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Daemon Targaryen had never thought of love, not with conviction. He had, however, thought of many other things that could’ve been love — could’ve been mistaken for it — had been mistaken for it.
When he was a child his teachers told him, Daemon, it is time to learn your letters. And when he finally sat and picked up his pencil — after hours of throwing a tantrum — the maester would look at him with a smile of relief and tell him, Good prince. In a tone of approval, which was almost never used with him.
Perhaps that was love. The small thought bubbled in his small toddler’s head and disappeared almost as soon as it had come. But it left an impression.
He took a liking to war. No one was surprised. He was always the difficult child, they said, unruly and unpredictable, with energy as hot and explosive as a dragon’s, but definitely a handful for a young prince. The court simpered and flattered him for his every conquest, but he knew they whispered behind his back — the same thing he had always heard since he was a child.
He won the war at the Stepstones. He crowned himself king; the crab people called him king. But still he slunk back to the court of his childhood, a crown clutched in his hand and a smirk on his face, but his narrow eyes were watching the faces of the people he passed by. More simpers and flatteries, was it — or would he get another Good prince in a tone of approval?
His brother Viserys froze when he presented his crown … then smiled and held his arms open. Thank you, brother.
Perhaps that was love. The small thought bubbled in his hardened head, but his squinting eyes noted how Viserys only felt warm when Daemon acted the way he was expected — never when he was being himself. As they had always said, he was the handful younger prince.
***
Know who else was a handful? Rhaenyra. Daemon was a man grown now, but there was always a part of him that remained the handful younger prince, the one who warred and whored and wined his life away — adult toys for an unsatisfied inner child. And this child inside of him, he looked at Rhaenyra and saw himself.
Silver-gold hair. Mine. Moonstone skin. Mine. Chin up and proud. Mine. (A throne waiting in the future. Mine.) The way she sulked around courtiers, rebelled at the king’s orders, stalked off on her own when she was sick of the world — Mine, mine, mine. All traits of Daemon himself, reflected so clearly in this young girl who, as time was still merciful to her, still got to be young.
Daemon envied her. Daemon wanted her. Daemon chased her but truth be told, he didn’t know what he was chasing: himself, herself, or what she stood for.
He thought he was close to finding out the answer, on that night. Knowing perfectly well what things were irresistible to himself, he baited her with the same things: a sprinkle of mystery, especially the illicit kind — things she (they) shouldn’t do but that looked darkly tantalizing. She followed his breadcrumbs, found the hidden passage in her room and followed it down — with a grin on her lips, he imagined — toward where he stood waiting.
They exchanged the same devilish smile. They went out into the night, to the realm Daemon was king of.
And she didn’t balk. Instead she delighted in it. He brought her to brothels and gambling houses, places where the ale smelled both of rot and chemicals that would rot your brain, rats scampering in the background behind lascivious moans — but she followed him, and never complained. Throughout, there were only sparks of excitement and wonder in her eyes, and when their skin brushed against each other it was electric — thrill incarnate.
He pushed her against the wall. She opened up, eyes aglimmer, and her kiss felt like an acceptance, a validation. Here I am, the rogue prince, Lord of Flea Bottom. She wrapped her royal legs around him anyway.
With her, he wasn’t a handful. He was chaotically himself.
Perhaps this was love. The curious thought burned in his head for precisely one second, then dissolved in lust and ecstasy.
***
Rhaenyra felt like victory. Daemon had been on many conquests, both of the female kind and the realm kind, but Rhaenyra felt like his pièce de résistance. It was a victory when the eyes that regarded the world with suspicion and scorn beheld him in thrill and lust. It was a victory when he realized that straddling her meant straddling the throne — the future throne.
Rhae — ny — ra. Every syllable of her name sounded like the swing of a sword, and it pleased Daemon to know that he held the sword. He was in control, so much so that he had the power to deny Rhaenyra her own pleasures, make her pine and chafe for him. And now when her knight bedded her, she would close her eyes and think of him — Daemon — inside of her. Sweet, sweet victory.
In spite of his outward disdain for sycophantic courtiers and greedy whores alike, Daemon had always loved flattery. But this was the best kind of flattery, the one dealt in secret in the dark, a heretic worship done by the best of people — a princess and heir — for the worst of people — himself. Perhaps that was love.
When Viserys snatched Rhaenyra away from him, he was livid.
***
A Targaryen prince, a dashing knight, and a dragonrider, the young woman said. You appear to be every young maiden’s dream.
In a party celebrating his loss, the words felt like a balm. Laena Velaryon, was it?
