Chapter Text
Daemon Targaryen wasn’t the sort of man who cared for formalities. Normally, there was a certain protocol to follow when a prince arrived at court, no matter his position in the line of succession and his reputation. However, unless he was planning to annoy his brother or that cunt of his Hand, he preferred to avoid the pomp a royal welcome implied. There was some amusement to be found in strutting into the Red Keep like he owned the place and seeing the alarm and displeasure on everyone’s faces. On the other hand, arriving unannounced was the best way to make sure he could do whatever he wanted and go wherever he pleased without being bothered.
Of course, he didn’t sneak in like a thief. Whatever his brother and those asshats he surrounded himself with thought about it, he had a right to be there, and wasn’t planning on hiding. He was also pretty damn sure the Kingsguard had noticed him as he made his way toward the throne room. It was just a matter of time until his brother found out where he was.
Until then, however, he was on his own.
At that time of the day, the throne room was empty and cold. When the king was giving an audience, the servants made sure to light up the torches and heat up the space with braziers. But Viserys and his petitioners weren’t there, so the only source of light was the imposing windows on the side of the room, and the ones on the back. It was sufficient for moving around without any trouble, but not enough to properly admire the general splendour of the hall.
Still, Daemon liked it that way. There was something haunting in the way the shadows of the pillars darkened the floor, and, from his perspective, the spiked, jagged silhouette of the Iron Throne towered over everything else. It looked like a hill in the middle of a battlefield.
Daemon walked down the hall, his footsteps sending a dull echo as he approached the Throne.
His brother’s chair. One that, if things had followed the right course, would have never been his.
Their father, Prince Baelon the Brave, was the fourth child — and the third son — of King Jaeherys I. With two older brothers before him, it would have been extremely hard for him to become king. But fortune — or misfortune, depending on who you asked — killed the firstborn, Aegon, when he was still a babe, and Aemon, the second son, died with an arrow stuck in his throat. And since his only heir was a daughter, Princess Rhaenys, Baelon was nominated heir by Jaeherys.
As the second son of Baelon, Daemon’s chances of ever sitting on the Iron Throne had always been flimsy at best. As long as Prince Aemon was alive, he was outranked by his uncle, his cousin Rhaenys, his father and his brother, with a chance of being pushed even further down the line if Aemon eventually had a male heir. And even when he died, things didn’t change much for him on that front.
He was inconsequential. He could be a prince, but nobody ever thought that he would come close to sitting on that blasted chair. By all accounts, his ‘birthright’ would be becoming a footnote at the bottom of their family tree. A fate he resented.
But then, his father died of a burst belly, and the succession became uncertain again, leading to the Council that gave the Throne to his brother, and pushed Rhaenys out of the immediate line of succession.
During the Council, Daemon supported his brother, and suddenly found himself as close to the throne as he could ever be. Viserys didn’t have a male heir back then, and ten years later, this had not changed. All of his and Queen Aemma’s attempts to have a son had ended in failure, and to this day, his niece Rhaenyra was still the only child they had. Meaning, Daemon was currently the only male heir.
As he reached the steps that led up to the Iron Throne, he was struck by a sudden inspiration. Something that, if he were caught, would have, at the very least, pissed his brother off to no end. Maybe worse, if he was in a particularly bad mood. But there was very little that could dissuade Daemon from doing something, once he had set his mind to it: the chance of being accused of treason wasn’t it.
Without thinking about it twice, he climbed the steps and sat cautiously on the edge of the Throne.
More than once he had heard Viserys complain about how uncomfortable that bloody chair was, and now that he had the chance to try it himself, he had to admit he was right. It was cold and hard. He couldn’t imagine anyone sitting there for hours without ending up with a stiff back and a sore arse. Leaning back was impossible without risking quite a few cuts from the weapons melded into the throne. Even just sitting there, he would risk getting hurt if he wasn’t careful.
On the other hand, he liked the view from there. He could almost imagine what it would be like, sitting on the Throne during his coronation, a bunch of wimpy lords and ladies watching as he gained absolute power. He could hear the herald announcing his new titles, his voice echoing in the hall for everyone to hear.
Daemon of House Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.
