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Rating:
Explicit
Archive Warnings:
Underage SexGraphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character DeathRape/Non-Con
Categories:
F/MOther
Fandoms:
A Song of Ice and Fire & Related FandomsA Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. MartinHouse of the Dragon (TV)Game of Thrones (TV)
Relationships:
Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra TargaryenHarwin Strong/Laena Velaryon (Daughter of Corlys)Alicent Hightower/Viserys I TargaryenCorlys "The Sea Snake" Velaryon/Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon
Characters:
The Greens | Supporters of Aegon II TargaryenThe Blacks | Supporters of Rhaenyra TargaryenOriginal CharactersAemond "One-Eye" TargaryenDaenaera Velaryon
Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe - Canon DivergenceEnemies to LoversDragonsFire & BloodReincarnationHorrorBalletMagic
Language:
English
Series:
Part 1 of The Extinguisher Chronicles Next Work →
Stats:
Published:2025-01-12Updated:2025-11-17Words:629,968Chapters:61/63Comments:218Kudos:485Bookmarks:130Hits:35,405
A Palace All Of Glass
fox2T
Chapter 2: Act I, no. 1
Chapter Text
Act I
Daemon Targaryen
97 A.C., 5th Moon
The child is dead.
Ripped from their mother's womb, left in the dirt behind a filthy brothel that cloyed with the scent of smut and drunk. It lay dead there still, face screwed shut as they choked on blood and afterbirth. Daemon would close his eyes, but the pile of red skin caked with black and brown and blue was right there; the rusted, once gleaming surface corroded and decayed - the deafening sounds of war under stabbing rain.
The child was long dead-
"I make this dedication to Prince Daemon!" the man stood from his stool and raised the pint high for any to see. He turned to the boy of six-and-ten poised on the beige couch, barred by scantily-clad women who might have done just anything he asked. "May you find happiness in the Vale with your Lady Royce." with that, he took a long swig and nearly fell onto the woman beside him.
A silence fell over Kyra's tavern and air vacuumed from the space, leaving only an oppressive void in its wake. The music rising from the band ceased in an unsteady cadence, and all that could be heard were the trees outside as they groaned and twisted, writhing limbs in the cold wind. Sers and smallfolk gathered, who moments ago had been laughing, shouting, and clinking their mugs, turned their attention in unison towards the corner of the room.
The small shack hidden in the underbelly of Flea Bottom was almost always dimly lit and it was well into the evening. Flickering candles hardly offered enough flint to the worn tables and floorboards, but Daemon Targaryen took in the room as if it were high noon. He could hear the soft rustle of cheap fabric on skin, the creak of haggard leather as it flexed against bone. The grumbling donut who turned back and slurred for another drink to someone beyond the bar, there was sweat on his neck mixed with the stubble on his jaw, deep creases and heavy bags lined the skin beneath his eyes.
The prince smirked, but he was not amused.
Daemon Targaryen had never been one to believe in love, but expected to at least find common ground with the woman he would be bound to. Inadvertently, early hours were pulled from the recess of his mind, of Rhea Royce standing beside him as would a statue, with all the emotion and passion of a block of ice. As their wedding drew nearer, he became dreaded to the prospect of such a callous lady.
His way of thinking had begun to skew and that firm grip he'd fastened himself with - his heart, heavy as lead, beat in sync with a march towards the abyss. To the ship lost at sea in an unending storm that had no hope of finding its way back to land.
Daemon steeled himself all the same. "My attendance is not in celebration, but in mourning. It would do well of you to treat it as such, in my regard at the least." One thing had been made clear long before his arrival - that the occasion was all but momentous. In fact, those preceding days had set a grotesque portent.
"Does it not bother you?" he began without hesitation, or tact, "I have been given word, my Prince, of just how much you displease her...the heir to Runestone."
The Prince tried to smile, but this time it would not reach his mouth. "Are you perhaps in love with the Lady Rhea Royce, my good ser? If so, I would be more than willing to surrender her. Not, of course, without proper compensation. I'm sure you understand."
A pair of firm breasts cradled Daemon's arm and he leaned in to the wenches soft whispers, "Ser Hardy's third son is merely cross to be set with Miss Selyse of Cider Hall. He shall soon be shipped away as heir to nothing but a fat hog to warm his sheets for the rest of his days."
A laugh tumbled from his mouth and he put his focus back on the drunkard, who upon overhearing them began stumbling over. "Am I to rain pity?"
The disheveled man could not hide the contempt in his eyes, and would not be better off for it. "You may have talent for the sword, but you have the temperament of a chamber pot. It is no mystery to anyone that you lust only for your brother's position," the Lord's third son took another long gulp, smiling before he said, "And will likely be passed over as heir again." At this point, every eye present had found them, and yet none could attest to having seen Prince Daemon rise from his seat.
The whelp stumbled back as Daemon's fist connected with his jaw. He spat out blood and staggered while trying to regain his balance, but before he could even lift his arms in defense, the prince was upon him again, raining down blows with a swiftness that put the tavern in stunned silence.
Not a word was spoken as the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed steady, punctuated by the occasional groan or whimper from the cretins pitiful lungs. His face was a pulp, his nose snapped, his eyes swollen shut, and then finally he stepped back, panting heavily, his knuckles red and raw. The man lay on the ground unmoving, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as he struggled to breathe.
The prince surveyed the scene, steady eyes pulling over a thin crowd near empty save for those who remained to bare witness.
He made his way to the bar, his breathing still heavy, and pushed into one of the stools with a languid elegance. "Serve me," he roared, feeling the blood blazing in his throat.
The barkeep nodded and silently poured him a smooth ale. The prince took a long swig, then slammed the mug down on the counter with a loud clang. A hiss came through Daemon's teeth and he brought his hand up to the place where the fucker had managed to land a sharp blow to his ribs. The pain shot up his torso and settled at the point of contact.
He demanded, "Another."