He still sought Rhaenyra out, later. He let her taunt him — crave for him, throw challenges at him — Take me to Dragonstone, she said — and he was tempted to let her have him, but Viserys stood on the dais and his royal will was clear: his heir wasn’t to marry his brother. Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife, she said. And then what? Lose her father and future throne?
Daemon wasn’t one to let go of a conquest, but perhaps this time … perhaps this was the better way.
So he turned away, smarting with self-righteousness, trying to convince himself that he was content enough to know that she had wrapped herself around his finger. That was all he wanted anyway: control. Not marital romance, never that.
And then it was the chocolate-skinned lady with silver hair that his mind meandered to.
Perhaps she would worship him too, though not in the dark; and perhaps Driftmark was big enough a prize, though not the throne. Leastways now that he’d lost something he might as well gain something new, and Laena was the first jewel his eyes found. She had offered herself to him, actually, on a silver platter. How lovely.
***
Laena seemed to see him with eyes that didn’t see the truth, but sometimes Daemon wondered if those eyes saw instead something more than the truth. Something better — something fantastical, but better. At first it felt like the gaze of his childhood teachers, the ones who wished he’d been more than the handful young prince. But as time went by, it felt … different.
We are more than this, Daemon … the man I married was better than this.
She had said similar things, often. Sometimes she said it in words that rang vaguely with disappointment, but this was rare; most times it rang instead with hope, and faith, like she really believed he was a better person — had been, would be, would always be. Daemon imagined the words could be annoying — the self that he knew would have been annoyed — but somehow Daemon regarded her instead with curiosity, and bafflement, and even — dare he say it? — soft sentiments.
Everyone in his life had always demanded him to be better. No one had simply believed that he was a better man. Not even himself. Seen through her eyes he was noble — a Targaryen prince, a dashing knight, and a dragonrider indeed — every young maiden’s dream, and for all the right reasons.
The strangeness of it had kept him awake at night, sometimes. And in the half-formed slumbers that followed too late, sometimes he thought: perhaps this was love.
Two little baby daughters. Two. Tiny, both of them. Babies. Their fingers were not even long enough to wrap around Daemon’s thumb. But they were his.
What a peculiar concept.
He looked at himself in the mirror as he held both babies, one in each arm. The reflection didn’t seem like him. He frowned and scowled and turned away, but his babies laughed, and extended their pink little fingers toward him, and laid their hands on his forehead as if they were blessing him.
Daemon peeked into their eyes and saw innocence. A new life, a blank canvas, as yet untainted by the business of living. And he had created this — this … purity.
What a peculiar concept. And even more peculiar: the feeling wriggling in his chest. Was that … pride? But why would he be proud? This wasn’t a conquest, wasn’t a victory — this was simple existence. Not that much of an achievement.
But the feeling stuck. He thought, passingly, in the moment before the babies’ eyes opened awake: perhaps this was love.
***
Rytsas, Daemon said. Ryt — sas, he said again, carefully putting the appropriate stress on each syllable.
Rytsas! Baela exclaimed.
Daemon smiled — smugly. Good girl, he said, and for a blink, he was taken back to those moments in his childhood, the rare approval packed into the phrase Good prince, which he had secretly coveted. It pleased him that his daughter could so easily and so often win the same praise. Of course she would — she was his, after all.
On such occasions, he felt a strange satisfaction. Being able to teach a toddler how to say hello in High Valyrian was a tiny victory — the tiniest victory in his life — but life had meandered such that this was what Daemon had come to treasure, albeit in secret — replayed in his head only at night in the dark before he fell asleep — a private worship.
He had come to look forward to the birth of his third child. It scared him sometimes, the way a smile irresistibly crept onto his lips every time Laena and her swollen bump approached him. Much as he scowled at himself for it, he loved laying his hands on her belly and kissing it, putting his forehead against it, like he had done with Caraxes all those years ago when he first bonded the dragon — a sign of trust and entwinement.
Daemon had seen pain. Any battlefield would have no shortage of it, and Daemon had been to many battlefields; he’d learned the signs of pain, sometimes because he was the one who inflicted it.
He knew how much pain Laena was in right now. Her face glistened with sweat, contorting in exertion — her white dress was soaked through and the hem of it was blood red. The floor she kneeled on had a puddle of blood on it, dripping out from between her legs.
When he said he had looked forward to the birth of his third child, he hadn’t meant this.