And there, among the many faces in the crowd, he could see that of Otto Hightower, that unworthy, slimy cunt of a Hand, boiling in his own rage as he realised he couldn’t keep him away from his birthright.
A smirk crawled on his face as he pictured the sour, condescending mug of that man, twisted by worry and fear. And he would be right: if Daemon ever became the king, he would make sure he would find no peace, no matter where he went. Assuming, of course, that he didn’t execute him on the spot. It was only appropriate, after he tried to turn his brother against him. He had to be punished for getting in the way between him and his family.
He took a deep breath as the illusion of the coronation ceremony shattered before him. He didn’t want to think about Otto Hightower: the only thing it accomplished was souring his mood. It made him want to break something, and as impulsive as he was, he was also convinced that the useless cunt wasn’t worth his rage. Or his thoughts, for that matter.
He’d better focus on something more pleasant. He was there to take part in the festivities for the Queen’s latest pregnancy, and to see whether the newborn child would be a boy or a girl.
Assuming the babe survived, that is. Until this point, they had not been very fortunate on that front.
A little pang of pain and guilt tingled in his chest, in a way that he would be ashamed to admit to anyone.
Aemma wasn’t only Viserys’ wife: she was also his cousin. Daemon had known her since they were children, and he knew she was a good woman. As heartless as people claimed he was, he felt no pleasure at the idea of her suffering through another miscarriage. Not to mention how dangerous it would be for her as well. His own mother had died in childbirth when he was just a boy, so he knew what that entailed.
Losing another child, or losing Aemma, or both, would have also taken a toll on Viserys and, as much as he annoyed him, he didn’t wish for that either. Just like, as much as he wanted to be the next king, he didn’t want his brother to die early, nor did he wish to take his crown by force.
If someone could hear his thoughts, they’d have laughed at the contradiction. He manoeuvred to make sure to be the next in line, but he could never bring himself to hurt a member of his family. Even if the newborn child ended up being a healthy boy.
The blood of the dragon ran thick, after all.
But there was no point in thinking about this now. He didn’t want to decide what to do in a future that had not come yet. All he could do was hope for Aemma’s pregnancy to end with no issues, and for the newborn babe to be a girl. A healthy girl who would be her parents' pride and joy, without getting in his way. And if the child ended up being a boy… well, he would have thought about something later.
As he shifted on the seat to find a more comfortable position, something hard pressed against his side. He rummaged in his pocket to find the source of the discomfort, and his hand closed against something cold and hard. He removed the object, letting it dangle in front of him from his fingers as a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
A necklace. A Valyrian steel pendant with a blood red stone, held up by a double chain. A pretty trinket that was a lot more valuable than it looked, and meant the world for the exiles from old Valyria.
A present for his niece. One he was sure she would like.
Viserys often lamented that Rhaenyra, instead of taking after him or her mother, ended up taking after her uncle. He said she was rebellious, gave her opinion very decidedly despite her young age, and would rather fly on her dragon in search of adventures than take her duties as a princess seriously. Daemon, for his part, was convinced that, rather than “taking after him”, it was Viserys's indulgence that made her that way.
Viserys and Aemma loved their daughter dearly. They loved her before she was even born. It was before his brother became king, and before his and Daemon’s relationship started to turn sour. Losing both of their parents had brought the brothers very close, and, for a long time, it was the two of them against the world. However, when Rhaenyra was born, part of Viserys’s love and attentions shifted toward his daughter.
It was normal. He realised that. But Daemon was still young back then, and he couldn’t help but be disappointed when his brother was too taken with his responsibilities as a father to give him his full attention. He felt like the child had “stolen” something from him.
But Rhaenyra carried the blood of the dragon, like it or not. She was his brother’s daughter. She was family, and he had to make an effort to like her.
So he did.
He didn’t exactly “see her grow up.” He was away from court far too often for that. Sometimes, he spent years without seeing her. But when he came back, he made sure to give her his attention. He brought her gifts he thought she would like. He told her about his most entertaining adventures. If he was around for longer than usual, he helped her practice her High Valyrian. When her dragon, Syrax, became large enough, he accompanied her on short rides with his own dragon, Caraxes. There weren’t many occasions to spend time together, but he made sure those times were pleasant for both of them.