"Shall we return to the Keep, Your Highness?" Daemon rose his eyes to find Ser Willam Fell standing at a moderate distance, just out of range of the pool of blood that was spreading beside his feet.
"I wish to return alone. You are dismissed." With a bow, the Kingsguard turned and exited the tavern. The prince watched over the top of his mug as he disappeared and slapped ten golden dragons onto the bars surface. He pulled a dark cloak over himself before he faced the cobbled streets, slick with filth and grime, and the lanterns that provided little light as the day began to die.
It did not take long for him to kick into a jog, and then he was running, though he did not know from what or why. The night sky, which seemed to become an inky black, burned red as he did, the harsh winds being sucked into the cusp of his skin as he flew through the back streets and alleys. Those dark towering walls and the massive gates stood before him not long after.
Upon entering the holdfast, high walls made of greystone and floors made of rough-hewn stone mend together, both grated smooth by the passage of time. As Daemon ascends the winding stairs to the upper levels, the air seems to grow colder, narrow windows placed high on the walls allowing equal moonlight and an uninviting breeze.
Before he arrived at Maegor's solar, he bid a servant caught running about the corridors prepare his bath.
Several of them arrived moments later, and when they were finished he dismissed them and ensconced himself in the scalding hot basin. He brushed at his bloodied knuckles and watched as the red clots became pink and white crescents underneath the water. He dipped his head into the tub and when he emerged, pushing the molten silver from his face, he settled onto the side and began to roll his muscles out.
The deafening silence was broken only by the sound of sloshing around him. Prince Daemon could not confide in anyone this anguish, nor could he quell the burning ire building deep within him. He was a royal, and with his title came isolation. He felt no joy or excitement as a groom should. It would follow how his father did, his brother did, his grandfather did, but Daemon felt only a deep foreboding and apprehension.
The apartments were suffused with the rich, heady scents of perfumed oils, the steam rising from the surface, curling and twisting around his body like ghostly fingers. The sweet, spicy aroma of Myrish fireberry mixed with the warm, earthy scent of Dornish sandalwood mulled him into consternation.
"...as Saera-"
"Flee to Volantis?" Prince Viserys leaned against the table beside the basin. "Well that would certainly put to rest all the nonsense of you one day stealing my throne." Daemon did not so much as open his eyes.
"Does no one in this family value privacy?"
"Dear little brother, why have you returned home in the dead of night coated with congealed blood, bruises, and festering rage?" Viserys asked matter-of-factly.
"Be honest. Do you believe I would kill for your position?"
"Me?" his elder brother sounded almost offended. "No. Anyone else? Without a second thought..." Viserys rubbed his smooth chin. "Which is likely the issue, you know. It is besides the point as you know of your responsibilities, yes?"
Daemon's jaw tightened as he replied, "I am aware of my duty, Viserys. But do not presume to lecture me how to live my life."
His brother ignored this statement entirely, "You returned to the Keep alone."
"I did," Daemon replied rather swift, eyes now fixed on the rosy pond surrounding him. "I had no need of an escort to begin with."
"A man of your station should not be wandering the streets of Flea Bottom alone. You are still quite young." his brother replied, voice stern. "Not to mention, you are a prince...just be careful."
Daemon bristled, but before he could reply, Viserys spoke again.
"About what happened at Kyra's. Are you hurt?"
He shook his head. "A few bruises. Nothing more."
"I was told you beat the man within an inch of his life, Daemon. Ser Willam said he would be surprised if he ever speaks again. While I support your right to command respect, it is also imperative to regard even the most vexing some modicum of humanity. Please keep this in mind as you must prepare to reign dominion over The Vale very soon."
The Prince's expression darkened at mention of that accursed place. "Yes, I suppose I must."
After a long moment of neither speaking, Viserys chose to change the subject. "Be ready early tomorrow morning. I will be here to fetch you."
Finally, the second son regarded the first, twisting his neck to where his brother stood. "What do you want?" Daemon was well passed agitated.
"Is that any way to speak to the future heir?" He scoffed.
Daemon's deep-set eyes flickered with anger, but before he could respond, his visitor turned on his heel and exited Maegor's solar, the door slamming shut behind him.
The next morning, he sat at his wood table, quietly breaking his fast with fresh bread, salt beef, and ale. He was dressed in a simple black tunic and breeches, his long silver hair pulled back in a neat braid. The yellow light filtered through the tall windows and let in a warm wind. The gold hoops wove at the middle of his ears shined brilliantly.
As he ate, the door to his chambers opened and in strode Viserys. Despite the early hour, he was full of energy, his light purple eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Come, brother," he said, "we are going for a ride."
Prince Daemon's impatient brow shot up and he wanted nothing more than to protest. He had no idea what his elder brother was about to make him do, and frankly he wanted no part of it, whatever it was. But he had never won an argument with Viserys before, and he doubted that would change today, when he was so out of his element. He slipped into his riding clothes and joined his brother outside.
Daemon followed him to the stables, where their horses were waiting. They whined and stamped their feet as the brothers approached, eager to be taken out for a ride.
'Viserys is behaving strangely.' He thought to himself, but decided not to press for answers as they mounted their steeds and began a steady canter through the empty streets of Kings Landing.
After a while, they arrived at the Dragonpit. The massive structure loomed before them, its doors sealed tightly. Viserys dismounted and approached the guards stationed outside the entrance. They exchanged a few hushed words, and the guards nodded, unlocking the doors and allowing the princes inside. The ground was covered in black sand, and towering stone beams held up the massive dome above.
The air was warm and humid, and the scent of smoke and sulfur hung heavily in the air and cloyed at his nostrils. He looked around at the other dragons in the pit, the scaly beasts were resting, their wings folded neatly against their backs, their eyes closed in slumber.
