall be,” Daemon replied, though his voice tilted into the uncertain as the Princess moved, dropping to her knees in front of him. She gave a smile that could only be described as adorable, as she palmed the front of his trousers, bringing him to full hardness almost immediately.

“Byka dārilaros?” Little Princess. He whispered the endearment in confusion, which quickly cleared as Rhaenyra began to unlace his trousers.

“Ser Cole is just beyond the door,” she whispered, hushed and urgent. “It excites me that you might use me when he is so close, Uncle.”

Daemon gave a co*cky half smile, pushing a strand of hair away from her face and leaned back on the heels of his hands. Perfectly content to allow her to do whatever she pleased with his body, “Oh? Use you?”

“And you gave me a baby,” She fished his co*ck out of his underclothes, thick, long, erect in her palm. It pulsed lightly under her touch as she traced a curious finger along the vein on his underside. “I want to thank you properly.”

The rogue prince licked his lips, watching her with hooded indigo eyes, “Then thank me, byka dārilaros. Show me how thankful you are.”

She began by placing a delicate kiss on the tip of his co*ck, hand holding him lightly before she tightened her grip and began to stroke him slowly, and without rhythm. With her lips pressed to his she gazed up at him with playful violet eyes, batting her lashes demurely. Daemon looked wholly amused by her teasing, and he raised a brow in question, as if to say; Is that all?

Taking his challenge, she poked her tongue past her lips and pushed his co*ck backward, licking a long hot stripe up the length of his shaft. When she reached the head she teased his glans lightly, before finally opening her pretty lips and sucking the tip past them.

Daemon’s nostrils flared, and his head rolled to the side in what could only be a show of immense restraint. His knuckles fisted on the bed, and he watched intently as she suckled him between her plush lips, drawing salty precum into her mouth. She made a face at the taste of it, but kept sucking, slowly descending down his shaft until she had gone as far as her anatomy would allow.

“sȳz riña,” Good girl. He praised softly in that roguish, sly tone of his. And he stroked her hair as she sucked and bobbed and stroked that which she could not take into her mouth.

Rhaenyra began to make small noises in earnest, seeking to draw his pleasure from him. Abruptly, she pulled him out of her mouth and slapped his sloppy tip against her plush lips. Earning a groan which the Prince muffled into a fist.

The Princess could tell by his expression that he was already nearing his peak, showing none of the stamina he had shown during their previous trysts. Entirely beholden to the wet, hot suction of her mouth.

“f*ck,” he cursed softly as she took him into her mouth once more, tongue circling as she lowered herself on his shaft. “You defile yourself for me, little princess. I am f*cking the face of the Seven Kingdoms.”

He made no effort to keep his voice down as he praised her in delight, “Good girl. sȳz riña. sȳz riña.”

With one small hand Rhaenyra reached up to cup his balls as she continued to hum lightly in addition to her sucking. It was enough to bring the rogue prince over the edge. He grunted a few times, breathlessly, as he came into her mouth; filling up her palate with the tangy taste of his essence.

Opening her mouth, the Princess showed him everything he had given her before tilting her head back and swallowing with a pronounced gulp.

The Prince leaned forward, and Rhaenyra was uncertain if he meant to kiss her, or seize her jaw in his hand when there came an urgent knock on the door.

“Princess?” Ser Cole called through the thick, carved wood.

The Princess in question rebounded onto her feet as Daemon rushed to tuck his spent co*ck away and then pull a loose fitting tunic over his head. By the time Rhaenyra reached the door they were both presentable again, if not a bit flushed and tousled.

“Yes, Ser Cole? I just finished conversing with my dearest Uncle. Might we go for a stroll in the gardens now?” Her smile was bright, wide and obviously false.

Criston peered around her to find Daemon watching on in boredom, leaning against one of the four posts of his bed, checking the beds of his nails.

“Ummm, my apologies Princess, but the King has summoned you to the throne room. Both of you.”

“Oh?” Rhaenyra’s false smile fell from her face. She hadn’t spoken with her father since Daemon had f*cked her in the brothel. She knew that rumors were circling King’s Landing, that they had been spotted by some street urchin out for coin. But she hadn’t expected her father to believe them. He was her heir, she was meant to be above such frivolities as sex and carousing.

Daemon straightened.

“Give me just a moment and I will escort the Princess, Ser Cole.”

“I don’t think the King—

“The King is not here at present, is he?” Daemon glanced around mockingly, “I will escort her. She is safe with me. I am her Uncle after all.”

Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile smugly, hands dropping to her middle in what was already becoming an instinctive pattern of behavior.

Daemon dressed in simple trousers and a red and black doublet emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of their house. On his hip he wore dark sister openly and proudly.

“Come, Niece,” he commanded as they left his quarters. Ser Cole still trailed them, as was his assigned duty to the Princess, but he kept a healthy distance, falling back much further than usual.

“ziry gīmigon,” he knows, Rhaenyra said softly.

Daemon did not respond, but she could see the muscles working in his jaw as he mulled over their current circ*mstances.

Alright, she thought,I suppose I can think through this on my own.

If she was going to marry Daemon, they were going to have to reveal the truth of their relationship eventually. Especially now that she was certain she was with child. There would be no hiding it, not for long. Though she had hoped to reveal the truth of her condition on her own terms, she supposed they could work under these new circ*mstances.

Her father would have no choice but to marry her to Daemon, she was certain of it.

When they reached the throne room they found no guard waiting inside, only outside of the two massive doors which shut swiftly and silently at their backs. Sitting his throne was King Viserys, sword drawn, the point of it pressed to the floor at his feet. His gaze was deadly, violet eyes sharp as the swords which surrounded his body.

Rhaenyra and Daemon walked forward silently, keeping step with one another. When they reached the foot of the dais Viserys motioned for them to kneel, and so they did.

“You know why I have called you here,” he began, low voice deathly quiet, yet somehow it seemed to echo off of the walls and ceiling with its importance.

Rhaenyra only swallowed as Daemon answered.

“We haven’t the slightest clue, brother,” he gave a roguish smile. One which Viserys did not seem to be taken by.

“A vile rumor has been brought to my attention by no less than Otto Hightower,” the King continued, accusatory and intense. “That the pair of you were seen coupling in a pleasure house on the Street of Silk not three nights ago.”

His voice was trembling with outrage.

For once Daemon did not speak. He did not plead their innocence, nor did he declare their guilt. Rhaenyra realized after a long, pained silence that he was leaving that decision up to her; to admit their guilt and plead for mercy or hide the pregnancy as long as her body would allow. Would they run away? She didn’t like that idea. She was to be Queen, afterall, and what sort of Queen willingly fled her castle.

She was distinctly aware of the taste of Daemon’s cum on her tongue as she sucked in a steadying breath, then answered with as much conviction as she could muster; “It is true, father.”

Viserys looked as though he might collapse on the Iron Throne. His eyes fell shut and he shook his head weakly.

“Father—

“No,” he cut her off soundly. “No I cannot have this. Not only my brother, but my daughter, my heir, my own issue betrays me.”

“We have betrayed no one,” Daemon countered, tongue sharp, eyes steely.

“You have. You have despoiled my heir, Daemon,” Viserys lamented. “The Velaryons will want nothing of her now.”

“I am to be Queen,” Rhaenyra argued. “Every man in the Seven Kingdoms wants me despoiled or no.”

Viserys shifted on the throne, eyes passing quickly between his two charges, “We will work to quell these rumors. Daemon, you are to return to Dragonstone and prepare to wed Laena Velaryon. Rhaenyra you will atone for your sins in the Starry Sept before you are to be wed to Laenor. I will speak discreetly with the Grand Maester to account for your transgression.”

The Princess’ hands flew to her middle protectively, but before she could even begin to protest Daemon was speaking.

“Brother, you say no man will want her now, but I want her. Give me Rhaenyra. Give her to me and we shall be wed in the tradition of our house,” his entreaty was sincere, voice earnest.

“What?!” The King shouted. And he rose to his feet, sword in hand. “You test me, Daemon. Do you wish to make me a kinslayer, brother? If you lay another hand on my daughter I will—

“I’m pregnant!” Rhaenyra declared before her father could finish the threat. Both men became deathly still, two sets of lilac eyes trained on her as she continued. “I dreamed I flew over the Doom of Valyria. I dreamed Syrax carried me into a volcano and as I endured the fires I hatched a dragon.”

Daemon’s expression fell markedly at the revelation of the truth behind her prophetic dream.

Viserys, now looming over them like an arbiter of judgment, began to laugh.

“What is this, daughter?” He guffawed, and Rhaenyra cowed at the sound, “You fancy yourself a dreamer now? Poppyco*ck. Farce, I declare. Rhaenyra if you are with child the Maesters will find a way to undo it. Daemon. Leave King’s Landing at once.”

“But—

“Your King has given you a command.”

Rhaenyra’s lower lip trembled, “...yes, my King.”

The pair were immediately separated upon exiting the throne room. Daemon was seized upon by several guards, whom he immediately resisted with dark sister in hand. But Rhaenyra called out to him as Criston Cole led her away, “Daemon,sagon sȳz, syt nyke!” Be good, for me!.

The last she heard of her beloved uncle was the clash of steel on steel, before a sudden silence, followed by a muffled, soft “I yield.”

That night, after shedding any-a tear, Rhaenyra lay in her bed, hands cupped over her belly. Unable to forget the look of disappointment in Daemon’s eyes when she revealed the truth of her dream. She hadn’t been given the chance to explain herself. She hadn’t even been given the chance to say goodbye. They were sundered from one another so cruelly and swiftly she hadn't had time for much at all. Be good, for me.

Sniffing, she rolled onto her side. Not yet resigned to her fate, but drawing dangerously near to that point.

She was pregnant. She knew it. She didn’t care how vague her dream may have sounded; she knew that her blood would not come in the coming weeks. Not if she had anything to say about it.

There came a soft, tentative knock on the door.

“Come,” she said.

The door swung open silently on its hinges. In stepped a Maester dressed in his simple grey garb. In his hands he held a tray, and on it there sat a tincture, brown and green mingled beneath the curve of the faceted glass.

“Princess,” he bowed his grey head.

“Yes?” She sat up in bed, watching as the maester rested the tray on her table. “What is that?”

“A tea,” he said as if that explained anything.

“A tea?”

“This should… eliminate any unwanted consequence, you see.”

Rhaenyra stiffened, biting the inside of her lip, she nodded in understanding and dismissal, “I see.”

“I understand the…erm… indiscretion took place three evenings ago?”

“Yes.”

“It may not work,” he admitted. “Your father has already been informed. But he insists you drink it.”

“I will,” a bald faced lie.

The maester left and Rhaenyra was once again alone with her thoughts, now with the addition of the tincture sat on her table. She stood and circled it thoughtfully. She could drink it. End her pregnancy before it began, marry Laenor Velaryon and live the life many Westerosi women lived; tethered to a man they did not love, bred like cattle.

She laughed aloud at the whole premise. No. That would not be her fate.

Taking the faceted bottle of tincture in hand, she sniffed it. Nose wrinkling at the foul scent. It was different from the stuff Daemon had brought on their first night. More acidic. More like a poison than a tea. She had no doubt that the stuff would make her ill if she drank it.

Palming it, she tossed it into the air and caught it again, its contents sloshing softly. Contemplating what to do with it.

Glancing at the candles burning low, she smiled as an idea crossed her mind. She tore a thin strip of fabric from her gown and tucked one end of it into the tincture, allowing the other end to dangle out like a wick. Wrestling a candle free of the candelabra, she carried both items over to her balcony which overlooked one of the many gardens within the red keep.

Hungry for revenge, seething with rage and grief, she lit the wick and threw her handmade grenade as hard as she could down and into one of the grassy lulls in the rose bushes. Immediately, with the shattering of glass and a pronounced whoosh, the vile liquid went up in flames, spreading fire to anything it touched.

Rhaenyra laughed as it began to spread, and she was not afraid.

“Fire cannot kill a dragon,” she said, grinning, feeling some sense of vindication after a miserable day.

Her baby would live.

She would see her uncle again.

As cries of “Fire!” began to echo from the courtyard below the Princess tucked herself neatly into bed. Taking great comfort in the thick black smoke that billowed through the air and coated the inside of her nose.

She had taken control in her own little way.

Touching her belly, she felt at peace.

Fire cannot kill a dragon.

Chapter 6: Chaos is a Ladder

Chapter Text

In the weeks following the mysterious fire in the courtyard security was increased about the red keep. Rhaenyra’s comings and goings were constantly monitored by the guard and by her handmaidens who now reported her movements directly to the King, so her days were limited to the frivolous activities of royal women. Needlework occupied a majority of her hours, as well as entertaining the ladies of her father’s court. Preparations for her wedding were once again in full swing. She tried hundreds of little cakes, approved or disapproved of what might have been a thousand of the finest fabrics in King’s Landing. She tried on sample gown after sample gown, the Queen herself aiding in the decisions which Rhaenyra couldn’t be bothered with.

Queen Alicent chastised her for her lack of enthusiasm. But the Princess simply could not muster any excitement for the coming ceremony and celebration. Not when it was a night she dreaded so immensely. She wanted to be wed, certainly, but not to Laenor Velaryon, who was rumored at court to prefer the company of men.

Perhaps they could come to some sort of agreement? Whereby they could each partake of the gender they preferred while maintaining a united front for the populace. It was certainly a thought, but she actually had yet to meet her betrothed, at least as an adult, on account of the rushed nature of their engagement. They had played together as children, once.

It was a life of tedium, and the Princess wished for nothing more than to mount Syrax and cross the narrow sea, fleeing from it all. But she was to be Queen, and that was a station which she would not abandon. It was her duty to the realm, to her people, to house Targaryen.

Rhaenyra held fast to her dream. Two months passed and she could still feel the heat of the fire on her skin, the resistance of the molten rock bubbling around her body, the joy as the egg split and cracked and hatched into the most perfect of hatchlings. Two months and her blood had been late, then it had not come at all. Two months and it was obvious now to the Grand Maester that she was with child.