In exchange for his attention, she gave him her affection. And since, being a girl, she wasn’t a threat to his position, returning it was easy.
Daemon knew that most people at court disliked him, and he didn’t care. He wasn’t the type who would beg other people to love him, especially when he didn’t give a damn about most of them. But Rhaenyra was different: she liked having him around. She was happy when he came back at court. She wanted to spend time with him. And he had to admit, he found it refreshing.
When she was around, he didn’t have to be on his guard against people who’d want to ruin him. He didn’t have to worry about anything. And while she couldn’t be the kind of companion Viserys had been, he was fairly sure he cared for her as much as he cared about his brother. The difference was that their relationship had yet to turn sour.
Hopefully, it never would.
He was wondering how she would react to his gift, when the door of the throne room opened, and Daemon noticed two silhouettes in the background. He couldn’t immediately tell who they were, but he believed he noticed the glimpse of a white cloak.
One of the Kingsguard, of course.
He leaned lazily on the side, expecting to see his brother strut into the room any minute now. He was anticipating it, even. He was sure his shock at seeing him on his throne would be very entertaining.
When the second person entered the room, however, he immediately realised it wasn’t Viserys. He wasn’t that short, or that slim, nor was his hair that long.
Then the silhouette approached and, as the light from the windows hit it, he saw she was a girl. A pretty, silver-haired young woman in an expensive yellow dress.
Although there weren’t many people who would match that description, Daemon still took a few seconds to recognise her properly. And even then, he could be completely confident of her identity only when she spoke to him in perfect High Valyrian. In a voice a bit deeper than what he remembered.
“What do you think you are doing, Uncle?”
Rhaenyra. It really was her.
He hid his surprise behind a smirk as he stared at her from his position on the Iron Throne.
“Sitting. This could well be my chair, one day,” he answered in High Valyrian.
Using the ancient language was a habit of theirs. They started it when she was just learning it, as a way for her to grow more fluent, and they never stopped. Last time he was at court, Aemma said that, whenever they did that, it was like they went into their own little world.
Maybe she wasn’t completely wrong.
“Not if you are executed for treason first,” she quipped back, with a small hint of irony, but no reproach. If anything, she sounded amused.
She had reached the bottom of the steps to the throne, and looked up at him.
“You haven’t come to court in an age.”
She was right, and now that he saw her like this, he couldn’t help but realise just how much time had passed.
Rhaenyra had changed. She had grown taller, and her features, while maintaining their natural softness, had become more mature. She looked more confident and, while her eyes still had the brightness he remembered so well, there was also a certain boldness about her. A mischievousness he never noticed before.
She wasn’t a hatchling anymore. She had turned into a young dragon who was starting to make her way into the world.
“Court is so dreadfully boring,” he said.
“Then why come back at all?”
“I heard your father was holding a tournament in my honour.”
Rhaenyra crossed her hands behind her back, her eyes half-lidded.
“The tournament is for his heir.”
It sounded like a challenge.
Daemon leaned forward, pinning her with his stare. His voice lowered almost threateningly.
“Just as I said.”
A lot of people would have been scared by his tone alone. But of course, she wasn’t.
“His new heir.”
A smile tugged at her lips. Needling him seemed to amuse her. And while Daemon wouldn’t have taken such a provocation from anyone else, he found himself entertained.
He rose from the throne, not at all displeased with leaving the uncomfortable seat, and climbed down from the iron steps to approach her.
“Until your mother brings forth a son, you are all cursed with me.”
She cocked her head to the side, trying to emulate an air of innocence.
“Then I shall hope for a brother.”
Daemon didn’t bother trying to hide a grin. He enjoyed this sort of back and forth. It reminded him of a sparring match. He didn’t think about it much while he was away, but now he realised just how much he missed it.
He stared up and down at his niece, taking in her appearance once more from up close.
He had heard that the Princess was becoming more beautiful every day, and apparently it wasn’t idle flattery. She had become really pretty, and she would probably become even more so as time passed. It wouldn’t be long before Viserys would have to start worrying about finding her a match. Even as she was right now, he was sure she had caught the eye of many young men — and probably a good number of young women as well.