Daemon's eyes scanned for Caraxes and he saw his red dragons head propped over one of the stable doors, watching the prince intently. The dragonkeepers began to release latches that held crimson-eyed beast, pulling the heavy steel doors ajar. Viserys led Daemon to a large pen in the center of the pit. There, he saw a maid who stood clutching something to her chest.
As they approached, he caught sight of the small babe, swaddled in a blanket of soft cotton. Confused and shocked, Daemon snapped around to face his brother, "Why would you bring your infant here?"
Without a word, Viserys began to bind the babe to his chest, securing her tightly with leather straps. The young maid helped too - though the boy did not recognize her - she made sure Rhaenyra was well and secure.
"My little girl has never been in the air before. When you were her age, our mother took you to the skies for the first time. Since I do not have a dragon of my own anymore..."
Prince Daemon gasped loudly, unable to keep his composure any longer. He looked down at the quiet and still babe secure against his chest. She appeared to be asleep. "I-I cannot..." He stuttered nervously, befuddled as to why Viserys would even suggest something so outrageous.
His brother only chuckled and patted his back, as if he were trying to smooth that newfound tepidness away. Daemon shook his head and reached up to unbind the straps from his shoulders but Viserys grabbed him. "Rest easy, my little brother. You will not harm her. She is quite sturdy."
"Viserys-"
The first son quickly lead him to his mount. "Just promise me you wont tell Aemma." he added jokingly, giving him one final and hard slap on the back.
With shaking hands, Daemon mounted Caraxes. The great dragon rumbled beneath him, massive wings unfurling as they prepared to take flight.
The ascent was the most dizzying he'd ever experienced. Hundreds of times now he'd taken to the air, but as he held onto his chains this time his hand curled into a dead lock. Daemon held the sleeping Rhaenyra tightly, her tiny body cradled into his torso, his arm around her a vice. They rose higher and higher until they were above the dome. The babes father disappeared beneath them, and he could feel the heat radiating from Caraxes' scales as clear as the scorch of the sun that dangled above.
He saw the sprawling city below, the buildings and streets specs against the green. As they reached a steady elevation and began a slow soar through the clouds, Daemon finally felt enough courage to look down at his chest. When he did, he was greeted with a pair of wide dark purple eyes staring back at him. He flinched, anticipating she would be asleep even after having taken to the air. Her eyes were bulging from their sockets, and he smiled widely at how silly she looked paired with the wind whipping her wispy white-gold tendrils. He would say his niece looked equally terrified and amazed.
They did not travel far. He circled once, twice, and when he noticed Rhaenyra had fallen asleep once more he pointed his dragon to the ground.
Caraxes whirled back into the pit with grace, a relieved sigh escaping his lips only when his dragons feet finally touched down. As they dismounted from Caraxes, Daemon felt exhaustion crash over him.
"So, did she have fun?" Viserys asked as he pushed himself up on his toes.
Daemon nodded, holding the babe close to his chest. "I hope she did."
He looked around at the other dragons in the pit, the scaly beasts hardly stirred, their wings folded neatly against their backs, their eyes closed in slumber. Nestled atop one massive dragon's back, a yellow hatchling lay sound asleep, its body rising and falling with each peaceful breath. He recognized it as his nieces dragon - the one that had hatched not long after her birth.
Sensing a presence nearby the small dragon writhed, blinked its large golden eyes and lifted its head, gazing around with curiosity. Upon spotting them it let out a low, rumbling growl, then turned around and curled into a new position faced away, tucking its head under its wing as it settled back into sleep.
She was the first Targaryen in nearly three decades to have an egg hatch in their crib. Looking down at Rhaenyra again, her tiny fists peeking out of the folds of the blanket, he took in her soft, delicate features as he had the first time he held her four moons ago.
He then looked back to his elder brother. Viserys clapped him on the back, a rare smile spreading across his face. "That was something," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "Always so well behaved she is with you. Had anyone else taken her up she would have surely bawled, yet here she sleeps like a rock. I fear I will be second to my brother one day."
Daemon was unsure of how to respond.
He could not imagine being a first choice - it was an idea unprecedented, but even he could admit the weakness he had soon formed for his first niece. Viserys and the maid helped to unstrap Rhaenyra and he returned her without hesitation, grateful that the trembling had finally ceased. As they walked towards the exit, the dome above them began to close slowly, hiding the waking sky from view. They mounted their horses, and Viserys led the way back to the Red Keep.
T
She said that there is a weight to glory that Daemon has not yet seen. The notion itself seemed taunting, when in fact, knighthood had been won just six moons short of his seventeenth year.
He was a dragon, of the seed of the Conqueror, of the blood of Old Valyria, born for conquest and fire and blood and unable to be tamed or molded by the words of lesser men. None could deny the rays of greatness that radiated from him, unabashed and defiant as he was talented and exacting. Such could be the woes of some forsaken grief, a wounded victim's animosity, or clawing nails at the throat of guilt when apathy falls away.
For Prince Daemon, the supposed lesson began with an engagement.
The second son is an unenviable position, a pawn to barter with, and bartered he had been. Daemon could not be fooled, as the wool remains firmly at the sheep's back and far from his sightline. A flare for the dramatic - qualities not admirable or tentative in the stuffy courts of Westeros. The Prince was boisterous but maintained precision. Ruled it that discipline should be earned surely as respect, whom he would afford the latter would at first be selective then eventually few and far between.
Though King Jaehaerys would often raise a mused brow, Queen Alysanne would consistently regard him down her poised nose. It mattered not that the rambunctious boy was undeniably bright, or shockingly charming, or an indispensable menace with the hilt of a blade in palm. His Grandmother refused to amend, so much that Prince Daemon suffocated his disposition to please her. A period of his life where his mind remained disconnected for long periods of time, where he did not speak out of turn, and did as he was told and was not called an ungrateful grandchild.
But all was for naught as one day, he'd force the final straw to be drawn. Queen Alysanne descended upon the king with an arrangement of pithy consideration.