The Princess was overjoyed by the news. But she was only able to celebrate in the solitude of her chambers by night; where she prayed most devoutly in thanks to all the Gods for the strength of Daemon’s seed and the fecundity of her womb. She was by no means a devout girl, but she supposed it could not hurt to curry the favor of those who watched on from above and preordained every event as it unfolded. Surely her son would be as mighty as the very dragon he would ride if she proved herself to be pious enough.

Though her dreams were more ominous; remnants of her own anxiety pertaining to childbirth. Her mother had borne children until it killed her. So it was often that she awoke by moonlight in a pool of anxious sweat, body still tense from the phantom contractions that had wracked her in her dream; pushing and pushing as her babe suffocated and she bled out.

Initially Viserys was vexed by the development of the pregnancy, believing whole-heartedly that she had taken the tea, a mistruth which Rhaenyra did nothing to correct, as it served her purpose well. That the child had survived the tea must have been the will of the Gods, the Maesters whispered, and so they advised the king against taking any further measures to terminate.

“I have informed the Velaryons of your condition,” Viserys said to his daughter as she was summoned to his chambers one night. The Queen was noticeably absent, likely supping with Larys Strong or Ser Criston Cole, who had become close confidants of hers within the castle. “Lord Corlys is quite displeased, but, and I admit this with no pleasure, daughter. I was able to leverage certain court whispers…”

He shook his tired head, crown slipping slightly forward on his brow, “I am ashamed of it. That I was forced to stoop to the station of a spider to maintain what should have been an easy match between the two of you.”

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, bowed her head and said nothing, eyes cast to the floor. The shame was false, but she knew it was what her father desired from her. And she had already gained everything she wanted, save Daemon’s own hand in marriage.

“Though I suppose it is confirmed for truth to us now that Ser Laenor does prefer the company of men. He will claim your bastard as his trueborn child, quelling said rumors and sparing your reputation with the court and the people.”

“That is very good of him,” Rhaenyra said, cupping her belly delicately. It was still flat, with no sign of a bump to be had. But she could feel her infant’s lifeforce in her very heart, and she knew that he lived and grew within her. If Laenor claimed the child was conceived on their wedding night they would simply have to make themselves scarce to the public for the duration of the pregnancy, then claim an early and miraculous delivery. An unlikely scenario, but one they could pass off as truth with enough effort.

“More generous than you deserve, perhaps,” Viserys sighed. Though his words were harsh there was no bite to them, only the soft knell of defeat.

Rhaenyra swallowed thickly before speaking, “Father…”

“Yes, child?” He finally graced her with his eyes, violet to match her own staring back at her, swimming with uncertainty. He was not angry, simply afraid. The Princess sought to reassure him.

“No matter who the true father of my babe might be,” she said, stalwart, strong. “He will be a Targaryen by blood. The blood of the dragon will flow through his veins, as surely as it does yours and mine. He will be my heir, a boy of my blood and therefore yours. He will sit the Iron Throne someday.”

Viserys adjusted himself in his chair. The arm of his robe slipped past his wrist and revealed a mass of festering wounds before he quickly covered it. They were grey and green and yellow, scabbed and slimy.

“Father…” She began, starting forward in horror.

He shook his head, waving her off, “The Queen believes I should revoke your right to the throne and name Aegon heir in my stead.”

Worrying her lip, attention suddenly split between her father’s health and the will of the bitch Queen. Her hands fisted against her middle.

“Of course the Queen would say such,” Rhaenyra said, finally. “She fears me. Perhaps rightfully.”

“Do not say such things,” Viserys chastised weakly. Then he coughed into his handkerchief. There was a small smattering of blood on the fabric when he pulled his mouth away. “Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond are the blood of your blood. They are your siblings and they too are the blood of the dragon.”

Therein laid the issue. Alicent felt that her son’s dragon blood ran thicker than Rhaenyra’s own, on account of what dangled between his legs. It made her smile small and secretive to know that her babe was made from the blood of two royal Targaryens. True Valyrians. Dragonriders, the both of them. He would have the strongest claim of all. But Rhaenyra bit her tongue, instead shifting her attention to the immediate worry of Viserys’ health.

Rhaenyra stood nearer to her father, staring openly at the bloody handkerchief. “Father, this sickness…”

“I am wasting away, dear daughter,” he lamented. “I do not know when the Stranger shall come, but this wasting disease shall be my end. The maesters do all they can, but alas the medicine of the Citadel will not be enough to spare me.”

Rhaenyra knelt beside her father in his chair, the hearth blazing behind her. She tenderly touched his arm, knowing now what wounds laid beneath his silken sleeve. There was an odor, now that she sat near to him. The scent of rot clung to him, barely disguised by overly-sweet perfumes.

It was rumored that Queen Visenya, wife of the conqueror had revived an injured Maegor with dark magics, once long before. Old magics, perhaps even Valyrian magics. But those things were beyond her now; and Maegor had died a brutal, mysterious death, perhaps in consequence.

“Father…”

“I cannot have these quarrels within my own family, Rhaenyra. You will remain my heir but you must try to make peace with Alicent and your siblings. They are my family, too.”

“Does Alicent know?”

Viserys shook his head, “Not yet. Though rumors are already beginning to spread through the castle, she will certainly confront one of us soon enough. When that time comes we must be honest, my daughter. But only to a point. Do not declare the father as Daemon, lest your child be labeled an abomination as well as a bastard.”

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, quite disliking the term ‘abomination’ used in regards to her unborn child. He was her light, he gave her hope, he filled her heart with joy and love. How could such a thing ever be seen as an abomination?

“I have expedited your wedding,” Viserys said in non-sequitur. “You will be married in one month’s time so as to mask this pregnancy as best we can.”

The Princess rose to her feet, nodding tersely, “Yes father.”

The King stared into the roaring flames of his hearth, eyes reflecting the fire but retaining none of it, “You may go now, Princess. I wish to rest.”

The third month of her pregnancy came, and Rhaenyra still found it difficult to keep down her breakfast in the mornings. There was no more hiding her condition from her handmaidens as she vomited up her porridge each dawn.

Rumors flew about the castle, squire and maid alike would watch her pass in the halls with curiosity shining in their gazes, eyes flickering between her face and her belly like they might find some answer in one of them. And whenever Rhaenyra was unfortunate enough to encounter the Queen, Alicent’s eyes were cold and accusatory. She must have gone to the King with her concerns, and of course Viserys had informed her that the rumors were, in fact, true. The Princess, heir to the Iron Throne, carried a bastard in her belly. In the eyes of the Queen she had forfeited any right she had to the throne.

Inside the castle rumors ran rampant. But outside the walls of the red keep things were strangely quiet. The people seemingly content in an era of peace. What did it matter to the common folk if the heir bore a bastard? And those were only rumors. Vile rumors that could be considered tantamount to treason should they fall upon the wrong ears.

But the wedding was upon them, and soon enough all of the allegations would be put to rest. Laenor would be shown to be a lover of women and Rhaenyra’s child would have a father.

The night of the ceremony was upon them. Alicent attended the Princess in her quarters, helping her into the gorgeous white gown meant to represent her chastity. The dress was thick enough in the middle to fully disguise the tiny, almost indiscernible swell of the Princess’ belly. The Queen was also present to supervise the handmaids as they did the princess’s hair and applied light makeup to her pretty face.

“You look quite fine,” Alicent spoke through her teeth when the preparations were through, “Stepdaughter.”

Rhaenyra debated how to reply, but decided against making another plea for restored friendship in that moment. Instead she simply spoke her thanks, “Thank you, stepmother. You are not yet dressed for the feast, will you be joining us?”

It was true. Alicent was still clad in a simple dressing gown. She gave no response but a small, secretive smile before summoning Ser Criston to escort Rhaenyra to the throne room where the festivities were being held.

The Kingsgaurd was silent as they descended a flight of rounded stairs, downward towards the throne room. The quiet was steely and cold and discomforted Rhaenyra greatly. Ser Criston had been a friend to her, once. She had even suspected that he fancied her. He couldn’t truly begrudge her for her marriage… and certainly no one would have told him of the Princess’ condition. Unless the Queen was more of a shrill, jealous harpy than Rhaenyra had thought.

When they reached the throne room it was already bustling with activity. The tables lined the walls, making space for a dance floor in the center of the room. Fine draperies of Targaryen red and black lined the western wall, and the sea-green and silver of house Valeryon lined the east. On either side of the Iron Throne, behind the head table which sat upon the dais, was the heraldry of both houses. The red three-headed dragon upon a field of black representing house Targaryen, and a silver seahorse on a sea of blue-green representing the Velaryons.

A massive crystalline chandelier had been mounted on the ceiling above the dance floor. It glittered and glimmered in a thousand different ways as candles burned, flickering amidst its many arms, throwing light which shattered against the wall in a luminous downpour. The Princess found it difficult to pull her attention away from it as they passed beneath it. That was until her father stepped down from the dais to greet her.

He looked hearty and whole, healthier than he had in some time. His violet eyes gleamed with joy as he greeted her, taking her hands into his own, “Daughter.”

Rhaenyra could not contain her returning smile, “Father.”

It seemed that the King had found some small peace with their precarious situation afterall, and now he was content to enjoy the feasting and carousing that accompanied a ceremony of such caliber. Half the Gold Cloaks in the city were stationed in and about the castle to bolster the existing guard and allow the Kingsguard to attend solely to their sovereign and Princess.

“Are you excited, my dearest?” Viserys asked as he took his seat in the center of the table. Rhaenyra claimed the chair to his left. The seat to his right, reserved for Alicent, was starkly empty, and the festivities were beginning.

“Where is the Queen?” Rhaenyra asked in non-answer.

Viserys shrugged his shoulders, glancing around the room with an irritated glint in his eyes. Just as he was about to open his mouth the first guests were announced, and the parade of nobility began.

To Rhaenyra it was all a blur of fine clothing, jewels, regional accents and unearned praise for herself and her father. The Velaryons had yet to arrive, but she knew they would be joining the head table soon enough; she’d heard many loud guests proclaim that they had seen the dragons Seasmoke and Meleys flying over the city as they came to the keep.

Sweetened tea in her cup in lieu of wine, the Princess plastered a smile on her face and greeted the Lannisters when suddenly the drums sounded, cutting the pleasantries short. They Velaryons had arrived.

They entered the throne room in formation with Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys at the front, flanked on either side by Laena and Laenor, then followed by the rest of their house. They were a handsome bunch, mostly dark skinned with long, silvery locks framing their high cheekbones. Their violet eyes were even more lustrous than the Targaryen’s, containing flecks of seagreen that mirrored their oceanside home of Driftmark.

Laenor himself was dressed in golden finery. Locks not so long as Corlys’, but enough to bolster his already impressive height and inch or two. His smile was small and secretive, and behind him strode proud in ocean blue the Knight of Kisses. A red haired man who Rhaenyra immediately guessed to be Laenor’s lover.

Standing in greeting, Viserys opened his arms wide and invited the heads of the Velaryon family to their table.

“What a joyous day,” he announced, gladly.

“‘Tis, my King,” Corlys agreed and the two men embraced before the entire court as brothers.

Just as the Velaryons were taking their seats came the second interruption of the night. This one appeared in the form of Daemon Targaryen himself, secretly exiled yet publicly flaunting himself so that Viserys could do nothing but smile thin and call for another chair. The Prince was flanked by several Gold Cloaks.Thought he wasn’t Commander of the city watch any longer he still had their loyalty, it seemed. The Gold Cloaks, including Ser Harwin Strong, stationed themselves throughout the room. Rhaenyra’s heart thundered in her chest as she met Daemon’s violet eyes, hands instanting flying to cover her middle where the babe they had made was swathed and protected by her flesh and womb.

His dark eyes lingered on her as he strode forward, drinking in her wedding attire with a spark of hunger behind his gaze.

Did he know? Could he know? She doubted it.

Swallowing thickly she glanced at her father, who glared momentarily down the table, none too pleased. Corlys, for all his grace, managed a nod of his silver head in the rogue Prince’s direction. Rhaenyra pulled her lower lip between her teeth, the Lord of Driftmark must have known the truth of her babe’s parentage, then. Which was disconcerting.

Looking one final time to the Queen’s empty chair, Viserys made the decision to begin the feast without her. Standing, he raised a glass of wine and toasted his daughter, his soon-to-be son-in-law, to the union and continued friendship of their families who were in possession of Valyrian blood. And, of course, he spoke of his hope that by combining their two lines they might usher in a new age of dragons.

Never once did he mention the prophecy, of course, lest he appear mad before all of the nobility of Westeros. And Rhaenyra puzzled for a moment why he would believe the words of an ancient dagger, but not the providence of her own dreams. Especially when there were known dragon dreamers within their lineage.

And then the Queen arrived; the doors swinging open on either side of her as she descended the stairs into the throne room. Viserys stopped mid sentence, awestruck by her beauty and regality. She wore a fine gown of the deepest emerald green, Hightower green, that shimmered with a golden undertone beneath the brilliance of the chandelier.

Everyone stood for her. Even Rhaenyra. Everyone but Daemon who sipped a chalice of wine absentmindedly, as though nothing in the world were going on.

When she reached the table she stared directly at Rhaenyra, eyes wide, unafraid, challenging even, “Congratulations, stepdaughter.”

“My Queen,” Rhaenyra answered with a slight curtsey.

Alicent’s presence made her newly uneasy. The Queen knew her secret, and she was clearly deeply unhappy with the entirety of their current circ*mstances.

Viserys cleared his throat after they all sat, goblet still raised. Having lost his train of thought he cleared his throat and declared loudly, “Let us eat!”

They feasted on a variety of fine foods; cornish hens, duck, chicken, boar, candied vegetables, red soup full of tiny round noodles and ground meat, a thicker, orange soup made from squash harvested fresh from the fields of the Crownlands. Breads were passed up and down the tables, sliced and buttered and slathered with jams of wildberry, and exotic orange.Tiny pastries abounded, and the main cake itself was a grand display of opulence with real gold flakes worked into the decorative frosting.

The Princess dined merrily, losing herself in the joyousness that surrounded and enveloped her so wholly. But never once did she forget about Daemon, who she looked to regularly. His eyes were always on her. Watching. Assessing.

