Chapter Text
If he were to pinpoint the day when his fate got sealed, Daemon would probably choose that day on the bridge in Dragonstone when he was met with his niece swooping in on the dragonback to face him. He had been able to keep himself – mostly – in check before that. A stray thought here and there — an idle musing on his family’s unorthodox habits where it came to kinship and marriage – a speculation over whether his unshakeable fondness for the girl would grow and morph into something else with time – a nigh - innocent observation on Rhaenyra’s budding beauty – but nothing tangible. He had never let his mind wander into anything too specific, or, gods have mercy on his black soul, graphic, before.
(Even if it did take more and more conscious effort on his part to stop himself from going there with every passing year.)
She had been a child . He was not that kind of monster.
But the maiden standing in front of him was not a child.
He was greeted by a dragonrider. Lithe and still noticeably shorter than him, but her head held high. Her slim and seemingly petite figure misleading, as his trained eye could see the hidden strength that came from soaring into the skies on the back of a beast. Fearless gaze, wind-brushed hair, amethyst eyes shooting angry sparks at him. A Targaryen princess. The heir to the Iron Throne. Blood of the Old Valyria.
Blood of his blood.
She was not quite a woman, yet, either. Something in between.
But, apparently, that was enough to break the dam. Because for the first time, he had thought "not yet" rather than "what if?" And with that, the door in his mind appeared in a place where there had previously only been a crack.
He had not been expecting her to come. While he had certainly hoped for a reaction from King’s Landing, it had been his brother’s attention and – dare he hope – presence he had been seeking, his chain he had intended to yank. Seeing the messenger in the form of Otto Hightower only served to sour his mood, and he could not lie that the arrival of Rhaenyra was a welcome improvement, even if she did put a damper on his urge to kill the snake of the man.
(Even if she disarmed him swiftly and completely, his game exposed, his scheming ruined.)
Later that day, after she left him with her prize, he could not find the rage he should rightfully feel after what could not be seen differently than the failure of his plans. Instead, the encounter left him restless. Equal parts agitated and brooding, his skin itching from the inside out. And Daemon knew only three ways to deal with unwanted feelings: alcohol, destruction, and sex. Not necessarily in that order.
Since violence was not an outlet he was willing to indulge in at the moment, the other two had to do. Which meant he was tempted to blame the excessive amounts of wine for his next slip-up, but deep in his bones, he knew the reason was not as simple as that. The late hours found him sweet-talking Mysaria into joining him in his bedroom, despite their earlier spat. It was there and then, at the end of the second round of sex, when he called the wrong name while buried in another woman – the exact moment when Daemon knew that he was fucked.
Least to say, he did not marry Mysaria after all.