"He is unhinged. I have just the place for him." The exact words spoken in accordance to his father. He'd placed the prince at the end of a rusty far-eye, bronze ball-and-chain impelled to his ankles.
Laughable, it is all he could conjure. 'Reigned in. Be it with his will or against it.'
And Prince Daemon would only regret not baring witness to such implication in her eyes, for he was no grandson of theirs but a dilemma in need of resolve. The Queen was the very image of scrupulosity, The Mother ever-present in each of her actions, pushing his reckless abandon back down his throat before a lacquered periwinkle smile. Long gone were days of clinging to those gorgeous emerald silks and being rocked out of consternation between her gentle, dainty arms.
Warm nostalgia now a cold nightmare from a distant past.
Death still lingered above the Red Keep, moon after moon The Stranger would make their dutiful visit. Most hours had been spent in service or in mourning. The Spring Prince had all but ignored his two sons of late. The father who in fact had barely gazed upon one since the announcement was made, in a way gave urgency to that dread near thirteen years ago.
But it was not the late Princess Alyssa that pulled umbral clouds over the castle this evening. Only more fitting than the constraints that would one day be hooked to The Vale, was the ever-present reminder of the bride-to-be stoically poised beside him like a cadaver.
Rhea Royce had not spoken a word upon her throne room entrance, and so Daemon would obviously not be speaking either. Instead he would look on at the gathered Lords as they found their positions and exchanged their fake pleasantries.
He watched their squared pupils settled to the horizon.
How they do not take notice of those sharp shadows, with pointed edges like the blades of a scythe, blotting out the sun. Daemon would often look into their sanguine dispositions and struggle to maintain even composures. It was a wonder to him indeed how their flat tongues continued to wag; he'd wonder perchance, if it should be only happenstance that they are devoured without warning.
Is it not merely the natural order.
"Prince Daemon." Unfortunately, there were tongues that could not be ignored. And this, indeed was among them.
"Your Grace." The Prince turned his head, no longer fixed on a lone grey pillar in the distance.
"My Lord has asked you a question, my son, would you like to answer it?"
Daemon let a snort leave him, and as such would avoid the vein that pushed in his father's jaw. It did not matter, for the answer may have come much sooner had the bleating lord allowed a word in edge wise. "There is no finer sensation than that of steel through flesh. I would not squander my time and sully my sword in banal governance to your meager demesne."
The lord clad in silver and gold silks came off charmed by this outburst, perhaps because the boy had barely spoken two words since appearing that noon, but clearly he was not surprised. "His Highness is rather prickly of late, is he not?"
"Quite, indeed. You must accept my apologies, Lord Celtigar. Prince Daemon twiddles his thumbs in anticipation of the days to come."
Lord Celtigar waved Prince Baelon off. "All the more reason I say, to request his guidance. What of my second son? I hear you have not yet taken squires to ward."
A swift response was found, "Your featherbed wiry son could not distinguish his foot from an anvil much less squire a prince of the blood."
"My Lord, have you procured our selection of eastern spice-" His father took the older man by the shoulder and guided him to another side of the room. And just like that, Daemon had been dropped like a piece of raw meat again.
The Queen swept into the throne room, placing herself at the bottom of the stone steps and prostrating.
Once the court was assembled, words began to die. Queen Alysanne's eyes found him and after they ran over his form, she grimaced outwardly.
Daemon ignored the red-hot pang in his ribcage and instinctively folded his hands at his back. Half-turning his head, he caught sight of his sister-by-law, who was leaning over to whisper something in his ear. "Your skin is stained with bruises again, Daemon." Princess Aemma said insistently, and on her face he could see the exasperation. "Even your neck is littered with them - you take your training too far."
Could it be that she believed Prince Daemon was unaware of the reason behind his grandmother's ire? It might be this, or it might be that Princess Aemma simply wished to express her concern for him, unwelcome as it was.
And it was entirely unwelcome.
"You are wasting your time, my dear." Viserys said, pulling Aemma closer to him. "Daemon can not be reasoned with on such matters, you are better off admonishing a fish for being wet."
The King was not far behind and began to climb the stairs before Daemon could settle the sickening feeling threatening to rise from his gut. Even still, his expression schooled into something icy and far-off, unapproachable, before silence fell over the hall. King Jaehaerys settled on the Iron Throne, green robes curtaining the clusters of blades. His eyes went across the lords and ladies assembled before him, and when they located his youngest grandson, he loudly called him forth.
Wordlessly, the prince left his family's side and approached the king with a stoic expression. Jaehaerys took a deep breath, and Prince Daemon feared what he would say, because it could have been just about anything.
"Prince Daemon," he began, his voice chiming out across the great room. "As you prepare to depart for The Vale and take Rhea Royce as your wife, it is only fitting that you receive a token of your family's legacy."
The King signaled to the Ser Ryam Redwyne, who stepped forward, carrying a case that opened to reveal a slender sword beside a black scabbard cushioned in red velvet. The hilt was inlaid with a lone ruby and the blade glimmered in the light of the radiant morning sun. Gasps of shock and awe rang out as the guests took in its grandeur, whispers of sheer disbelief.
Jaehaerys made a wide, forward gesture. "I present Dark Sister, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror's sister-wife, Visenya. It has been passed down through the Targaryen family for generations. And now, I bestow it unto you."
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard knelt before Prince Daemon and offered him the sword. The young prince took it, his fingers wrapping around the hilt with a reverence that was not lost on anyone present.
Sounds of merriment and chatter filled the room, but he stood there, an outsider in the midst of revelry. He ran his fingers over the ridges and crevices, feeling the coolness of the metal against his skin. The dragon-shaped pommel was encrusted with gold wings, shining like fiery drops of blood against the brilliant Valyrian steel.
"Your Grace," Daemon said, his voice robotic. "You honor me. I will wield Dark Sister with the same valor and steadfastness as my forebears."