When the time came for the first dance his gaze was like fire at her back. And she knew he wished it was him she was wedding. Him who she was dancing with. Him who she would ostensibly bed that night. And the truth of it was that she wished it was him, too. Uncle. Prince. Father of her unborn child. Her partner in the Dragon Dance. She longed for his touch, his grace upon the dancefloor, his lips on hers.

Soon others began to flock to the dance floor, moving in lines and cheering in time with the beat of the drums. Laenor and Rhaenyra switched partners and she found herself moving in time with The Knight of Kisses himself, Ser Joffrey Lonmouth. Red of hair and verdant of eye he was a handsome fellow to be certain, though she knew she wasn’t of his persuasion. And as he and the Princess spun around one another he glanced between the heir and Ser Criston Cole as if he knew something she did not. She only gave him a questioning look before she was passed off to one Ser Harwin ‘Breakbones” Strong; a man who had always shown her nothing but kindness and respect. He had stepped away from his post in order to dance with her.

He wore his gold cloak, but beneath it blue finery in lieu of armor, trimmed in gold. He bowed to her before they began their dance.

It was hard not to smile as they circled one another, hard not to giggle as he faltered and half-tripped over his too-big feet.

“Has anyone ever told you how graceful you are, Ser Harwin?” Rhaenyra teased, perhaps a bit flirtatiously. He was a handsome man after all, with long hair pulled back from his face, a well kept beard, and broad shoulders.

He grinned at her, “No, my Princess, but I am certainly glad to hear it.”

On a turn, their hands touched briefly, and his fingers curled momentarily around hers, giving a light squeeze before he let go and passed her off to the next suitor with a tight nod and purse lipped smile.

The man who took her hand next immediately tugged her closer, intentionally angling them away from the view of King Viserys.

“Hey—

She caught herself mid complaint, finding herself gazing into the determined, mysterious eyes of her favorite Uncle and once lover; Daemon Targaryen.

“iksis bisa skoros jaelā,” is this what you want? His high Valyrian was smooth and gentle upon her ears. He cast his gaze about the room, about the guests who flocked and danced around them without notice or care of the Princess and her Uncle.

“Daor,” no. The Princess answered simply, glancing left and right to be certain they had eluded notice before she lifted his hand from her side and pressed it to her middle, lightly. No one around them spoke High Valyrian, so it was safe for her to say, though the words still came low and soft; “iksan lēda riña, aōha riña.” I am with child, your child.

Daemon’s eyes widened and darkened, a protective shadow falling over his face as he loomed impossibly closer to her, over her. Lips close enough to kiss, wine scented breath ghosting her mouth. His hand balled into a fist at her belly, and he snapped in common before he could think clearly, “Why was I not informed?”

A few gazes were drawn by that sharpness, and they were forced to continue their dance in response. Rhaenyra gave a weak smile and a delicate wave before she joined the line once more, Daemon directly behind her, voice dangerous in her ear.

“ossēninna Visērȳs,” I will kill Viserys. The rogue Prince seethed.

“Daor,” no. The Princess hissed in reply.

Daemon was in front of her again, not even trying to feign the steps of the dance any longer. He seized her jaw in his hand, tilting her head back, eyes flashing between hunger and outrage and hunger again. Because he was always hungry for her, even here, at her wedding to another man. Maybe he had never been hungrier.

“gūrogon nyke, emā iā egros,” take me, you have a sword. She could feel her own anger mounting. Her rage that he would not simply claim her outright. That he would not steal her away on Caraxes’ back, carry her to Dragonstone, and make her his wife amidst the sea salt air, with fire and blood in the way of their ancestors. That he would sire a child upon her and leave her to flounder… but he had not known. Still her frustrations boiled.

He only glared at her, eyes shadowed to the deepest indigo, then he looked very deliberately to the left, then the right, indicating towards something with the movement. When Rhaenyra looked to those places she found the Gold Cloaks who had accompanied him. Her own gaze widened; the city watch was loyal to Daemon. He had made them the formidable force they now were. And now it seemed they had sworn themselves into his service, as well. At least some of them.

She turned back to Daemon only to find that he had melted back into the crowd of dancers. He was waiting for the opportune moment to spring some sort of trap, Rhaenyra realized. And in the midst of the chaos he sowed he intended to sweep her off of her feet and carry her away into the night.

Nibbling her lower lip, the Princess rejoined the dancing, once again finding herself partnered with her husband who simply would-not-be. She wished she could warn him somehow, or apologize to him for what was about to happen. It would be better for them both in the end, she supposed. She smiled widely at him, a smile he returned. And when she winked he laughed lightly, then they turned to find new partners and— all hell broke loose.

Suddenly there were too many bodies on the floor. All of them jostling and pushing and vying towards, or perhaps away from a point that the Princess could not see. She was knocked down to her knees in the chaos as screams began to rise from the once-dancers. She heard men shouting, feet scuffing along the floor.

Was this Daemon’s distraction? Where was he?

“Daemon?!” She called out his name helplessly, guarding her middle as best she could to spare her babe any injury.

“Where is the Princess!?” She heard Viserys cry out above all of the madness.

Then there were arms around her waist, large gloved hands lifting her up and securing her over a Gold Cloaked shoulder.

Ser Harwin Strong.

“Put me down!” She demanded, kicking thoughtlessly. Her eyes scanned the room from this new vantage point, and she realized that no one was looking at her. All eyes were trained on the center of the dance floor where two bodies struggled in a growing pool of blood.

Ser Criston Cole and…. Joffery Lonmouth, the Knight of Kisses. Rhaenyra blinked as Ser Harwin carried her bodily towards the doors. Facing backwards she watched as Ser Criston struck Joffery again and again, even though the ginger haired knight was clearly already incapacitated.

When they reached the doorway Harwin set her on her feet, and she found Daemon waiting for her. Clearly unconcerned with the whole ordeal on the dance floor. His gaze was urgent, and he seized her arm in his hand, dragging her swiftly past a pair of castle guards. Both men looked between one another, momentarily surprised to see the Princess away from her courtly duties.

“It is madness in there!” Ser Harwin declared in a booming voice. “Shut the doors, man. We must protect the Princess!”

Blindly following the orders of the Gold Cloak, the men scrambled to close to two massive doors which led to the throne room, sealing away all of the chaos within.

“Shouldn’t the Princess be with her father?” One of them asked.

Rhaenyra only heard Ser Harwin’s answer as she was rushed down the hall by Daemon.

“The Prince is escorting her to safety until this madness subsides,” the answer must have been satisfactory, because no one followed them as they wound their way through the empty halls of the red keep.

“Did you orchestrate that?” Rhaenyra asked breathlessly as they came out into the gardens. There she found Syrax and Caraxes both saddled and waiting. Barely fitting within the high garden walls.

“No, it was a fortunate coincidence that Ser Cole’s masculinity was threatened so,” Daemon chided. Then he kissed her hard and ravenously on the mouth. Her cheeks warmed and she leaned into his chest, surrendering to the kiss, forgetting all about the wedding and the search party that would surely be pursuing her. The kiss broke too soon for her liking, and Daemon cupped her cheek, gazing at her for a long moment before he helped Rhaenyra up into the saddle; the fine pearly fabric of her skirts tearing in the process. “I simply took advantage of the chaos.”

“Chaos is a ladder,” Rhaenyra agreed. “To Dragonstone then?”

“Yes,” Daemon confirmed as he climbed onto the back of Caraxes, whose long wyrm-like neck was wound loosely about the heart tree. “Fly high and quiet. We want to leave no trace of our escape. Let them flounder in confusion for a few days at least.”

Rhaenyra nodded.

She knew the way from King’s Landing to Dragonstone well. She had flown it many times with Syrax between her thighs.

Now she made the fateful flight with her uncle by her side. Her lover. Father of her unborn. Beneath them she watched as torches began to race across the battlements, flickering between the parapets. And soon, as the wind whipped through her hair, those lights twinkled, and faded, and vanished into darkness.

Illuminated by silvery moonlight, always within sight, were Daemon and Caraxes.

They would be married when they reached the Dragonmont, she was certain of it. Daemon would have his personal septon waiting, perhaps they would even swear their nuptials in the old way, in the way of their ancestors. With fire and blood.

Not since the days of Jaehaerys and Alysanne had the realm known such a riveting tale of forbidden love.

Chapter 7: Burn Together

Chapter Text

They arrived at Dragonstone astride Syrax and Caraxes, landing on the stony beach beneath the Dragonmont. The moon shone a crescent high overhead, but the shore was alight with bonfires and torches welcoming them. The sky was a smattered canvas of stars.

“There will be a wedding tonight,” Daemon promised as he helped his niece from her saddle. Her feet sank into the wet sand beneath them. Only a scant few meters away the high tide lapped the shore with silvery sea foam.

“Oh?” She teased lightly, though the lateness of the hour was beginning to weigh on her. Syrax shifted her weight, grunting softly and revealing a small archway built behind them. It led to a makeshift dais, where a priest stood. There were a few scattered guests, mostly knights sworn to Daemon, a maester with a heavy chain, and the castellan of Dragonstone. The few individuals meant to bear witness to their union, along with the dragons, of course.

Rhaenyra smiled at them, feeling very giddy despite her exhaustion.

“We are not in the traditional garb, Uncle,” she pretended to complain. But really she would have married him wearing a roughspun sack if necessary.

He took her hand, chastising her lightly “It is not the clothing that makes the pairing, Little Princess.”

Clearly her uncle had put some forethought into their current circ*mstances because the dais they came to stand in front of was hewn from stone, and upon it rested a lectern of driftwood, where the priest was resting his old, wizened hands. The delicate bubbles of the sea foam licked weakly about the stone base. A bonfire burned on either side, illuminating the space in radiant, vibrate oranges, reds, and golds.

When they came to stand upon the dais Daemon turned to face her, taking her hands in his. He smiled down at her, devotion flaming in the lavender depths of his eyes. Fire danced about his irises, the very fire that consumed them as individuals of Targaryen blood.

“The ceremony is short,” he explained. “But it will be as it was for our ancestors in old Valyria. With fire and blood our union shall be sealed, and never again shall we be parted, no matter the distance between us.”

“Never again,” Rhaenyra agreed. Those months away from him, knowing that she bore his child in her belly, they had been agony. “How long have you been preparing for this?”

“From the moment your father banished me from King’s Landing,” he said, cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, eyes dropping as though he wanted to kiss her.

“Are you ready, my love?” He asked, and never before had his voice carried such tenderness, such gentleness and care. It stunned Rhaenyra, and she could only nod in reply.

Daemon turned to the priest, who Rhaenyra could now see held a dragonglass dagger in one hand and an ancient looking chalice in the other.

“Rhaenagon,” Begin, he ordered.

Rhaenyra worried her lip between her teeth, managing a small nervous smile as the priest began to chant in High Valyrian.

Daemon took the dragonglass dagger into his own hand, raising it between them, eyes dark and meaningful. Little Princess, they seemed to say. And that the Rogue Prince could hold such tender emotion towards anything was enough to spur the Princess to words.

Her voice shook as she spoke her impromptu vows. The priest never stopped his chanting, but it seemed to fade into the rush of the waves as she spoke on wavering Valyrian the words of her heart.

“ao se nyke,” You and I, Daemon pressed the tip of the obsidian blade to his lip, pressing hard enough to draw blood. “issi vēttan hen perzys,” Are made of fire. Handsome mouth parted in concentration he pressed the blade to her own lower lip, and the razor sharp blade cut naturally into her skin as she spoke; “emi va moriot issare nūmāzma naejot zālagon hēnkirī.” We have always been meant to burn together.

Then they each pressed a thumb into the bead of blood on the other’s lip, Daemon leading and Rhaenyra following. Leaning ever closer, her uncle marked her forehead with his blood, just between her brows. Rhaenyra did the same.

“Hēnkirī,” together, Daemon agreed as he pressed the shining black blade into his palm, severing the flesh there and rendering himself open to the cool, salt air. Wind whipped around them and the moonlight shone in their silvery hair. The song of the sea heralded the newness of their union as Rhaenyra took the dagger and flayed open a cut to mirror his own across her pale flesh. Daemon then took her bloodied palm into his own, squeezing lightly so blood dribbled down and onto the stone beneath their feet. Fasting their hands with a strip of red cloth they were bound, bleeding into one another, living, breathing, hearts beating in tandem.

“Hēnkirī,” together, Rhaenyra said again. And around them the bonfires seemed to blaze more brilliantly, licking up and towards the star smattered sky.

The priest passed the cup to Daemon, who drank first, and deeply. Then he passed the cup to his Princess, who drank deeply of it as well. It was strongwine, dry and red, but also it was flavored with something deeper. Salt, rust, blood of a new covenant sworn. She was certain whatever it was would make her babe strong.

After the cup was passed back to the priest, he rested it on the lectern and raised his hands over them, “lanta bona issi mēre isse Perzys Ānogār.” Two that are one, in Fire and Blood.

She caressed Daemon’s face, stepping forward, their hands still fasted. He co*cked his head slightly to the side, free hand caressing into her windswept hair. And then he sealed their lips in a kiss that quickly turned hungry, tasting of salt and their commingled blood.

When they parted, blood was smeared about their lips and they pulled their hands apart, allowing themselves to bleed freely into the salty sea air.

“Shall we consummate our union?” Rhaenyra suggested playfully. The priest and those few who had witnessed their union were already beginning to make their way back to the castle on the Dragonmont. But not the newlyweds. No. They remained on the shore. Removing their fine wedding shoes and wading through the surf.

“Yes,” Daemon agreed amiably, “Come with me, Little Wife.”

She flushed at the new endearment, stifling a giddy giggle in her chest. She hiked up the soiled skirts of her once pristine wedding gown and plodded through the surf to walk in step with her uncle.

Taking her hand in his he led her away from the bonfires and torch light, down the beach until the the radiance of the ceremony had disappeared over the horizon and they were left with nothing but the wan light of a crescent moon to guide their way. The faint moonlight shone silvery off of the waves at high tide, and behind them the castle of Dragonstone loomed like a great, black monolith.