He stood watching at the threshold of her bedchamber. He didn’t lean on the doorframe, because even though he was trying to hide it as best as he could, his entire body was stiff. He wasn’t looking at her — didn’t want to, he didn’t know why — he’d only stolen a few glances, shifty and awkward — almost fearful, actually — but why would he be afraid of other’s pain? He’d never cared for anyone’s suffering — it should’ve been easy for him to not care, right now.
In the one moment that his eyes had lingered on her, he felt his heart twist. He looked away again, staring into the distance.
I’ve reached the limit of my art, the physician said. A Pentoshi old man. Daemon thought he really should’ve flown Laena to Driftmark so she could give birth there, as she had wished — with a proper maester who would’ve known what to do with her suffering.
Ah, my brave girl.
He looked down. He didn’t know where else to look — not at Laena, and certainly not at himself. In the depth of the chamber, Laena was crying.
We could lay open the womb … the Pentoshi suggested. Try to remove the infant by way of the blade.
That perked him up. Would the mother survive it?
The Pentoshi man looked away, shaking his head hauntedly. No.
Daemon had never been good at taking a no, and this one … the word had simply slipped away into a haze — Daemon’s ears had refused to hear it.
His head gave a little shake, a rejection — tentative and vague, but noticeable. His eyes met the Pentoshi’s, and he wondered whether the man could see through him. What did the head shake signify? Was it a rejection of the physician’s solution and an order for him to work harder? Was it sympathy, empathy, an echoing of pain from bones that weren’t his? Or was it mercy — the sparing of life and the delay of death — in recognition of her humanity?
Human. She was human. So fragile, he realized. He would like to hold her and protect her; that would be a fitting challenge for a dashing knight and a dragonrider —
Where’s Laena? It felt like a tumble, when he realized she was gone.
***
Laena? Laena!
He strode through the dark manse — nearly running, so urgent was his worry. Sand crunched under his boots as he burst out into the dark night.
Laena was there, on the ground, by the sea, kneeling in front of Vhagar’s monstrousness. From a distance, Daemon could hear the word she was shouting. Dracarys!
And at my end I want to die a dragonrider’s death, not that of some fat country lord. Those were her words. He had dismissed them, believing she would put aside whatever she wanted if it were for him — as she had always done.
For the first time in his life, Daemon realized he had made a mistake. And then, unbelievable but nonetheless sharp as a knife, something slashed at his heart: regret.
When Vhagar opened its mouth, Daemon opened his own, almost letting out a scream. But the scream halted when fire spewed out of the dragon’s jaw and spilled upon his wife.
In that moment, he learned what horror meant.
He stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed, gasping, wobbling. The ground he stood on was now shifting sand. It used to be rock; he just didn’t know it was that. Now it was gone.
She was gone.
Grief was a subdivision of pain — Daemon knew that, if only logically. He’d also seen grief, often the aftermath of pain — seen it because he’d caused it, sometimes. But it was hard to see it on the faces of his own daughters — and his own, if he were to be honest — this morning he’d seen a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he had spied grief, that cursed thing.
There was now an echoing silence beside him, in the space where she once was. His daughters could sob and scream, but Daemon could not; for him it was just silence.
And he wondered, this grief, was it love? Had love been there, in the space that was now a void?
But he dismissed the thought. That was impossible. If this thing was love, then he had always known love — because this thing was pain, and he had always known pain.
No, love must be something else. His mind had never fully captured it, had always perceived something else instead. Love’s synonyms, perhaps, but not love itself.
On the top of the Pentoshi manse, over the smoldering bones of his wife and between his crying daughters, Daemon stood like he didn’t know what to do with himself. As he turned around and walked away — because what else could he do? — he took stock of all the possible synonyms of love that he had misrecognized throughout his life.
Approval — from his maesters, his brother, the court, his people. Acceptance — from Rhaenyra, for being his chaotic self. Thrill, lust, victory — also Rhaenyra, his illicit love, the beautiful reflection of himself, his crowning conquest. Flattery — which Laena offered him so freely, on the night of his loss. Faith, pride, satisfaction — things he had never expected, brought on by the wife that wasn’t his first choice, and the children who’d known nothing about life. And then, finally, in the last few hours he wished he could erase: empathy, mercy, and grief.
Was that all? What a joke. Surely he deserved better toys. These were shabby and disappointing at the least — borderline offensive — he could’ve found something better for himself. He was, after all, a Targaryen prince, a dashing knight, and a dragonrider — he was more than this. No one except Laena had ever believed that he deserved better, but now he did — he believed that.
Something better. He deserved something better.
His eyes wandered past the bones of his wife on the shore, on to the Narrow Sea, then across it.
Something better.