The king nodded gravely. "I trust that you will, Prince Daemon. Dark Sister is a symbol of our family's legacy, and carries with it great responsibility." Daemon wished dearly that the king would not say anymore, that he would tie the event into a neat bow with a few parting words and call for the feast, but much to his chagrin the speech carried on, "With the rising tensions between the Dornish conquests and the loss of my dear first son, Prince Daemon's departure to The Vale on this day marks a period of new beginnings. It is imperative that he has the sword of our family to protect him, and with this sword he shall also protect The Crown. Today we celebrate more than the joining of two souls, but a precursor to what will become one of the greatest dynasties in Westeros."
He thought that he might gag, easily expel his meal this morn to the greystone floors. He could turn, run, mount Caraxes and fly as far from this continent as possible. Instead he returned to where he stood, wasting no time tying Dark Sister to his hip.
The festivities began without a hitch, time passing in a blur, and soon Prince Daemon was brooding over a chalice of wine once again.
"You don't seem thrilled, brother." The second son caught a glimpse of the first watching him from across the banquet table. "You'd think Grandsire had bestowed upon you one of the branches from the trees in the courtyard."
"I am positively over the moon. Whatever do you mean?" Daemon protested.
A shrill voice cut in, "Congratulations, Prince Daemon. You must be thrilled to have been given such a prestigious honor."
Daemon turned to see the heir of Runestone facing him, her face a mask of polite interest, clearly forced. He had almost forgotten about her, so caught up was he in his own thoughts, that the Royce's existence had all but vanished from his mind.
He believed it much too short lived.
"It is not an honor, but a cushion to soften the blow." He explained to the insipid woman five years his senior, for what other reason could there be? "I have always been destined to wield Dark Sister, it was only a matter of when." He turned from her, bringing the cup to his face for another much needed helping.
'The when,' He contemplated with sweltering rage creeping down his back 'is downright insulting.'
Rhea's polite smile washed away like footprints by the shore. "Could you be any more arrogant?" She asked plainly.
Daemon's eyes found the ceiling. "Arrogance and competence play in similar arenas, though I'm sure you who can only demarcate chickens by their anuses would hardly understand such complexities."
It is unfortunate that Prince Daemon did not see how the Bronze Heir's face turned over into disgust and horror. "You are despicable."
"And you would do well to shut the fuck up. You have already made it painfully clear just what you think of me. Do not pretend otherwise, it makes me ill." Daemon whispered violently.
Her stupid mouth fell open, and her short brown curls whipped as she turned to look away from him.
'The nerve of her to even SPEAK to me.' He thought lividly to himself.
As the final banquet swelled to a close, Prince Daemon would find his leave immediately. He strode through the halls of the Red Keep, the tension surrounding him was palpable as it was suffocating. The only thing that could have made that night worse, he thought, was being summoned to the King's apartments.
But that's exactly what happened. One of his runners had come to his chambers, breathless and shaking, with a message from King Jaehaerys. Daemon had no choice but to comply, and after changing from his day clothes, he left Maegor's and climbed the tower one floor.
When he entered the solar, he found a space awash with a warm yellow glow, walls adorned with tapestries and paintings, testaments to the grandeur of the Targaryen dynasty. Further inside, he saw the king sitting behind his desk, his wife standing aflank. The queen was cozy in an evening garb, a flowy peridot gown that wrapped around her willowy form. Her fine silver hair was pulled into a tight braid at the crown of her head. Regal features, which were twisted with rage, blazed with a barely concealed fury.
"You wished to see me, Your Grace?"
Alysanne spoke at once, with a lull markedly cool and collected. "We need to address your actions today."
Daemon raised an eyebrow. "What actions?" he asked, feigning innocence. "I was the perfect prince."
Alysanne's eyes narrowed. "Do not play dull with me boy," she warned. "The way you threw insult after insult towards the Mallerys and Celtigars was completely unacceptable. You embarrass yourself and our family before the entire court."
Prince Daemon Targaryen could not give two fucks what her precious court believed, and he expressed that opinion with a light chuckle.
The Old King cut in before The Good Queen could respond. "This is not a laughing matter, grandson. Your behavior is a reflection on me, and I will not tolerate rumors spreading about how I have slacked on your upbringing. Especially not on the eve of your own wedding."
"Not to mention nearly murdering Ser Hardy's son erstwhile." Her grandson flinched, and around the desk to stand she went, "Did you think we would not find out? They say Marc Hardy will never have proper vision nor eat solid food again!"
"He insulted me, a Targaryen, Grandmother. What else was I to do?" Daemon replied. "I see no harm."
"No harm?" She echoed dumbfoundedly. "You were involved in a brawl at a tavern like some common rogue! There are proper modes of subjugation-"
"I have no patience for treaties and alliances. The fire of the Conquerer runs in my veins. I was made to crush my enemies, not break bread with them."
The Queen nearly screamed, "There is more to glory than war and gore and for you it remains to be seen!"
Jaehaerys' imposing figure came into view and he placed a firm hand on his wife's shoulder. Daemon counted a ring on each of his long fingers. "She is correct. You are not just a Targaryen, but a prince of the realm, and you must act accordingly."
The Prince decided that he could be silent no longer. "Oh, how heartwarming it is to see you finally agreeing on something. I suppose all it takes is a rebellious grandson to finally bring unity. After all, you're practically living on separate continents most of the time, bickering like children over nonsense." He paused, his voice dripping with venom. "But when it comes to setting me on the straight and narrow, you are spontaneously united in disdain. How quaint. It is not merely the same blood you share, but also the same empty throne - ruling over nothing but your own resentment towards each-"
"Enough!" The Queen snapped, her hand flying out like a striking serpent across his face. The sound split through the room like thunder, making the king and guards flinch. Daemon staggered back, the pain that bloomed on his cheek elevating to each throb as blood rushed the area. Sharp ringing began to puncture his ears, drowning out all other sounds.