“Where are we going?” Rhaenyra asked, glancing backwards towards the Dragonmont. Caraxes and Syrax had both taken to the air, shrieking through the sky in a winged dance. “Are we not going to… you know.”

Daemon smiled, “Don’t be so bashful, it is unbefitting of a queen.”

“It is also unbefitting of a queen to lay open her flesh and bind herself eternally to her uncle, but here I stand.”

Daemon only made a small noise of amusem*nt. Feet sloshing through the surf. “I cannot have your maidenhead a second time. But as we consummate this union I plan to have you beneath the open sky, for all the stars and the moon and the Gods to see.”

“Oh.” she wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but she was certain she would soon find out.

A cold, salty breeze carried over them from the sea, Rhaenyra shivered slightly, but steeled herself against it by rubbing her arms. Smearing blood over one bicep.

“It was very difficult without you, you know,” she admitted.

On the horizon there came a small, amorphous shape. Just a shadowy speck for the moment, but growing larger as they covered more ground.

“My absence was not voluntary,” Daemon said, matter-of-factly.

“I know.”

They walked in silence for another moment, then Daemon added, “If I had known you were with child I would have proceeded with greater… haste. But this was always my plan. To use the Gold Cloaks to steal you away.”

“Will the Gold Cloaks not face penalty for betraying my father?”

“Those who were allied with me are already on a ship to Dragonstone, my dear.”

“And those who remain?”

“Were not loyal to me, therefore I have no obligation towards them or their safety.”

Rhaenyra gave a light snort of laughter, “That is cold, Uncle.”

Daemon paused, squeezing Rhaenyra’s hand in his. The strange shape in the distance was beginning to take form now. A small, dilapidated fisherman’s shack. The roof was caved in and a small boat was overturned in front of the gaping maw where the door had once been.

“Rhaenyra,” Daemon spoke her name with such intensity that it startled her.

She faced him, peering up into his eyes which were cast dark by the shadows of his lashes and the night that enveloped them. His thumb brushed her lower lip, and he co*cked his head to the side as though he were carefully studying her features.

“Everything I do, everything I have done, has been in service to you, and only you. Those who would not serve you are of no interest to me. Those who would oppose you are my sworn enemies. Do you understand?”

“Yes, husband,” she answered, and she stood on her toes to kiss him, enraptured by his dedication to her, but he pulled away. Dragging her along with him by her hand.

When they arrived at the shack he spoke no words. Inside there was nothing more than a bed of kelp pulled in by the high tides. Above them there was no roof, only open sky, just as Daemon had proclaimed he wanted.

Daemon took Rhaenyra’s hips in his hands, sauntering with her backward and into the four, barely standing walls.

“Call me husband again,” he entreated. His voice was low and rough and laced through with his obvious desire for her.

“Husband,” Rhaenyra said in answer, and he kissed her. Slow and deliberate as his fingers began to work at the lacing on the back of her gown.

They wasted no time in undressing one another beneath the wan light of the moon. The stars glittering above their heads like diamonds sewn into the infinite black silk of the night sky. Once they were fully naked Daemon laid his Princess down on the soft sand, wordlessly kissing her jaw and throat and collarbones.

She combed her fingers through his short hair, moaning softly as the wet sensation of his lips across her flesh. She was hot between her legs, eager and wet where Daemon’s co*ck rested against her mound.

But he took his time with her, making love to her under the eyes of the Gods. Proclaiming her as his so even the divine would not dare to part them.

“I want you,” Rhaenyra begged softly as he glided through her folds, kissing her lips sweetly, but never pressing into her. She gripped his rear with fingers curled like talons, urging him to give her more. “Uncle, I missed you so. I want you. Husband, please.”

“Command me,” Daemon exhaled into her lips, teasing her with his tongue.

Glancing between their bodies she could see the head of his co*ck poking upward and towards her cl*t. Her hands dropped to the sand and she curled her fingers into, finding little resistance in the grains.

“f*ck me,” she tried to keep her voice from wavering with her building impatience and desire.

Daemon hummed thoughtfully, angling his hips backward so the head of his co*ck was resting directly over her entrance. But he did not push forward.

f*cking is a pleasure, he had whispered to her once in the low, grimy light of a brothel. But now he didn’t seem content to simply f*ck. Now he wanted something more. She could taste it in their bloody kisses, in the way he caressed and licked and sucked against her trembling body.

“Make love to me,” she said, finally. More sure of herself, voice steady and heavy with her hunger.

“Kessa,” yes. He whispered into the curve of her throat as he finally began to inch his hips forward, slowly sinking into her hot, wet depths. The stretch of him was sublime, and in conjunction with the feeling of his lips on her throat had her mind running blank.

“ñuha jorrāelagon,” my love. Rhaenyra begged, nails raking over his shoulders and down his back. As he bottomed out, flesh slapping wetly, she locked her ankles around the small of his back, clinging to him with all of her strength.

“Ah,” Daemon panted into her throat, maintaining a slow, careful, yet deep pace.

Locking their lips in a slow, sensuous kiss, he curved his back, rocking into her more deeply, earning a series of high, desperate moans from his new wife.

She buried her face in his shoulder, hiding her expression from him. But he did not abide this for long, lifting one hand he tangled it loosey into the tresses of her hair and pulled her back so he could watch her expression as he delivered a series of rough, seeking thrusts that left her reeling.

Then, with that same hand he reached between their bodies, easily locating her cl*t and circling in tight fast motions. His co*ck began to swell within her, and she could feel the pulse of it as she too began to mount towards the shaky precipice.

“Avy jorrāelan,” I love you. she breathed, clutching at him with everything had. Her body began to tighten, walls clenching, back arching off of the sand. She came with a rush of wetness between her thighs and a bloody palm running urgently over her uncle’s back. “Avy jorrāelan!”

Daemon rocked her through the aftershocks of her org*sm before he came with a soft grunt and a series of slow, deep thrusts that had her warming from her toes to her scalp.

They lay panting in the darkness for a time. Daemon holding her to his body, kissing her face and throat and lips.

When finally he rolled onto his back, tugging her along with him so he could hide his face against her hair, he whispered back with conviction, “Avy jorrāelan, ñuha dāria.” I love you, my Queen. His bloody palm dropped to her belly, pregnancy not yet obvious, but he knew what rested there beneath her breast. His little one. His son. Heir to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms.

“īlva tresy kessa ropatas dārion,” our son with fell nations. He promised into her hair. Holding her as tightly as he could. He took her bloodied hand in his, once more pressing their wounds together.

Chapter 8: Right to Rule

Chapter Text

She stared across the painted table, from the sunken arm of Dorne to the High Tower in Old Town to the Wall in the icy north. All of it would be hers someday, her domain, her kingdoms. Hers to rule. Hers to protect. Like a mother dragon curled about her clutch, protective and stern she would reign. That was if her father did not disinherit her when news of her marriage reached the Red Keep.

She had fled her wedding in shadow and chaos; taking advantage of spilt blood to slink off into the night and into the arms of her waiting Uncle. She had forsaken her betrothal to the honorable Laenor Velaryon and had instead taken her own blood to husband in a ceremony of fire and blood. And to punctuate it all she had absconded with Syrax, one of the prized dragons of the royal family.

Rhaenyra’s hands dropped to her belly where her body was beginning to grow and change, she was four months along now. An entire moon had passed since the Valyrian wedding on the beach, bathed in fire and moonlight and blood. No ravens had left the Dragonmont since then, Daemon had seen to the allegiance of the Maester personally. Ravens had arrived at Dragonstone, certainly, but they had gone intentionally unanswered by the Rogue Prince and heir apparent.

As far as King Viserys knew his daughter had simply vanished, along with his brother, and not one, but two dragons. By all laws of logic and reason the King must have known they were on Dragonstone, but all requests for confirmation were ignored, each personal plea from father to daughter was turned away. Even the few envoys he sent were met with sealed gates and steely, cold silence. The only indication of life on the island being the two dragons circling in the sky above, clicking in their throats and watching with warning, predatory eyes.

The realm was certainly beginning to question what had become of its beloved delight. The bells had never rung out to herald her nuptials, the ravens had never taken wing to deliver the good news to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. By all accounts that slipped past the gates of the Red Keep the Princess was altogether absent from King’s Landing. People were likely beginning to ask questions. Soon enough they would receive their answer. Rhaenyra was uncertain that she could stomach the raw anticipation much longer. The stress of it must have been bad for the babe.

Rhaenyra drummed her fingers against the table, pondering what their next move would be. Alicent was poisoned against her, and would most certainly be speaking her treasonous venom into the ears of the King whenever he might hear her. Aegon II, her dearest baby half-brother, might very well supplant her as heir.

Daemon said he would not allow it. As her Prince Consort he saw it as his solemn duty to see her to the Iron Throne. And he expressed often his belief that Rhaenyra being the only daughter of Aemma Arryn would work in her favor. The King had truly loved his late wife with all of his heart.

It was Daemon who insisted upon this incessant waiting game “For the baby’s sake,” he would say, “How could Viserys refuse the throne to his own, living grandson?” But the Princess knew her word ultimately overruled his, as much as he might have disliked to believe it. They would not hide behind shadows and silence for much longer.

“There will be conflict,” she sighed to herself, thumb stroking along the smooth silken texture of her gown, just over her belly. She pursed her lips, greatly disliking the idea. Perhaps her father could be made to see reason, and any strife could be avoided. Perhaps the nature of her birth, from Aemma's womb, would truly be what cemented her status as heir. And she had wed another Targaryen afterall, and the King’s brother to boot. A renowned warrior and proud dragonrider. Their union strengthened the dragon blood more than a marriage to a Velaryon ever could, even if Laenor was of Valyrian lineage.

And their child… her hands fisted against her abdomen, feeling suddenly very maternal and protective. Their baby, just the thought of him was enough to bring tears springing to her eyes. He had become her reason, her purpose. Her light, her hope, her precious thing borne from love true and real.

He would sit the Iron Throne. Gods above help anyone who stood between Rhaenyra's child and his birthright.

The doors behind her opened, the Gold Cloaks, who now served as Targaryen House Guards, who had been standing guard in the hall outside opening the way for her Lord Husband as he strode into the room. The morning sun shone bright and orange across the space, gleaming in his silvery hair.

His strong arms were curving around her waist before she could turn to face him. The doors clicked shut behind, leaving them alone in the room with the painted table.

“Looking over your domain, my Queen?” He teased lightly against the shell of her ear, his breath warm.

Rhaenyra could not contain her smile, leaning back into her Uncle’s chest. She knew what he wanted, what he sought. It was a lurid game they played on many sunny mornings, still riding the post-nuptial high. They kissed often with little regard for who might be watching, and their sex was frequent and often raucous enough to alert the servants.

His fingers laced over the slight swell of her belly, “Perhaps I am, Uncle. Though I can hardly rule from this isle surrounded by sea. I must have my throne, sooner or later.”

It was a subtle plea, but her Uncle certainly heard it. Smiling into her skin he whispered, “I have a plan, Little Princess. Allot me the time I need and the throne will be yours.”

Not ours. Because he knew his place would always be as her consort, and never as the King. He had contented himself with that reality, it seemed. He was eager to serve her in every sense of the word.

Rhaenyra’s lips pursed, struggling against the lusty fog that overcame her mind's eye, “I fear there may not be enough time.”

Daemon nuzzled his face into the side of her neck, kissing the delicate skin there lightly. Rhaenyra sighed and leaned into the contact, letting the sweet warmth of it spread across her flesh, pinking in her cheeks as her lashes fluttered against them. He was an expert at distracting her from her worries and, always, she was content in Daemon’s arms. Safe. Cherished. Loved.

And they were in love. Desperately so. Perhaps they did not speak the words aloud often enough outside of their bedchamber, but they were both deeply infatuated with the other. They didn’t like to be apart, beyond one another’s vision, in separate rooms. Always, her Uncle was near to her, close enough to reach out to, to take his hand and feel his skin warm and calloused against hers. He was always holding her close, clutching her hand, touching her belly with a tenderness that belied the violence that so often had painted his hands red.

In fire and blood they were joined, and thus they would remain.

“How fares the little one?” Daemon asked against the skin of her throat, his kisses were growing more insistent, hands dropping to grip her hips, pulling them flush to his own so she could feel his want pressing through his clothes.

Rhaenyra worried her lip for a moment before answering, letting her lids fall hooded, blush deepening with her own want. When his tongue drew a wet, seeking line down the column of her throat she was finally spurred to speech. “Well. He is strong like his father.”

Daemon emitted a low, hungry growl at that. Any mention of his imminent fatherhood was enough to have him hard and ready at her hip. The very thought that he had done this to her, that he had put that child inside of her was enough to drive the Rogue Prince half mad with lust. Rhaenyra had found that this particular line of playful teasing would undoubtedly earn her a rough, thorough f*cking. A decadence that she was always willing to indulge in.

“My little Princeling,” Daemon half snarled, fingers curling into the skirts of her gown.

“You gave him to me,” Rhaenyra agreed, grinding backwards into her husband. Her fingers curled on the edge of the painted table. “You put him inside of me. We made him in that brothel when you f*cked me against that wall.”

“I did,” Daemon pushed her forward, bending her over the table so her fingers extended all the way down to the Riverlands, curling, nails scraping against the verdant paint and winding blues of the Trident. He hiked her skirts around her waist, pushing them up and around her. Then he dropped her smalls down and about her ankles, leaving the wet, dewy, pink folds of her c*nt exposed to the chill of the early morning air. “And once he’s born I’ll have another in you right and quick. No one will keep me from you. You will never be wanting for heirs, my Queen.”

“No one will ever come between us,” Rhaenyra agreed, shivering, knees trembling with want at the thought of him over her, on her, in her, spilling his seed and filling her up again and again until she was with child once more. Part of her was still terrified of giving birth, but the pregnancy had already brought her such joy that she found those lingering, dark thoughts relegated to the back of her mind. Perhaps they would rouse as the birth grew near, but now all she wanted was to f*ck, and be f*cked, and bring forth her heirs into a kingdom who saw them as the Valyrian Dragonlords they were.