Still, despite looking prettier and more elegant compared to when he last saw her, he could still smell a faint, smoky scent coming from her hair. One a dragonrider such as himself was familiar with.
She must have been flying on her dragon not too long ago.
While some things changed, others never did.
“I brought you something,” he said, switching back to the common tongue.
Her eyes lit up in curiosity, and when he offered her the necklace, she didn’t try to hide her smile. She touched the pendant he was holding, tracing its outline with the tip of her fingers.
“Do you know what it is?” he asked.
“It’s Valyrian steel. Like Dark Sister.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted toward the sword at Daemon’s side. Queen Visenya’s sword, one of their House’s most precious heirlooms.
He remembered she had a fascination with the old queen, who fought at her husband, Aegon the Conqueror’s side, during their campaign. This despite the fact that her legacy had become controversial over the years.
Maybe that was why she liked being around him, despite his reputation. She was fascinated by the dark and the shadows.
Another sudden inspiration struck him, and he took the necklace away from her grasp. Rhaenyra looked at him in confusion, but he didn’t give it back, his eyes lingering around her neck.
He wanted to see how his present looked on her. He didn’t stop to think about the reason. He doubted it mattered, anyway. He wanted what he wanted, and that was enough.
“Turn around.”
Rhaenyra hesitated, her gaze wandering between the necklace and his face, her fingers toying with a golden ring on her hand. Then, without a word, she obeyed. She turned and, after removing the gold necklace she was wearing, she moved her hair to the side, to give him access to her neck.
All of it, an absolute show of trust. She was probably the only person in all of the Seven Kingdoms who would show him her back without even questioning his intentions. He was sure not even his brother would be that trusting.
He liked it.
Daemon approached and carefully fastened the steel necklace around Rhaenyra’s delicate neck.
“Now, you and I both have some piece of our ancestry.”
Rhaenyra remained quiet. She didn’t react when the cold metal touched her neck. However, when his fingers accidentally brushed her skin, she tensed and shivered. It was just a moment, the time of a heartbeat, and it was so small that, if someone could see them, they surely wouldn’t have noticed.
But he did.
Were his hands cold? The throne room certainly was, and he had been sitting on that blasted metal chair long enough. Even his arse was cold at that point, let alone everything else!
So this must have been the case.
Or…
As a new idea started swirling into his mind, he let his fingers linger for a split second longer than necessary. If his hands were unpleasantly cold, she would surely flinch away. And yet, she didn’t. Instead, she started rubbing her ring again, staring straight ahead so he couldn’t take a glimpse at her face. And Daemon couldn’t help but wonder.
Even if it was still a bit soon for Rhaenyra to have proper, official suitors, she was at an age when young people started experimenting. After all, he and Viserys weren’t much older when they started fucking around in the city’s brothels.
He didn’t expect Rhaenyra to have as much freedom as they did, what with being a maiden and all — though, in his experience, young women could be really resourceful, if they wanted to escape their guardians’ eyes. He didn’t expect her to be able to mess around in a pleasure house. She surely didn’t even know what one looked like.
But what about the rest?
Young knights asking for her favour at a tournament, and leaving wild flowers under her window? Secret walks in the courtyard of the Red Keep? Stolen kisses in an empty hallway? The sort of things a young girl would read in books, and wish to try for herself?
Did she do any of this?
It wasn’t any of his business, but he really couldn’t help but wonder.
Did that shiver mean she wasn’t used to being touched, or that she liked it?
As much as he was curious about the answer, Daemon let his hands fall to his sides and took a step back.
These sorts of thoughts were dangerous in more ways than one. And while he didn’t mind danger at all, there were still lines he would think twice before crossing. One of those was making Rhaenyra uncomfortable to satisfy his curiosity.
This time, at least.
When she didn’t feel him behind her anymore, his niece let her hair fall back on her shoulder and twirled back toward him, a smile on her face as she showed off her new jewel. She stared at him straight in his eyes, waiting for him to say something, to tell her if his present suited her.
“Beautiful.”
As soon as he said this, Rhaenyra’s smile faltered for a second, just to reignite again even brighter than before.
Beautiful was indeed the right word. However, Daemon wasn’t entirely sure if it still referred to the necklace, or to her.