"You insolent little brat." She said quietly, repulsively, inching ever closer, "HOW DARE YOU?!"
"My love, please..." Jaehaerys encouraged gently, pulling at his wife's arm. "Let us discuss this matter calmly and rationally. We cannot let our emotions get the better of us."
Queen Alysanne glared at her grandchild for a few more moments, her breathing ragged and uncontrolled. She eventually relented, stepping around the king and behind his desk, refusing to look at the boy anymore.
Prince Daemon's grandfather regarded him with a mixture of disappointment and frustration. "I fear this conversation will take us nowhere as of now. Let us resume when tensions are not so high...shall we?"
The conversation would never resume.
100 A.C., 9th Moon
Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, stood tall and proud on its rocky perch in the Narrow Sea. The castle's black stone walls rose high into the sky, a stark contrast to the azure blue of the sea below. The body itself was barren and rocky, save for a few hardy trees that clung to the rugged cliffs, braving the fierce winds that whipped across.
The interior was a labyrinth of twisting corridors and narrow staircases, leading to a myriad of chambers. One such room contained the grand Painted Table, at the heart of the castle. A vast space, with high ceilings and a large model shaped of Westeros ran the length of the hall, its surface a polished blackwood.
It was here somehow that Prince Daemon wound up, staring out of the wide rectangular window that lined the wall. As he sat there, lost in contemplation, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
"Father." He said when the door opened and closed without so much as an announcement, not bothering to turn around.
"Son..." Prince Baelon bellowed in return, his usually bright features hard-set and stern. "You venture out from the Vale at last, I see. What brings you to my humble domain?"
"Yes," Daemon began, "I want a divorce."
The Spring Prince sighed before sinking into a chair at the head of the Painted Table. "Not this again." he pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, "Have you not sent enough letters? Also, is it true that you have yet to consummate your marriage, Daemon?" He sounded more disappointed than angry.
"How can I lie with a woman who does not inspire pleasure?" the man of eight-and-ten asked bewildered. "Every time I touch her, she coils into her shell like a turtle. And the feeling is wholly mutual. I have spent the last two years in an emotionless, abusive marriage. Rhea Royce is a shrew. A harpy who has made my life a living hell. I am asking you to free me of her."
Baelon's eyes narrowed at his son's words. "I see," he said, voice heavy with disapproval. "And please help me understand...why could you not be bothered to attend the Queen's memorial service last moon?"
Daemon's expression remained unchanged, "For what reason?"
Silence hung between them.
"She is your grandmother, Daemon," he growled. - Or, she was. "And she was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Even your wife was present that day, how could you not give the respect she deserves?"
"Respect?" Daemon scoffed. "What did she ever do to earn my respect? She was a hypocrite, preaching about justice and fairness of the realm whilst ignoring the suffering of her own kin. I am certain that even to her funeral, she would not invite me."
The father merely listened to his son's venomous proclamation. The two Targaryen's then sat still for a few moments, the crashing of waves against the cliffs outside poured in. "How is it that time in the serene Vale has not mellowed, but instead made your temperament even more bitter and spiteful?" the question was directed to himself, and he scratched his head in deep thought. "As for your request to divorce Lady Rhea, it is out of the question. You made a vow before the Seven, and you will honor it."
The heat in the room seemed to intensify, as if the walls themselves were closing in. The muscles in his jaw clenched so tightly it felt like they might snap under the pressure. His fists balled up so hard that his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood. In a sudden burst of fury, Daemon slammed his fist down on the table, sending the pieces set out beforehand flying.
Prince Baelon was not impressed.
Irate, Daemon rose from his seat, with movements sharp and violent. The sound of his chair scraping across the floor was a harsh punctuation mark. With one last glare, he stormed from the Stone Table room.
T
The Prince was on the road for weeks, in the air for days, in search something, anything - or perhaps he was running. One day, he found himself at a very particular place at Riverrun. As he walked into the dimly lit inn, he could feel the patrons turn to him briefly. The sound of clinking glasses and raucous laughter filled the air, so unlike the constant quiet that had consumed him over the previous weeks.
He approached the back and saw his brother sitting in a corner booth, nursing a cask of ale.
Viserys looked up and their eyes met. "Daemon," He exclaimed, his smile bright and wide, and stood to greet him, taking his little brother into his arms tightly. "We finally meet again!"
The Rogue Prince nodded once and sat, "Tell me, what is the Iron Heir doing all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?"
Viserys took the seat across and fixed himself to a very undeniably troubled younger brother. "What's happened? I hear you and father got into a scuffle at Dragonstone last week."
Daemon took a deep breath and began to recount his marriage to Rhea Royce, once again completely against his will. He told Viserys plainly that he had requested a divorce and was denied, it did not take long for him to begin rambling about how miserable he was though, and soon he had put away three pints of ale.
As he spoke, his brother listened intently, and when Daemon finished, Viserys nodded in understanding. "It is good to finally see you are not bound and chain somewhere in The Vale as many surmised. I thought perhaps you had died after disappearing for that short while. To think she would be so cruel."
He carried on, "Every time we speak, it just turns into a fight, sometimes violent - blood has been drawn on both sides. We do not agree on anything, and it's exhausting."
Viserys let out a hearty laugh. "Perhaps you just have not hit your stride yet."
"I do not understand why I can't simply wed Rhaenyra." He grumbled.
"We...have been through this before Daemon." His brother threw his head back and groaned. "We went through it before she was born, after she was born, five moons after she was born, and now here we are once more. She is still just a babe, brother. You would wait fourteen years for your infant niece than have a life...with children, now?"
"I would have waited sixteen if need be."
The next thing that left Viserys mouth was entirely unexpected, so unlike the wide grin plastered there. "Then ask Rhaenyra for her hand."
"What?"
"If you might convince Rhaenyra of the match, I can surely convince father of the annulment, and he would surely convince the king."
It was almost too good to be true, and surely he knew there must be a catch, so he grit his teeth. "Under what conditions, Brother?"