She was young, fecund, and from her current view of the Seven Kingdoms she saw nothing but decadent pleasure awaiting her in the future.

Daemon took himself in hand and sank into the hot, wet depths of Rhaenyra’s c*nt.

They moaned in tandem, the Princess clutching helplessly at the painted table at the stretch of her Uncle’s big co*ck in her puss*. He bottomed out, hands gripping her hips and steadying them.

“Such a good little girl,” Daemon praised as he began to snap his hips roughly into her. “So good for me. Taking it so well. You’re so beautiful, carrying my child.”

He caressed a hand up the curve of her spine, forcing her back into an arch as he pressed her firmly into the table. Her hands dragged backwards, chin tapping the Kings Road with each thrust as her fingertips pulled back to grip at the Wall and Castle Black.

“So pretty for me,” he praised breathlessly. “Swollen up with my child. My son. Mine.”

“Yours,” Rhaenyra agreed, helpless beneath his onslaught.

The echoes of their f*cking filled up the room in salacious symphony, their moans making for the most carnal accompaniment.

"f*ck," Daemon cursed, and his hips began to stutter in their fervent pace. He reached to the front of Rhaenrya's body, finding her cl*t with two deft fingers. He circled if wetly and swiftly, matching in time with his frantic thrusts.

A high pitched whine eked unbidden from the back of the Princess' throat. She slapped her hands against the painted table like she meant to find purchase there to leverage herself against her Uncle's brutal f*cking, but there was none to be had.

"I can't!" She half yowled, loud enough that the men standing guard certainly knew what was happening on that historic, antique painted table. The same table from which Aegon and his sister wives had plotted their conquest.

"You can," Daemon hissed against her ear, pressing his strong chest to her back as he snapped his hips with growing intensity. His co*ck began to swell, balls tightening, and he rubbed her cl*t with increased fervence. "My niece. My woman. My Queen."

"Yours!" Rhaenyra half sobbed, walls tightening, heat pooling deliciously at the apex of her body.

Delivering a few penultimate thrusts Daemon let out a series of desperate grunts before he seated himself and finished inside of his Princess and wife. His fingers kept circling all the while, as heat bloomed impossibly hotter between her legs.

Rhaenyra cried out unabashed, pressing her forehead to the cool surface of the table. A few strands of her hair which had fallen loose fell across the Wall, reaching over the Gift and all the way down to Winterfell like the icy tendrils of winter itself.

Daemon pulled out slowly, then all at once in a rush of mingled fluids. He tucked himself away and helped right Rhaenyra's skirts and smalls. Her knees still trembled from the intensity of her climax.

Worrying her lip between her teeth the Princess staggered a little as she found her footing, come dribbling down her thighs beneath her rustled skirts.

She steadied herself with her fingers splayed on the dark material of his tunic. Eyes hooded, flashing lustily beneath her lashes.

Daemon curved his neck forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth, a small, satisfied smile gracing his handsome face.

"ñuha rūs," my baby. He cooed, echoing his previous sentiments, holding her close and cupping her middle with one hand.

Let out a shuddering breath, Rhaenyra’s eyes fluttered shut, and she rested her forehead gently against her Uncle’s chest. f*cked out and completely relaxed, “aōhon.” Yours.

The day was clear and bright and Rhaenyra found herself reading peacefully on a balcony, soothed by the crash of the sea on the rocks below when a raven appeared overhead, black wings spread wide. Darting over her and directly towards the rookery above.

It wasn’t such an unusual sight as of late. Many lords and ladies had reached out to Dragonstone in the previous month in hopes of gaining the Princess’ favor, though officially she was still in King’s Landing. Even the Velaryons had sent a bird or two, kindly but succinctly requesting that the Princess reconsider her decision towards Laenor. She had also received several alternative offers of marriage (namely from the Lannisters) all of which Daemon had thrown to the fire while chuckling smugly. And of course there were those ravens sent by her father, desperate as he was. Some stern. Some pleading. All of them equally desperate to restore his daughter and heir to his side.

So it wasn’t an unusual thing to see a raven, no. And yet her stomach still sank at the fluttering beat of its wings against the salt air.

Closing her tome on its accounting of King Maegor’s reign, she made her way directly for the rookery. Swiftly, despite the soreness that lingered between her legs from that morning’s tryst. She ascended the steep, rounded stone steps up to where she could hear the birds squawking and cawing to one another. The room reeked of birdsh*t despite the many open windows cut into the face of the rock.

The Maester was already there, a quiet man of middle age with a slight hump in his back which made it appear as though his chain were weighing him down. He was called Tristain, originally from the Arbor, likely a Redwyne bastard though he had never admitted such to the Princess. He was fiercely loyal to the Targaryen House, and that was all that mattered in the end.

“Princess,” he greeted her solemnly, blue eyes watery, lips a thin line etched into the wrinkled visage of his weathered face.

From the ankle of the bird in question he plucked a small scroll of parchment sealed in red wax with the three headed dragon of Rhaenyra’s house.

“Word from my father,” Rhaenyra said anxiously, worrying her fingertips in front of her abdomen.

Another plea perhaps? But she could not shake the feeling that it was something far, far worse. Her father’s health had been in flux as of late, but at the wedding he had seemed hardy and whole in spite of his illness. Rhaenyra prayed to all the Seven and all the Old Gods that he had not met his end while stranded in that pit of vipers. Surely Alicent would move to secure the throne for Aegon II under such circ*mstances.

Carefully the Maester broke the wax seal and unfurled the parchment. Rhaenyra could see the penmanship was exceptionally neat, as was expected of a royal scribe, but she could not make out the contents of the letter from her current position. When Maester Tristain swallowed thickly she edged closer.

“What does it say?”

“Perhaps you should read it yourself, Princess,” he pressed the paper into her hands.

The words were curt, the note short, concise, succinct in a way that led her to believe it had not been orated by her father;

It is hereby decreed that the Princess and heir apparent Rhaenyra Targaryen must come forth and present herself before King Viserys and the Iron Throne to face judgment for her indiscretions and disobedience. Should the Princess fail to appear she will cede all right to the throne to her leal half-brother Aegon II.

There was no signature, no indication that her father had approved of the missive. It practically reeked of Hightower hands.

“Alicent wrote this,” Rhaenyra spoke through her teeth, hands trembling with rage but also fear.

“I would concur with that assessment, my Princess,” Tristain agreed. “My Lady you are trembling, perhaps you should sit, such stress is not good for the child.”

Drawing in a steadying breath Rhaenyra declared resolutely, “I will sit when I am presented with the Iron Throne, elsewise I shall stand.”

Clutching the note in her hand she laid an open palm over her middle, letting the presence of her little one calm and center her, “I must take this to my Lord husband. It is apparent to me now that Alicent’s venom runs deep within the Red Keep. We must take immediate action, no more of this infernal waiting.”

“As the Princess commands it,” The Maester bowed his head. “Shall I prepare a wedding announcement?”

“Yes, and mention the babe, but do not send it out until you have my word.”

“Of course, Princess,” he bowed even more deeply before hobbling off to begin composing his announcement.

Yes. An announcement of her marriage. That would be a clear and honest answer to Alicent’s assuming summons. The Princess was mad enough that she could have spit. And when she encountered her husband in the halls on her way to their chambers she nearly did.

“ñuha prūmia,” My heart, he said. And when he looked into her violet eyes he saw only fire. His countenance fell from its usual confidence and his gaze dropped immediately to her middle, where her hands just happened to be clutching the missive over her belly.

Pressing it into his palms wordlessly she watched his expression shift as he read it. Shadows passing over his handsome visage, flames blooming in his eyes, nostrils flaring in outrage.

“Viserys is weak,” he snapped, crumpling the paper in his palm.

“It is most certainly Alicent who dictated the words,” Rhaenyra said, hesitant to blame her father who she still loved in spite of everything.

“The Grand Maester would not send such a raven without my brother’s leave,” Daemon insisted.

Rhaenyra winced at the acrid venom behind his words and he immediately softened his tone in turn, reaching out and taking hold of her upper arms, “I had hoped that my brother might maintain some control over his court. Long enough for you to birth our child. Now it is apparent that it was a foolish thing to hope for.”

Rhaenyra gave a small, knowing smile, stepping closer to him, close enough to taste his breath on her tongue. Her eyes glimmered with something other than anger, something sly, clever, clandestine.

“I already have Maester Tristane formulating a response,” she said.

“And what shall our response be, my Queen?”

“To announce our union of course, and my pregnancy.”

Daemon swallowed thickly, quirking a brow, “To what end?”

“To show the whole of the realm that we as Targaryen’s are united in our duty to the Seven Kingdoms. My father will never admit that he did not choose to wed us. We must take advantage of that. The fact that you were once first in line only strengthens my claim, and that I am already with child, your child, a child of pure Targaryen heritage… The Hightowers simply could not dream of competing.”

“And how will we assuage the Velaryons?”

“They are of Valyrian blood, we shall explain the omen to them and claim it is what led to my pregnancy. They may not like it, but they’ll be forced to accept our union as fated lest they forsake the old ways which separate us from the Andals and the First Men.”

Daemon smirked at her, confident and proud. He touched her cheek lightly, lilac eyes flashing with his pride, “You plan to force your father’s hand in reining in those Hightower leeches. As for the Velaryons, it's a gamble, but it's better than any alternative we have at our disposal.”

Rhaenyra nodded, arms winding around the back of his neck, fingers lacing through his silver-blonde hair. Her anger was subsiding, replaced with a smug satisfaction at her own prowess, her own capacity to command and rule. She was truly meant to be a Queen, and she would show it in her actions now.

They kissed lazily, slow and unyielding. His hands captured her hips and he could not help but smile into their kisses. When they parted he gave a small, mad laugh, eyes flashing with something like mischief as he beheld his little, pregnant wife.

“You will make a fine Queen.”

Chapter 9: Hatchling

Chapter Text

6 Months

A month after the Ravens had gone out and the Princess was quite pleased with the response they received from the realm as a whole. Many lords and ladies had offered to send their own skilled Maesters and Septas to assist in the royal birth. The number of young noblewomen offered as ladies-in-waiting had more than tripled.

Dark wings, dark words, some might have said to her once. But many of the incoming birds brought with them news of gifts traveling from all over the realm, both in honor of her marriage and in congratulations for her firstborn.

Initially the responses had been slow, and Daemon had been worried that the legitimacy of their claim might be in question, then the royal raven had reached their rookery, having taken wing from the Red Keep itself, along with a myriad of other birds set to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms.

Rhaenyra did not know what was said in the missives that did not reach her on Dragonstone, but the parchment addressed to her by name was hand penned by her father, King Viserys.

It read;

Dearest Rhaenyra, I am sorry for this aching rift which has grown between us since your betrothal to Laenor Velaryon. And I am sorry that my Lady wife’s words reached Dragonstone without my leave, which is surely what frightened you into announcing your marriage and pregnancy to the realm.

You remain my one and only heir, rumors and calumnies be damned. You are my daughter, my only child by my dearest Aemma. I shall not forsake you, nor shall I forsake your child. I welcome you and your lord husband, my dear brother Daemon, to visit the Red Keep at your earliest convenience so I might reaffirm you as my heir before my court. Though I imagine such an opportunity will not present itself until after the babe is born.

There are also political matters to discuss. I shall have another raven dispatched for your Lord Husband detailing our current situation with the Velaryons.

I shall pray to the mother that your birth is an easy one without issue.

With much love, Your Father.

The other letters must have contained similar notes of reassurance as to the line of succession, because now the floodgates of gifts and well-wishes had opened and it seemed unlikely to cease anytime soon.

Rhaenyra read over her fathers words once more, letting her fingers brush over the parchment, feeling where his quill had borne down upon it. She missed Viserys. For all his many faults her father was still dear to her. It warmed her heart that he had written to her personally.

She was abed at present. Overly hot despite the mild weather, back aching slightly. Her breasts were sore as well, and swollen from their usual size— a thing which Daemon quite enjoyed. Boredly she placed the letter on her bedside table, where it had rested since she first received it so she might read it whenever the fancy struck her, and she climbed out of bed.

Summoning an attendant she dressed in a simple gown of Targaryen black, one of the few she had allowed to be let out to accommodate her growing body.

“Have them saddle Syrax,” she commanded. She hadn’t ridden in some time, and it would be good for the baby to know the skies before she brought him into the world.

“Is m’lady certain that is a good idea?” The attendant asked timidly as she finished the lacings up Rhaenyra’s spine.

“Yes,” she replied. “She is.”

Daemon ultimately joined her in the air, agreeing with her sentiment that their boy needed to be accustomed to the skies from birth. For that was the domain of the Targaryen dragonlord. Mastery of the winds is what separated them from the Andals and the First Men.

They soared through the air, splitting through the wind head on and creating their own currents with the beats of leathery, massive wings. Caraxes curved and bowed and bent like the wyrm he was while Syrax glided with more grace and regality; matching the gold of her scales which glittered like gemstones in the midday sun.

Below many of the servants and men-at-arms had gathered on the winding bridge that approached the keep, watching the grand display of raw, unimaginable power with dazzled expressions.

Lord and Lady guided their beasts in tandem, a Dragon Dance of a different sort than they had grown accustomed to unfolding in the clear skies above Dragonstone. The villagers from the town below were also watching on, some of them having climbed up and onto their rooftops to watch the dragons soar.

As Syrax turned into a dive, mirroring the bend of Caraxes’ long body, Rhaenyra felt her little dragon kick beneath her breast. A feeling that set her heart aflutter and had her shrieking with joy as she leaned harder into the saddle, the wind swallowing up all the sounds she made until she shouted with all of the power in her lungs, “Dracarys!”

And Syrax spit forth a column of flame that Caraxes barreled through, roaring his own excitement as he and Daemon weathered the flames with expert grace.

Smiling, Daemon reached out as he came to fly level with his precious little Princess, extending a hand as though he meant to touch her fingertips with his own. His smile was small, but deeply content as they both angled their dragons into another tight curve.

The wind whipped through their hair which shone like spun silver in the bright light of midday. Together they were wind made silver and violet and lilac.

Rhaenyra had never been more in love.

7 Months

Daemon cupped her belly as he f*cked her from behind. Despite the late stage of her pregnancy, and her feeling much like Vhagar in her size, he seemed to only find her more attractive with each passing day. His appetite for sex had grown almost insatiable. Not that Rhaenyra minded, her own desires had grown along with her belly, and the pleasure of rough sex was an adequate distraction from her current, worldly discomforts.

“īlē vēttan syt nyke,” you were made for me. He grunted through clenched teeth as he bent forward over her back, peppering her shoulders with kisses as he continued to snap his narrow hips.

Rhaenyra could only emit a pleasurable sob in response, gripping their bedsheets and mewling with each little punch of his co*ck into her.

His hands moved to her sore breasts, massaging them ever so gently in stark contrast to the rough thrust of his hips. The tiniest dribble of milk met his palms, and he raised them up, never breaking his pace. Rhaenyra looked over her shoulder, face lined with pleasure, watching as her lord husband licked his hands clean.

“Sweet,” he praised lightly, then gave her a light smack on the rear that had her bleating out a rasping laugh of jovial enjoyment.

He let out a satisfied huff, slowing his pace some to focus on the depth of his thrusts rather than the rhythm. Sweat shone on his strong chest, and the muscles in his arms flexed as he took her wide hips into his hands once more.

“‘M close,” the Princess rasped, ducking her head down to press against the cool sheets.

Heat was pooling thick between her trembling legs, her walls beginning to flutter around him.

Daemon began to pick up his pace once more, curving over her to once again hold her belly in his palms.

“You are my woman,” he reminded her. “I have staked my claim deep and true.”

“You have,” Rhaenyra whimpered. Then she said, almost timidly, voice quivering with mounting sensation, “Avy jorrāelan, Daemon.” I love you.

Daemon’s voice hitched mid grunt, sweaty forehead pressing to her shoulder as his growing hair obscured his handsome face. He puffed a few times, hips slapping into her before he seated himself and came in a rush of warmth that had the Princess arching her back and coming alongside him.

They collapsed onto their shared bed, Daemon dragging the covers up and around their bodies. He pulled her to his chest, cradling her limp form to his naked body as though she were the only thing grounding him to the physical world.

"I must confess," he began softly, lips moving sensuously against her temple. "I am very much in love with you, too, my Little Princess."

"Truly?" She teased, running a finger down the valley between his pecs. She snuggled closer, "Careful, Uncle. For the title of Rogue Prince is a tenuous one."

Daemon could only smile into her hair, one hand dropping to caress her swollen belly once more. His touch was so light, so tender and caring that it sent a shiver up Rhaenyra's spine, “Perhaps I am becoming something new.”

Suddenly a thought occurred to her, an eventuality that she had not truly considered until that moment. She swallowed thickly and her hand curled into a fist against his chest.

"Daemon?"

"Yes, my Queen?"

"What if our child is a girl?"

A beat of strained silence passed between them. She could hear the thunder of his heart beneath her ear, feel the tension that shot through his muscles at the very suggestion.

"That would… complicate some of our plans."

Rhaenyra worried her lip between her teeth. Hiding her face fully in his chest.

"Rhaenyra…"

"If it is a boy—"

"Jacerys," They had discussed the name at length. But never had they considered the possibility of a female child. She felt foolish, abruptly, to think that the thought, the possibility had never once crossed her mind, not in all the months of her pregnancy. She had been so resolute, so certain of the sex of her unborn; only ever reffering to them as he him his, never her never she. And yet the eventuality still loomed; a daughter. A Princess for the Seven Kingdoms.

"If… if it is a girl…"

"Visenya," Daemon declared, holding her impossibly tighter. With such speed and certainty he spoke the name that the Princess was momentarily stunned into silence.

A silence that continued as she craned her neck to kiss him. A silence that carried as they made love again, gently, sweetly in the guttering light of the candles.

8 months

It was too soon.

It was too soon.

She had another four weeks yet, another turn of the moon before her water was meant to break and she was going to bring her little Prince or Princess forth into the world.

But when she jolted awake beside Daemon in the middle of the night, after a few scant hours of fitful sleep, after a day spent coping with the false contractions that often plagued her, her legs were wet. Her nightgown was damp from the waist down. The sheets and mattress were sodden beneath her. A great, painful tension of muscle wracked through her middle and she moaned painfully, gripping at her massive belly through her soiled gown.

“Daemon,” she whimpered, reaching for him.

He stirred awake beneath her touch, blinking the sleep from his lilac eyes. He beheld her there in the moonlight, already covered in a sheen of shiny sweat. His gaze widened.

“But it's too early,” he said in disbelief.

Rhaenyra bit down hard on her lip, another contractions already seizing her. Was it normal for them to come so close, so fast, so soon?

“I know its early but it’s happening,” she panted. “Please call for the Maester.”

They moved her to an adjacent room, and she found that pacing helped her discomfort some. So for over and hour Daemon held her hand and walked back and forth in front of the dead hearth, steadying her as she paced and puffed and grunted her way through each great contraction of her body.

Servants brought water and simple bread and cured meats. Rhaenyra, already deep in her labors, refused the food, but drank greedily before she resumed her pacing.

“Breathe,” Daemon would remind her occasionally, allowing her to grip his hand tightly through each wracking contraction. The Maester and Septas seemed somewhat puzzled by his continued presence as the day progressed, the sun rising through the eastward facing windows and bringing new light into the birthing chamber. But no one dared say a word to the Rogue Prince as he loomed protectively. He would not be parted from his wife when she so clearly required his presence and support.

Even once the Princess was finally confined to the birthing bed he took up a place at her left side, holding her hand, wiping sweat away from her forehead with a damp cloth. He seemed perturbed by the amount of blood that stained the sheets, even as the Maester reassured him that such was normal.

As the morning trekked on, and Rhaenyra’s contractions came faster and stronger, until her whole body seemed to jerk in on itself with each push, Daemon’s usually steely visage became more concerned, more panicked and desperate as his Little Princess screamed her way through each bout.

He continued to wipe the sweat from her brow and said nothing when the Maester told him the birth was actually proceeding with haste, and Rhaenyra was doing well.

The Rogue Prince began to speak into his wife’s ear, whispering soft encouragements to her in High Valyrian.

“iksā gaomagon sīr sȳrī,” You are doing so well, he said. “ñuha jorrāelagon, ñuha prūmia, ñuha dāria.” My love, my heart, my queen. He raised her trembling hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles tenderly.

“Nyke daor,” I cannot. Rhaenyra moaned between contractions.

“Kostā,” you can. He replied fiercely. “iksā kostōba, byka dārilaros.” You are strong, Little Princess.

Rhaenyra sobbed, seven hours of labor now having passed she felt exceptionally weak despite her body’s desperate contractions plaguing her ceaselessly.

The head midwife peered between her legs and announced sternly, “He is coming! Push, Princess, I can see his head!”

Rhaenyra grit her teeth,tightened her belly, and pushed mightily with the next contraction, giving all of the strength to the movement.

“Again!”

Lips parting she wailed through the next rolling wave, shrieking as she pushed, and pushed, and pushed.

Was this what Aemma had endured? Was this going to be the end of her? She wondered. And suddenly she wasn’t afraid, but simply tired. Would she go the way of so many women before her? Would her baby live? Her beautiful little one who she already loved more than anything; more than gold, more than dragons, more than the Iron Throne.

There was a pause then in all the commotion, and for a moment Rhaenyra could only meet her Uncle’s desperate gaze with fear in her watery, exhausted violet eyes.

“iksin nyke jāre naejot morghūljagon?” Am I going to die? She asked, small and afraid, almost childlike.

“No,” Daemon answered her fiercely. “No. The Maester says it will be any moment now. You will live. Avy jorrāelan. kesā glaesagon.” I love you. You will live.

Rhaenyra let out a small, disbelieving laugh that sunk into Daemon’s heart like a knife carved from the coldest ice. Then another wave overtook her and she screamed, pushing through the contraction.

Daemon let her squeeze his hand to the point of pain.

Then it happened, one final, massive push and a long guttural sound from Rhaenyra and there was a wet sliding sound, a great pressure suddenly released from the Princess’ swollen body followed by a wave of relief.

Daemon froze for a beat of silence that followed, and then a tiny cry filled the room. The rush of air in new lungs splitting shrill across his eardrums. Rhaenyra’s hand relaxed in his and already she was smiling, skin shining with sweat, reaching out for the tiny squalling, bloody thing being swaddled in the Maester’s arms.

“All ten fingers and all ten toes,” Maester Tristain said enthusiastically. “A bit small but otherwise healthy.”

The babe was pressed into Rhaenyra’s arms. Tears were already welling in the young mother’s lilac eyes. All of her woes were forgotten as she delivered the afterbirth seamlessly, lost in the joy of her newfound motherhood.

“A girl,” the midwife said softly.

“...a girl?” Daemon repeated, leaning over his wife, kissing her forehead and beholding their little one with such blossoming warmth in his chest that he wasn’t sure what to do, where to place the budding emotion. Normally when such intense emotion struck he would kill, or drink, or f*ck until it abated. But here he could do none of those things. Here he could only marvel. He had never known a love like this, so pure, pristine, white as driven snow.

“Visenya,” Rhaenyra laughed breathlessly, peppering kisses about the crown of the squalling infant’s head.

Daemon made a choked sound, exhaling shakily. A boy he had been prepared for. But this? A girl? A daughter who would grow and change and someday marry. A daughter who would challenge him as surely as she had inherited her mother’s hardheadedness. A daughter to protect from the dangers and darkness of their world.

A daughter.

A single tear trekked the jut of his cheekbone.

“Visenya,” he echoed, and he hid his face in Rhaenyra’s hair.

Chapter 10: The Dragon has Three Heads

Chapter Text

They knew peace on Dragonstone. Away from the bustle and politicking of the Red Keep. Two years passed them by more quickly than Rhaenyra would have liked, and word from King’s Landing slowed in turn until it was naught but a trickle of information regarding her father’s slowly declining health. A wasting sickness, it seemed, though the Maester spared her any detail in his brief missives.

As for the Green Queen and her own children? Rhaenyra hadn’t the slightest clue what they busied themself with while the king withered. Otto Hightower was hand once more, by some unfortunate accident at Harrenhal Lyonel Strong had perished. It was a good thing then that his eldest son and heir remained on Dragonstone, safe from whatever vile machinations the Hightowers might have been plotting against one of Daemon’s most ardent supporters.

It had been decided that the new Lord Strong would remain at the Dragonmont for the foreseeable future, as it was widely suspected that some sort of scheme was afoot. And besides, he had taken quite a liking to Lady Laena Verlaryon on her many visits to Rhaenyra’s side. The two were often seen walking the stony shores together by moonlight, oft chaperoned by the heir herself.

As for the Velaryons all precious hurts had been soothed, as far as the Princess could discern. Laenor, despite his pain at the loss of his Knight of Kisses, was very grateful to have been spared the binds of heterosexual union, and had spoken highly of both Daemon and Rhaenyra to his father and mother. In fact he had espoused their virtues so highly that the Lord and Lady of Driftmark had deigned to pay the new mother a visit, during which Lord Corlys himself was enchanted with the young, squalling Visenya and her new hatchling who shared her cradle; Vermax.

The hatchling was sliver-blue of scale, with eyes of the deepest forest green. The leather of its wings would tint purple when they caught the light.

After that visit the Velaryon’s were oft seen at Dragonstone, supping and hunting and fishing with their Targaryen cousins.

Princess Rhaenys often visited beside her daughter, and was heard more than once to say; upon viewing Laena’s apparent courtship with Lord Strong, “Perhaps it is time to bring more families into the fold of Valyrian blood.”

Such words comforted and pleased Rhaenyra greatly, who found herself surrounded suddenly by friends and family like she never before had been. A marriage between a Strong and Velaryon would be a thing of great surprise to the realm at large; but perhaps combining the lines of the Dragon Lords and the First Men would only prove to strengthen the connections between the people of Westeros

She still missed her own Lady mother greatly, but Rhaenys helped to fill that void some with her own wisdom and gentle nature, as well as her wit and keen mind.

Rhaenyra knew that when the question of her ascension did arise (and it most certainly would, her c*nt was to blame for that) her claim would be backed strongly by both the Velaryons of Driftmark and the Strongs of Harrenhal, which gave her some peace to rest by at night.

It was an environment in which she was proud to raise her daughter and heir, the silver-haired, violet eyed Visenya; who, at two and a half years of age, was already as fiery as her namesake.

One day, as mother and child laid down for a midday nap, Daemon arrived for a visit with his family. He looked dashing in all black, Dark Sister at his hip, hair windswept from a morning spent fishing by the shore with Lord Laenor. The two had grown close since Daemon’s stunt at the wedding, and now saw one another as near to brothers.

“My loves,” he said softly as he entered their chambers, shutting the doors gently behind himself. Vermax, who snoozed lazily at Rhaenyra’s feet, showed his scaly belly like he meant for it to be petted.

“Mmmm,” Rhaenyra hummed softly, coming to half-wakefulness. She held a finger up to her lips, signaling her lord husband to be quiet lest he wake the toddler who breathed steadily beside her with sleep.

Daemon gave a crooked smirk, shedding the outer layers of his clothing until he wore only his trousers and billowy linen shirt. He crept into the bed beside his lady wife, and she curled against him happily, pillowing her head on his chest.

The little one puffed her pink cheeks and made a soft sound in her sleep. Rhaenyra reached for her and carefully gathered her limp body to her bosom. Visenya remained blissfully asleep, unaware of the proximity of her mother and father at that moment. Daemon laid a hand over Rhaenyra’s where it rested on the babe’s gown covered belly.

For a moment they lay in comfortable silence, swathed in one another’s warmth, all wrapped up in Daemon’s strong arms. His violet eyes shone with untold emotion, and he kissed his wife’s temple delicately.

Certain that her babe was deep in slumber, Rhaenyra finally spoke, whispering playfully “What brings you to us at this hour, my Lord? Were the fish not biting?”