"No conditions. If Princess Rhaenyra agrees, so too will Princess Aemma, and from there it will be a chain reaction."
He could hardly believe the simplicity, of being handed the freedom he so wished for on a silver platter, and nearly laughed out loud.
T
"What brings you to the Godswood, cousin?" Daemon asked as he approaches the princess Rhaenys sitting on a stone bench, with long raven hair flowing behind her like the fall of night.
She looked up at him with her piercing violet eyes, a faint smile playing on her lips. "I come here for peace and solitude, away from the noise and chaos of the Driftwood court," she replied.
Daemon scoffed. "Peace and solitude? In the Red Keep? You'll have to forgive me if I find that hard to believe."
"Oh, I find it quite peaceful here," she retorted, her voice laced with a hint of amusement. Daemon let his eyes trail over her, watching the way the sunlight plays off her lovely features, the way she exuded a practiced beauty. "I take it your spar went well?"
He looked down when she gestured at his training garments and chuckled, a small spark of pride igniting in his chest, picturing the men twice his size still toppled over in the training yard in defeat. "I think it went just fine."
Princess Rhaenys arched an eyebrow. "So, why are you here, cousin? Should you not be tormenting your own wife in Runestone?" she asked, breaking his reverie.
"I asked you first." he insisted.
The Velaryon looked away for a moment, her expression pensive. "The Princess caught one of our housekeepers funneling a slush out of Driftmark's accounts on her visit this Winter. Corlys and I bring her our estates books every so often for a second or third opinion now. She has been going through the ledgers with a fine-tooth comb ever since."
Daemon's eyes turned to plates, it was as if the entire statement had gone over his head. He'd no clue that Aemma knew a thing about checks and balances. As she was always so engrossed in her embroidery or entertaining her dispensable ladies-in-waiting. "I beg your pardon?"
She only glanced at him, seemingly offended. "What? She is excellent with balancing, is she not? I have no complaints, not to mention she is quiet as a mouse."
"Okay, then." He said, uninterested.
Rhaenys rose from her seat effortlessly, that raven hair a silk waterfall down her back. She stood tall and regal, her figure draped in a gown of midnight black. His head lowered to a bow as she bid him farewell, with a voice soft and melodic, like the whisper of a summer breeze. She turned gracefully on her heel and swept away, the hem of her gown trailing coals.
He continued on and moved down the winding stairs of the Red Keep, out into the crowded streets of King's Landing. The noise was jovial, a buzz of voices, bells, and clattering hooves. Daemon pulled his hood up to conceal his face and pushed into the throngs of people.
The Prince was in the mood for a game of dice, and he knew there were always a few shady characters lurking in the area who would be more than willing to part with their coin.
The Beggar's Fortune was a dingy establishment just off the streets of Flea Bottom, and one could hear raucous laughter and boisterous shouting of people from outside. The door came open and Daemon stepped into a sheen of smoke and the smell of stale ale. At the very back of the room there were a group of men gathered around a large table, tossing dice and exchanging gold.
Without a word, Daemon pulled up a chair and joined in the game.
One of the men was cheating, he noticed it just two rounds in. A toothless fellow with one eye and a band of gold around his neck. The princes hand whipped out and he caught the man's wrist just as he was about to palm those loaded die. "May I?"
The man paled, but handed the pair of dice over without protest.
Daemon's fingers deftly slipped the weighted dice into his pouch as he pretended to examine them. The man opposite him, a grizzled old gambler with a crooked nose, was too busy grinning triumphantly to notice. For the rest of the night, Daemon played with the dice, rolling them in his palm and feeling the weight of his newfound fortune. He won game after game, taking gold and silver from the unsuspecting con artists and commoners without fail.
As he walked back to the black castle with his heavy bag of spoils, he felt naught but sick satisfaction. As if perhaps, things may not be terrible for much longer. When he finally arrived back at the Red Keep, he slipped the loaded dice back into his pocket and strolled through the gates with the confidence of a man who had just won a great battle and was soon to win another.
Upon returning to his chambers later that evening, he would wash the training as well as the Streets of Silk from his body in the small tub and change.
The first stars began to twinkle in the sky, and a full moon rose slowly from behind Aegon's Hill. The light from the moon was bright enough to illuminate the ash brick roofs across the cityscape. Prince Daemon looked on with an orient in alignment for his soon bride-to-be.
"The usual dinner, my Prince?"
He waved him off. "I will be visiting Princess Rhaenyra this evening. Take this and follow me."
Outside her door an unknown knight stood guard. Noticing the prince, he moved aside and allowed it open.
The Prince entered her foyer, and bafflement struck at the sheer number of books that had been amassed. There were dragon scale tomes filled with ancient knowledge towering from the floor, contemporary novels, pieces of art scattered around. In one corner at a small writing desk stacked with inked pages, a comfortable armchair loaded with scrolls in another, and flush end of the room a wide bed with fluffy pillows and blankets piled high against the wall. Above it, a new row of red oak shelves had been installed and were bursting with various volumes and histories bound by thick cow skin behind panes of clear glass.
Rumors of the young princess and her love for literature had not been exaggerated. Rather, it would appear they had been grossly understated.
And there, lazed beside the burning hearth, she was kicking her legs and sprawled across a luxurious Tyroshi plush fur, engrossed in a book with more illustrations than words.
Her purple gems abprutly swung around and Daemon's steps faltered.
As she pushed herself up to sit, the puffy pink dress bloomed beneath her like a petunia. Her hair was at two loose braids on either side of her head, starlight tendrils flew from the twists and temples, framing an angelic heart-shaped face and upturned nose. He could only stare as the popping flames splattered amber streaks against the alabaster of her pristine skin.
The man was unsure of what he expected upon their small reunion - perhaps she would eagerly run to him, or eye him with curiosity and wonder from afar with a shyness about her. Mayhaps Prince Daemon expected his niece to cower from him altogether running and hiding.