Daemon hummed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into his wife’s ear, “Laenor has informed me of information of a delicate nature,” he said, soft and low.

Visenya stirred against her mother’s breast, smacking her little bowed lips in her sleep.

“Oh?”

“There is a rumor amongst the servants that Lady Laena Velaryon may be with child.”

“Oh!” Rhaenyra said in surprise, and Visenya jerked awake, blinking her lilac eyes against the sleep that had crusted them. Immediately she sat up, peering back and forth between her parents with curious eyes.

“Mummy,” she said, clear and bright, “I’m still sleepy.”

Reluctantly, Rhaenyra let go of her daughter and tucked her into the blankets on the opposite side of the bed.

“Rest, then, my love,” the Princess said, and Visenya happily returned to her nap.

Once she was certain that her baby was comfortable, Rhaenyra turned her full attention back to her husband, “We know a thing or two about premarital conception,” she giggled. “Who is the father rumored to be? Lord Harwin?”

“Indeed,” Daemon confirmed.

Rhaenyra could not contain her smile, “It is a wonderful thing, then, when we allow ourselves to marry for love.”

Daemon hummed a contented sound, stroking a broad, calloused hand along his wife’s arm.

Rhaenyra was quiet for a moment, then she said, with a softness like she meant for their daughter not to hear, “Syrax has brought forth another clutch. Be they Caraxes? I cannot say. Sometimes dragons simply lay to lay. But I believe it is a sign.”

“A sign?”

“Yes… I had another dream, of a golden dragon wearing a crown of fire. It had three heads, ” Rhaenyra worried her lip between her teeth, peering up at her love with hopeful lavender eyes. “I am… fertile tonight. Let us try to conceive again, and give Laena’s babe a twin-cousin.”

Daemon could not contain his answering grin, “I am always willing to put forth the effort to conceive, my dearest Princess.”

That night, once Visenya was settled safely away in her own rooms (which were attached to her parents) with Vermax asleep at her side, Daemon and Rhaenyra retreated into their own chambers.

Sipping wine and nibbling on cheese they reminisced over the previous two years of peace and plenty. They toasted to their love, to their friends, to their growing pool of allies. And once they were both pink-cheeked from the Westerosi strongwine they fell into one another’s arms, laughing, savoring the playfulness that could accompany their lovemaking.

They took their time undressing one another; savoring each touch, caress and tender kiss laid over pale skin. Caring little for who might spot them, they made their way to the balcony that overlooked the great bridge and beyond that the sea. The moon was full, and shone brilliant silver off of the waves, the same silver of their Valyrian hair.

“A son this time,” Daemon whispered as he bent Rhaenyra over the railing, settling the head of his thick co*ck against her wet entrance.

She shivered against the cool night air, savoring the scent of the salty sea on her olfactory nerves.

“Aegon,” she replied, because they both knew that the dragon had three heads.

“Yes,” Daemon hissed as he slipped into her, co*ck enveloped in the tight, wet heat of her puss*.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightened on the railing, and she gazed up at the moon as Daemon began to thrust in earnest. Making love to her as sweetly as he could when he was so hungry for her body. His grip on her hips was tight enough to bruise, even as he bent over the arch of her back to pepper her shoulders with delicate kisses.

“Daemon,” she moaned his name, high and desperate. “ñuha jorrāelagon, ñuha jorrāelagon, ñuha jorrāelagon.” My love, my love, my love.

“iksā sīr ȳrda,” You are so tight, he ground out through a clenched jaw.

Rhaenyra pressed her warm forehead to the cool, stone railing of the balcony, doing nothing to mute the cries of pleasure which passed her lips.

“Give me a son!” She begged, pushing back against him as he f*cked into her with renewed, ruthless strength. Her nails bit into the stone, rubbing the tips of her fingers raw as Daemon bent lower, curving his back and f*cking into her from a new, deeper angle.

The dragon has three heads, she thought, eyes fluttering shut, breath coming fast and hard. The stretch of her Uncle inside of her was sublime, perfectly filling. He would give her another baby, together they would ensure the prophecy was fulfilled.

They came together, hot and fast. White flashing behind the Princess’ eyes as she cried out with her climax. Daemon was quieter, working his jaw and grunting through his own org*sm.

When they were done they retreated back to their bed to kiss and giggle in the dark until Daemon found himself hard and ready to go again.

They knew peace.

Nine months later Rhaenyra brought forth a son. A boy of silver hair and sea-green eyes who they named Aegon after the conqueror. Two months earlier Laena had given birth to her own babies, twins; Baela and Rhaena Strong. Despite their father’s strong influence their hair remained silver, though their eyes were brown. Laena and Harwin had been sure to marry well before the pregnancy was publicly revealed; the ceremony had been small and intimate, and Rhaenyra herself had read to nuptials in place of a Septon.

Days passed, and the children grew, traveling freely between Driftmark and Dragonstone as they saw fit. Vermax grew alongside his rider, and soon Aegon claimed the dragon Arrax as his own while little Baela claimed the silver dragon Moondancer. The Riverlands soon became accustomed to the song of Dragons as well as the children enjoyed flying to Harrenhal on regular occasions, especially during the summer when the weather was fair. But they were never permitted to stay the night, on orders from Rhaenyra herself, as well as Lord Strong, both of whom truly believed the castle to be cursed.

As the years passed more babies were born; Rhaenyra gave birth to another daughter, Rhaenys, whose very own dragon egg hatched on the day of her birth to a little hatchling called Tyraxes. Laena had two more children, a son named Jacaerys, and another boy named Lucerys. Both of whom were bonded to dragons by the age of nine; Balethor and Bloodwing respectively.

And so, ten years after Visenya’s birth, only little Rhaena was left without a dragon amidst the horde of Valyrian children.

That was until the day she set out to claim Vermithor, who resided within the Dragonmont. Having once served as the mount of King Jaehaerys I, he was the second largest in all the world; rivaled only by Vhargar, the mount of the original Visenya. His scales were the deepest bronze and his eyes shone like wildfire.

In secret, the little girl snuck out to the caves of the Dragonmont with an offering of raw bacon in hand. Uncertain of her sacrifice, she was confident in her High Valyrian, which she sang through the darkness of the caves, hand trembling as she held her torch.

“oh vermithor zaldrīzes dārys, nyke maghagon naejot ao bisa parklon, nyke epagon naejot kipagon bē aōha arlī hae zaldrīzes se kipagīros.” Oh Vermithor, dragon king, I bring you this meat, I ask to ride upon your back as dragon and rider, she sang in verse, again and again, voice small, but she quelled her own fear. A dragon rider could not be afraid.

And Vermithor appeared before her, massive and mighty. He spread his wings and opened his great maw like he meant to bathe the girl in fire. But she raised a hand and shouted in High Valyrian, clear as a ringing bell, “Dohaerās!” Obey. And understanding this word Vermithor lowered his head, co*cking it to gaze at the girl with a single slitted eye.

“Dohaerās,” she said again, softer this time as she extended a hand and laid it upon his snout. His scales were hot and smooth, and she dragged her fingers along the length of his neck as she made her way towards his back and shoulder. Understanding, perhaps remembering the days when Jaehaerys had mounted his back, Vermithor leaned down and allowed the girl to scramble up his shoulder and seat herself comfortably (or as comfortable as she could be without a saddle) astride his back.

His body began to unfurl in the dark as she settled, and by the time she was seated firmly he was already ambling towards the open mouth of the cave.

“Sōvegon,” fly. Rhaena said. And when they burst forth from the cave, soaring as a shadow before the full moon, all of Rhaena’s siblings and cousins cried out in cheers.

The taming of Vermithor was celebrated with a feast at Dragonstone and with total silence from the Red Keep. As Queen Alicent saw it; those who opposed her son’s reign had now gained another, powerful ally.

The night if Lady Laena’s death was a cold one, a storm brewing off the coast thunder cracked and lightning split the sky as she labored and bled. Rhaenyra, who was like a sister to her, was at her side through it all, as well as her Lord Husband Harwin Strong.

After countless hours, the sun peeking its pale face through the grey clouds, the sheets stained crimson with blood; Laena was too weak to push any longer. The air smelled of salt and blood and was sticky with shed sweat. The babe was twisted within his mother so that his feet were protruding first, and at an awkward angle. Every attempt to turn him had failed.

Harwin, agonized by his wife’s struggle, refused to allow the Maester’s to take a knife to her.

“No,” he said, bereavement obvious in his tone. “No, I will not put her through such agony.”

“I will… will not d-die here,” Laena declared, and with a rush of dying strength she climbed to her feet, stumbling, speckling blood over the floors. “I am a dragon rider… I-I will ride one last time.”

Rhaenyra and Princess Rhaenys attempted to stop their beloved Laena, urging her back to bed so that some miracle might take place. But the young woman knew her time had come, and she wanted nothing more than to fly one last time; to die a dragon rider's death.

She made it to Vhagar’s side before she collapsed and died on the ground, never to fly again.

Her funeral was held a week later at Driftmark where she would be consigned to the sea in a coffin of stone. It was carved in her likeness, capturing forever the beauty of her fine features and the ringlets of her hair.

Laenor was beside himself, sobbing openly as Vaemond announced the final words in Valyrian. Beside the young Lord there stood an unfamiliar man, dark of skin and hair. He was silent and pensive, and no one dared ask who he was.

Rhaenyra saw her father for the first time in years; and the sight of him was sickening. He was greying, hair and flesh. Balding on the top of his head, skin speckled with age. There were patches of skin missing from his right cheek. Someone had made an attempt to cover them with powder, but they were still obvious. And a foul odor followed him wherever he tred.

Alicent was stony and cold in her beauty, and though their children mingled some, the women themselves had nothing to say to one another. Perhaps Alicent feared her? Rhaenyra wondered. Perhaps the woman was poisoned to think that Rhaenyra would dare to harm her half brothers and sister. That seemed like something Otto Hightower would espouse, the leech. The man himself remained steadfastly by the King’s side, preventing Rhaenyra from having a word alone with him.

“My brother is not long for this world,” Daemon said that night as they lay in bed together, sweaty from making love.

“No,” Rhaenyra replied, sadly. “And when he dies the dragons will surely dance.”

“And not the fun sort of dragon dance,” her husband joked, recalling the circ*mstances which had brought them together in the first place.

“Daemon,” she said, and never before had she seemed quite the woman grown as in that moment. “No matter what happens, we must protect the children. Alicent will not relent until Aegon’s claim is entirely uncontested.”

Daemon, steeled, all of his co*cksure posture melting away into stony resolve, answered, “I’ll slay anyone who dares lay a finger on a child of mine.”

Then he kissed his wife hard on the mouth, sealing his words with the promise of his tongue in her mouth.

That night Vhagar flew with Aemond upon her back, both eyes open.

Chapter 11: The King's Peace

Chapter Text

That Rhaenys Targaryen was visiting the Red Keep on the day of her dear cousin’s death was pure, unfortunate happenstance. She had come to argue for the line of succession of Driftmark to remain with her husband’s line, though Laenor had vanished across the sea, so bereaved by his sister's death was he, that he claimed he could no longer bear to remain in Westeros. He was still alive, so far as they knew, and so Vaemond’s own claim was tantamount to treason in the eyes of the Queen who never was. She believed Driftmark should be left to her and her grandchildren. Strongs they might have been, but the children were as much Valyrian as they were First Men. And though they all took to dragons, both Baela and Lucerys showed keen interest in the Velaryon fleet.

She had pled her case before the court and still awaited an answer. She feared that Vaemond may have been conspiring with Otto Hightower behind her back to slip Driftmark out from beneath her feet; to gain Driftmark for ‘Greens’ (as the coalition at Dragonstone had begun to call their enemies, for the Green of the Hightowers, and the green of the gown Alicent had worn on the day of Rhaenyra’s botched wedding).

That, she simply could not allow. For the sake of her family, but also for the sake of Rhaenyra’s birthright, as she saw it. The throne had been stolen out from underneath her due to her sex, and she would not allow such an injustice to once more befall her kin.

It was that dreary morning that she was awakened by the click of the lock on the outside of her chamber door.

“What is the meaning of this,” she grumbled to herself as she shook the ornate knobs, finding them locked into place.

She dressed herself despite having nowhere to go, and then spent the remainder of her morning pacing listlessly from wall to wall, pondering what might have led the ‘Greens’ to trap her in her quarters. If they were planning a coup they might have simply killed her there and then with Vaemond still alive and willing to succeed the Driftwood Throne. But they didn’t, and she heard no word of what was unfolding beyond those two infernal doors until well past noon, when the Queen herself unlocked them.

“Princess Rhaenys,” she said, voice small, afraid, already there was desperation in her eyes and immediately all of the pieces fell into place.

“Viserys has passed,” Rhaenys said, voice lilting with sadness. She had loved her cousin dearly, and it had pained her to watch him decline so.

Pursing her pretty mouth, Alicent nodded grimly, “I am afraid it is so. The Stranger visited the castle last night… but not before my dear late husband conferred onto me one final wish.”

Now it was Rhaenys’ turn to purse her lips, “Oh?”

“You must understand, Princess, I swear upon the Seven Pointed Star that he truly said it.”

“Said what, my Queen?”

Alicent swallowed thickly, voice small and afraid like she knew the Princess would not believe her. But she spoke the words anyway, “He wished for our son Aegon to succeed him as King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rhaenys audibly snorted, not believing a vile word the green woman spoke, “I expected no less from you, my Queen.”

“Please,” Alicent begged, stepping forward, taking Rhaenys’ hands in her own, “Please you must believe me. We are both mothers, I would not lie about such a thing.”

“You know I cannot take the word of a mere puppet,” the Princess answered coldly. “Alicent you have allowed yourself to be made a tool for the use of the men around you time and time again. Your father. Your husband. Your sons. Why would I believe you now, when you so clearly seek to usurp the throne of my cousin? And besides, Rhaenyra has already been publicly affirmed and anointed as heir. A bedside confession will not change that in the eyes of the people.”

The Queen dropped her hands and stepped away; looking impossibly miniscule beneath the discerning eyes of the Queen who never was.

“Driftmark shall pass to Vaemond,” she said, backing towards the doors. “It shall be the first decree Aegon II makes as Protector of the Realm.”

Rhaenys’ nostrils flared. But she said nothing.

“For now you will stay here… I think. Yes. Here, safe in the Red Keep until after my son’s coronation,” Alicent half whispered to herself more than to her prisoner.

The doors shut behind the queen and locked with a click, and Rhaenys was once more left along with her thoughts.

On Dragonstone it was a calm, foggy morning. The children were training and playing in the yards, the master-at-arms reluctantly allowing Visenya, who was now four-and-ten and strikingly beautiful, to hash it out with her male cousins. Much like her namesake the girl was just as comfortable in mail as she was in silk. Rhaenys, the little princess, was only ten, and clung tightly to her mother’s skirts as her siblings wailed on one another with blunted wooden blades.

Rhaenyra was great with child once more. ‘Perhaps the dragon has four heads, then,’ Daemon had jested when they discovered the pregnancy. It was true enough that the addition of this child would confuse her dream; a golden dragon with three crowned heads, but Rhaenyra was still overjoyed at the discovery that she was with child once more.

She loved being a mother.

Visenya brought her brother to his knees, laughing all the while as Aegon struggled in the dirt, she held the blunted tip of her ashwood blade to his throat. “Beg!”

The boy only pouted up at her insolently, expression quickly shifting to one of sheer determination as Jacerys crept up behind his cousin and landed a flurry of blows on her.

“Unfair!” Visenya yelped.

“No such thing as ‘unfair’ in battle,” the master-at-arms said gruffly. “And yer older, bigger, should easily be able to overcome our little Lord Lucerys.”

“I was distracted,” she whined.

“Mummy I want to go see Tyraxes,” Rhaenys said, distracting Rhaenyra from her amusem*nt towards her eldest.

Rhaenyra cupped her belly, glancing up towards the sky. The day was overcast but the salt water winds coming in off of the sea were calm and cool. A good day for the littler ones to practice their flying.

“We’re going to fly,” she announced over the training yard, just in time for Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Aegon to all team up on Visenya, who parried their blows skillfully. “Come now if you wish to join us.”

Manifesting from the shadows appeared both Baela and Rhaena, hiking up their skirts to their knees to skitter over to the woman they knew as their aunt.

“We’re coming!” Baela announced.

Visenya, never one to miss a chance to fly, sprung up from where the boys had cornered and brought her to her knees. She shoved past them, easily pushing them aside with her superior size, “Yes! I would love to fly, mother.”

The boys elected to stay at the training yard, since clearly this flight had become a sort of ladies gathering, and they were all too manly to trifle themselves with such things. Though, secretly, they looked on with envy as the women retreated from the yard to go prepare for their climb up the Dragonmont.

“Another clutch, Syrax?” Rhaenyra knelt as the girls scattered to find their respective dragons. Pulling a dagger from her the belt of her riding leathers, she cut through the thick, lava like membrane, freeing two shining, steaming eggs from the clutch. One was blue, speckled with gold, the other was bright red.

Dragons usually reproduced asexually, but on occasion they were known to mate. The red egg was obviously the progeny of Caraxes, as many of Syrax’s previous eggs had been. Most didn’t hatch, but dragonkeepers had had some luck with this particular pairing.

Smiling to herself, Rhaenyra mumbled, “Alas I am already great with child, otherwise this would call for another Dragon Dance.”

“What was that, mother?” Visenya approached from behind, already mounted up on the young dragon Vermax. His scales were golden-green and his eyes shone like coins split by the dagger of his slitted iris. He gurgled in the back of his throat, puffing smoke out of his nostrils playfully at the sight of the eggs.

“Syrax brought forth another clutch,” Rhaenyra explained, simply omitting any reference to the Dragon Dance.

One of the keepers stepped forward to take the eggs. Rhaenyra handed them off silently, before she went to search for her own dragon.

“Syrax!” She called out, cupping her hands about her mouth.

Visenya had already taken to the skies, followed by Baela on young Moondancer and Rhaena on the ancient, massive bronze beast that was Vermithor. The Princess smiled to watch them fly, they grew in skill with each passing lesson.

Tyraxes wasn’t quite large or tame enough to ride yet, but little Rhaenys still enjoyed playing with him like an ordinary girl might enjoy playing with a kitten. She was rough-housing with him now, being watched carefully by the dragonkeepers as they leapt and chased and played in the soft grass just outside the Dragonmont.

It was then that Syrax appeared over a ledge, dropping down with a soft snort towards her rider. Creeping forward slowly, she nudged Rhaenyra’s pregnant belly with her snout. The she-dragon had always been fascinated by her rider’s pregnancies.

“Oh like you don’t know,” Rhaenyra teased her, lightly stroking her face as the dragonkeepers saddled her. “You and Caraxes dance quite often, if I’m not mistaken?”

Syrax purred, then spread her wings as much as the dark cave would allow; now fully saddled. Rhaenyra climbed onto her back, giving her belly a pat as the dragon made her way towards the cave entrance.

“The skies will be good for you, my little enigma,” she breathed.

Then she took to the skies to join her daughter and nieces.

Above the low grey blanket of the clouds the sky was clear, the air fresh and salty from the sea below. Rhaenyra flew above the girls, watching them carefully and issuing corrections where she saw fit, but mostly she simply enjoyed the weightlessness that came with soaring upon a dragon’s back.

They flew steady and smooth, Syrax’s wings only ever fluttering lightly against the prevailing winds, scales glittering gold in the sunlight.

Rhaenyra breathed in the cool, calming air, and for a moment, with her children laughing and playing, diving and soaring beneath her, she knew peace.

Daemon ‘punished’ her for flying while pregnant. It was a farce, in truth, an excuse to get her lips around his co*ck. They both knew that the fresh air and heights were good for a Targaryen baby. Still, he punished her. Sneaking her away to their chambers while the children went through their daily lessons with the Maester, he laid back on their bed, his head resting against the headboard, palming the length of himself through his trousers. Hedonistic as ever.

“It was a very naughty thing you did, Nyra,” he teased as she crawled up the bed to lay her cheek against his strong thigh.

“I know Uncle,” she half moaned. “But I wanted to fly so very badly.”

She traced a finger along the outline of his shaft, feeling its warmth through the fabric of his trousers. Walking her fingers up his lower abdomen, she began to pull at the laces delicately.

Daemon hummed in reply, exhaling softly when she fished his hard co*ck past his laces and began to lavish it with kisses.

“Allow me to make it up to you then, Uncle,” she breathed into his hard flesh, velvet skin stretched taut over forged steel. She kissed him lightly, allowing his shaft to rest along the side of her face as she slowly began to stroke him.

Daemon feigned indifference to her ministrations, rolling his shoulders as if to stretch them, then placing his hands behind his head. He peered down at her boredly, his true interest only belied by the slight tint in his high cheekbones.

Rhaenyra, desperately wanting to crack his stony facade, licked a hot, wet stripe from his base to his tip, allowing the tip of her tongue to play along the ridges of his glans before she dipped lightly into the slit in his head.

This action earned her a pair of broad hands winding into her hair, guiding her face carefully so her plush lips bumped the head of his co*ck, pressing against her mouth, begging for entrance into the warmth in tacit supplication to his wife.

Rhaenyra smiled small before granting him entrance, careful of her teeth as she immediately sucked him halfway down his shaft. The rest was too much for her to take, so, using her spit as lubricant, shae stroked what she could not fit into her mouth in time with her suction against the head. Her tongue curved and curled around him, feeling each twitching vein that pulsed along his length as she devoured him.

Daemon puffed his cheeks, steely countenance melting away like the walls of Harrenhal as he laid back and enjoyed the pleasure his wife gave him. His hands remained passive in her hair, simply holding her steady as she bobbed her head.

“Good girl,” he praised lightly, breathlessly, how he knew she liked it. “So good for me, sucking on my co*ck like a Lyseni whor*.”

He pushed her hair back and held it away from her face as spittle began to gather at the corners of her mouth. Her actions grew sloppier, less precise and entirely more visually stimulating for her lord husband who now sat up, watching with keen interest.

Laying on her side to avoid putting any pressure on her swollen belly, Daemon’s hooded violet eyes turned to the swell of her. He leaned over her, gagging her slightly on his dick as he reached for her middle. He touched her there, where their little one grew, and commented with labored humor; “I put this in you.”

Rhaenyra’s eyelids fluttered, choking slightly as she was forced to take more of his co*ck in this cramped position. The hand that remained in her hair gripped and pulled her back until only his head remained between her sloppy lips.

“I f*cked my child into you,” Daemon groaned, co*ck beginning to swell and twitch on her tongue. “And I’ll f*cking do it again, My Queen.”

He huffed, hands moving back to tangle into his hair as he pressed down on the back of her neck, forcing his co*ck further into her throat than she could handle. Tears sprung up at the corners of her eyes as she gagged. Then he pulled back as suddenly as he had begun f*cking her face. Pulling himself completely free of her sucking lips and curling tongue.

Rhaenyra gasped for air, instantly reaching for his spit slick co*ck like she meant to stroke him to completion over her face.

“No,” Daemon edged backwards until his shoulders made contact with the headboard once more.

Rhaenyra blinked at him in confusion, sitting up and adjusting her skirts about her thighs. She was achingly hot between her legs, wet and eager as pregnancy so often made her.

“Do you desire my c*nt, my Lord Consort?” She teased, crawling awkwardly up the bed and planting herself promptly in his lap so he could feel the heat of her center beneath her skirts. “Doth the future King Consort wish to f*ck his Queen?”

Daemon gave a co*cky half smile, seizing her by her hips, he lifted her and aligned her with the erect line of his aching co*ck.

“You’ve already taken the babe for one ride today,” Daemon jested with labored breath, “What’s one more?”

Then he dropped Rhaenyra onto his co*ck and they both moaned at the sensation of being joined. The position was slightly awkward, with Daemon forced to lay back against the headboard as his heavily pregnant wife began to roll her hips against his body; but the sensations were sublime as they always were when the Dragons danced.

“Syrax laid another clutch,” Rhaenyra said as she f*cked him frantically, wet slapping sounds echoing against the high walls and ceiling of their chambers. She laughed lightly, enjoying the stretch of her husband inside of her, the rub of his head against a spot so deep it left her stomach fluttering and made her see stars.

“Ah… another?” Daemon held her hips, guiding her motions, “With Caraxes?”

Biting her lip, Rhaenyra nodded.

Daemon grinned at that, beginning to edge his hips up and off of the bed to f*ck into his wife as she rode him. He reached out, touching her belly again, visage turning prideful as he remembered how thoroughly he bred her. Four healthy children, hearty and whole and born of incestuous love between niece and uncle; it was exhilirating to consider.

“Good thing we are dancing then, lest that pesky omen rear its head once more,” he said.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra laughed, hands curling against his pecs as he insides began to clench and heat pooled deliciously in her center. “Yes.”

They came together, seeing stars and howling one another’s names so that all of Dragonstone might know their love.

When they were through, Rhaenyra, sweaty and exhausted, collapsed onto her side, holding her belly tenderly as Daemon drew the sheets around her, allowing her to rest some before supper.

Supper came, and with it a brilliant red sunset in the west, painting the sky the color of blood. A bad omen for the fishermen of the town below, perhaps. But Rhaenyra was little troubled by the bright color and what it might herald.

They ate together, as a family. All the children babbled and bickered ceaselessly, Visenya and her brothers and cousins all covered in dirt and scrapes and bruises from the yard. Ser Harwin Strong supped with them, never having returned to Harrenhal after the death of his father. He allowed his brother Larys to manage castle business and hold small court back home, while he himself issued decrees and heard petitions in the halls of Dragonstone where he and his children were more comfortable, especially after the death of their dear Laena. And, of course, there was adequate room to house their many dragons.

Rhaenyra sat quietly beside her husband, still pleasantly sore between her legs, simply enjoying the company of her family in an era of peace and prosperity.

All of that came crashing down in a moment, as the doors to the dining room were flung open and the name of the interloper was announced, “Princess Rhaenys Targaryen!”

The woman entered the room brusquely, an urgency to her step that had Rhaenyra rising to her feet to meet her cousin at the head of the table.

“Princess,” she greeted her with a smile. “What brings you to Dragonstone? I thought you were petitioning the lords in the Red Keep for your claim to Driftmark?”

“I was,” The Princess said. “But I bring grim tidings, Princess Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra’s tense smile melted from her pretty face, “Speak them, then.”

“King Viserys is dead. Alicent and Otto Hightower have acted to usurp the throne which is rightfully yours by anointment of the Seven. Aegon II sits the Iron Throne as we speak. I escaped the coronation on Meleys by the skin of my teeth.”

Rhaenyra stood frozen, stunned by the news of her father’s death. Yes, she knew he had suffered from a wasting illness for years, and his time had been limited. But his loss still stung. And then there was the betrayal of Alicent and her Hightower children; sharp was the knife of deceit, but it had not come unexpected.

Daemon approached her from behind, taking her arm in his hand just as the first wave of contraction struck her, bending her halfway over in agony.

No, she thought. It is too soon.

“They are coming for you Rhaenyra,” Rhaenys said, eyes filled with fire and war. “They are coming for you and your children, for any challenge to Aegon’s claim.”

Another wave struck Rhaenyra, and she buckled to her knees. Frantically, she reached beneath her skirts, fingers coming away bloody.

“No, no, no, no, no,” She whispered fervently, praying to all the Gods that this wasn’t happening.

But it was.

Her throne was stolen. Her babe coming early due to the grief she suffered, the shock of her father’s loss. The betrayal of the Greens and their gambit for power.

“The babe is coming,” was all she could say, looking up desperately to her Uncle for guidance, for succor, but she found only fear and rage in his violet eyes.

“It’s too soon,” Daemon stated flatly, like his words might somehow reverse the beginnings of her labor.

Rhaenyra shook her head, gripping his hand tightly, “The babe is coming and they have stolen my throne.”

The fire in her eyes was only one a mother could know.