What the prince had not expected was to receive a once-over, and for her petite lips to twitch into something that could not be ascertained, because it forced the hairs behind his neck to stand at attention. The gesture was so brief, if he blinked at that moment, an evenness that had crawled into her natural pout is all he would have seen. The Prince was stunned by his own disbelief, pinned down unwittingly, powerless to reaction.
It was she who spoke first, and "You have returned, Prince Daemon." was all she would say with a miniscule but firm lilt; enunciation struggling behind forming incisors, her words were clear and her tone was deliberate.
Daemon seized the absence of enthusiasm there, blatant as a quivering bowstring ready to snap. It was unnerving to have that suspicion confirmed in an instant, more so - the childs unwavering stare. Though he was not well versed with young ones as he found most to be insufferable, he knew of their basic mannerisms. This one did not so much as fidget, and the hooks pulling at both corners of her mouth, sallow and placid and lacking the slightest hint of ardency, left the prince begrudgingly combing through his brain for what could possibly be in hers.
Next thing that yanked at his collar was the use of title. He thought it wholly unnecessary and would not correct her. He did openly admit, however, to most certainly having been rubbed the wrong way.
When Daemon did not respond, and the silence dragged on, she closed her eyes for a few ticks and they opened to find him looming from above.
The Prince was intrigued and it must have shown as much on his face, as she seemed to pale visibly. His heavy boots had barely made a sound when he crossed the room, placing himself before the rug she began to rise from. Princess Rhaenyra wasted no time dipping into a rushed curtsy and nearly toppling over her shaky ankles.
She was so very little, barely making it past his knees, and when the prince looked down at her she craned her neck to gaze upon him. The girl presented as mesmerized, studying his face carefully, as a sculptor would his clay before making a new impression. He studied her too, her heart-shaped face, dark purple doe eyes brimmed with awareness.
There could be no question on the girl's beauty, as she was in the way only a Targaryen could be, but the prince was very much perplexed at the idea that his meek wicker cousin and tall dopey brother had manifested such an exquisite creature.
Near enchanting the girl was.
This time, Daemon would be the first to speak. "Please accept my apologies, tiny hatchling, for having been away from you so long. You see, I had much to do."
He only smirked when his niece's brows pulled into a frown. Her irises began to dance, and surprisingly she let out a sigh resembling defeat, "You have not been reprimanded. My words were but a greeting." Daemon studied her speech, now of the common tongue. He lapped at every syllable that came forth.
Could she not phrase such vernacular in High Valyrian, or did she view him as simple? He did not allow the glee that bubbled to stay his hand, as one would predict an even deeper jab spilling from that defiant mouth.
Prince Daemon decided he would pry it out. "I welcome all aspects of you, little niece. You may be as sweet or as hostile as you wish."
Her face portrayed an uncertainty of this at first, but the offer quickly came into practice. "By 'much to do'..." she was clearly hesitant and spoke these next words slowly and carefully, "Could you mean dismembering sinful men, denouncing your lady wife, or whoring about the Streets of Silk?"
That was all it took.
His head went back and he could not suppress the laugh that ripped through him, loud and bright. He looked upon her again with wide and curious eyes, inspecting her even more thoughtfully than before, if possible.
He struggled to wrap his mind around it. Just shy of three name days old and already she had a wit that could rival a woman scorned and thrice her age. She seemed to have a superb memory as well, having immediately recalled him and all the gossip that trailed, unambiguous in her disapproval and straight shooting.
'What a child you have created Viserys. What a dragon.'
"I thank you for this heartfelt reintroduction, my niece, but let us instead focus on matters more pressing." To make a point, Prince Daemon clapped his hands once and a servant boy came bumbling into the room with a small package at his side. "I have brought you a gift."
He presented it to her, the cream-colored box tied with a magenta ribbon that matched the girl's vibrant dress.
Rhaenyra carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the top away. Inside was a baby doll, made of soft fabric with curly blonde hair and big purple jeweled eyes that sparkled in tune with flames of the stone firepit. The doll was dressed in a tiny pink dress with white lace trim, and its arms and legs were plump and rosy as its cheeks.
Little Rhaenyra would not speak again until the servant had exited her chambers and the Prince took full notice of this.
'Does she refuse to speak long-windedly near strangers? It would explain much...how unbearably clever.' He thought to himself.
The man watched his niece engage her new doll, small hands brushing over every stitching and pattern as she scanned it thoughtfully. The doll was not expensive, but it was handspun by one of the finest dollmakers in Westeros, and the excellent craftmanship could not be discounted. Wonder-filled purple eyes came up to find his, and when her mouth split into a dazzling smile, the prince felt as though he had been struck by a bolt of lightning.
"She is wonderful, Uncle. Thank you." Uncle. Daemon's heart jolted within his chest, an imposing warmth radiated outwards in a flush that tingled through his veins.
"Do you like birds?" He drolled, attempting to shake the unwelcome feeling away.
She appeared aghast by the sudden change in conversation, until spotting the Aves of Westeros book she'd previously had her head buried in on the carpet. "I like them."
The Prince smirked, "Do you know what my favorite bird is?" he asked suddenly, his gaze meeting Rhaenyra's and he leaned onto his knees.
She shook her head, her expression unsure.
"A dragon." He intoned, briefly recalling, "Your dragon hatched in your crib if I remember correctly." he feigned an avid search across her chambers, "Where might the little yellow thing be?"
Much to Daemon's confusion, Rhaenyra responded by turning away. She hugged the doll to her and brushed the hairs away to see the pretty face underneath. "I do not know." she whispered eerily, "The hatchling...it does not like me."
Daemon's body went rigid as he gazed down at the diminutive girl before him. She was completely engrossed in the toy, oblivious to his presence. As her words echoed in his mind, the statement lingered like residuals, causing his thoughts to spin and swirl until all fell away and there was none but he and she.
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