Lavender Haze

by madgirlslovesong (Sympathy4theDevil)

Chapter 8

Notes:

Sorry for the long wait, I'm not going to delay you any longer; more of my ramblings in the note at the end.
Also, it's 1 AM where I am, and I really need to go to bed 😁

Enjoy!

 

 

Like a dragon waking from a slumber, Dragonstone slinks from under the pale ribbons of thick fog that curl and coil around the fortress, brushing against the black stone of watchtowers and crowning the roofs. The scent of smoke and sulfur seeps from the stone walls, from the jagged cliffs and waters surrounding the island, from the very earth, and with the first whiff of the mixture, Rhaenyra is home.

 

Sensing her joy, Syrax gives a loud shriek that echoes through the island, announcing to everyone that the princess of Dragonstone is back. Moments later, Caraxes joins Syrax’s song with his whistling roar, and the two dragons descend to the Dragonpit in a series of playful spins and twirls.

 

As soon as they dismount, Daemon is at her side, his eyes jerking around as if he wants to encompass every inch of the island with his gaze to ensure it’s safe.

 

“Relax,” Rhaenyra whispers, reaching for his hand.

 

As eager as Daemon is for their wedding, he has been most anxious about their return to Dragonstone, constantly questioning if they shouldn’t stay a little longer in Pentos or even fly further south to Volantis and wed there. Rhaenyra’s answer has always been the same – dragons do not hide from sheep.

 

She squeezes his hand to draw his attention. “We will speak with Ser Lorrent and Ser Robert Quince and strengthen the security in the castle, but we will not put our lives on hold.”

 

Rhaenyra has already lost a year of her life after her father changed the succession, sulking and moping around the castle; she has lost three years, thinking she will one day become the queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She won’t miss more time cowering from a possibility of some accusations or a threat that might not come.

 

Daemon’s eyes bore into hers for a few moments before he nods stiffly, not entirely placated but willing to temporarily let go of his fears at her request.

 

Before Rhaenyra can say anything more, maester Gerardys, Ser Lorrent and Ser Robert enter the Dragonpit along with a few servants who will carry Daemon’s and Rhaenyra’s bags to the castle. The rest of their belongings and new purchases will come on the ship Mararo has generously offered them.

 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” maester Gerardys greets with a bow and a soft smile. “Prince Daemon.”

 

The two knights who accompany him do the same. Rhaenyra smiles as she compares this welcoming party to the one who greeted her when she first came to Dragonstone – smaller and less formal but honest in the respect they show her and the joy they feel about her return. And now she has Daemon at her side, which makes everything brighter and better. She squeezes her uncle’s hand again before intertwining their fingers, eager to get as close to him as Westerosi norms allow her.

 

Bundled in their cloaks and furs to protect themselves from the chill of winter air, they start the long climb up to the castle. It’s quite a shock after spending three moons in sun-soaked Pentos, where every day has been blazing hot and sultry, and the sky has almost always been clear of clouds.

On Dragonstone, white fluff lingers on the frozen ground and pebbled paths – a queer sight for Rhaenyra, who has spent all her life surrounded by the warmth of King’s Landing. Still, as she looks around, brushing her eyes over shimmering rocks and blades of grass stiff with frost, she finds it less magical than she had imagined it to be when maester Gerardys told tales of snow-blanketed hills and snowflakes twirling in the wind.

 

Rhaenyra asks maester Gerardys and Ser Robert to tell her everything that has happened on Dragonstone in her absence, and even further than her island, whatever news has reached them from King’s Landing and other kingdoms. Walking at her side, Daemon remains silent, but from the tense line of his shoulders and the thin line of his lips, Rhaenyra knows her uncle listens carefully, searching for any hidden meaning, secrets and threats that might loom over their heads.

 

Once they pass the castle gates and step into the courtyard, the smile on Rhaenyra’s face grows as she looks around the familiar surroundings. Their stay in Pentos has not been long, yet those three moons have made Rhaenyra appreciate her home even more than she already has.

 

As they share supper, maester Gerardys continues passing the news and recounting the ravens that have come to Dragonstone in her absence. He speaks about matters that require her attention and others he has taken the liberty to deal with on his own.

 

Some time ago, Rhaenyra promised her uncle she would secure her hold over Dragonstone and vowed to herself to cherish every treasure and secret the island hides. Now, she’s even more determined to keep those promises, to take whatever power Dragonstone gives her and fortify herself within it, not only for her own sake but also for her uncle’s and the children they will one day have.

 

The first step is to take her responsibilities seriously and become a worthy ruler of the island so that no one can find any flaws or mistakes and blame them on her gender.

 

“We have to speak about the defences,” Daemon says, speaking for the first time. His eyes are fixed on Ser Lorrent and Ser Robert, dark and stern to convey the seriousness of the matter. “I trust the men continued with their training? You did not allow them to slack in our absence?”

 

Ser Robert shakes his head. “Of course not, my prince.”

 

“Quite the opposite,” Ser Lorrent says, a tiny smirk curling in the corner of his lips. “We have used this time to add a few more hours to their training and even practised how they should behave in case of a threat.”

 

“Good,” he says, though, despite their reassurances, Daemon remains tense. “I want to see their progress tomorrow morning.”

 

Although Daemon has always taken Dragonstone defences seriously, now there’s a hint of urgency in his voice, which does not go unnoticed by Ser Lorrent and Ser Robert. Frowns appear on the men’s faces as they look at Daemon with both curiosity and alarm.

 

Daemon and Rhaenyra exchange a look; they’ve agreed that maester Gerardys, Ser Lorrent and Ser Robert can be trusted with the news Daemon has acquired from his spies and friends in King’s Landing.

 

In the private dining room, Daemon shares the reports in a quiet voice, informing their advisors of the strange accidents happening to people and King’s Landing and his suspicions.

 

When he speaks about Ser Rickard Thorne, Ser Lorrent snorts. “I can assure you, my prince, that is not a result of anyone’s plot, only Rickard’s recklessness. Ser Ryam closed his eye on such things, but we all knew Ser Harrold won’t be as lenient. Rickard should have ended the affair a long time ago, but mayhaps he got hit too many times in the head if he thought Ser Harrold would remain blind and allow an oathbreaker to stay in Kingsguard.”

 

Daemon accepts the knight’s words with a nod. “That still leaves Tyland Lannister, Larys Strong, and-” he hesitates for a moment and glances at Rhaenyra, “the queen. Do you agree with me that it was Tears of Lys?” he asks maester Gerardys.

 

The maester scratches his chin in thought. “It’s definitely a possibility,” he says calmly. Rhaenyra can see that, although the maester does not want to fan Daemon’s ire even more, he also wants to consider other explanations. “It’s definitely strange that no one else got ill, but fever is not the only symptom of Tears of Lys. There should be a bloody stool and cramping, too. The poison eats away the stomach and bowels, and I’m sure one of the many maesters in King’s Landing would have noted that. Though I guess not every maester knows the art of healing well.”

 

“It does not matter,” Ser Robert says, resolution set on his face. “Whether the prince’s suspicions are correct or not, we ought to ensure princess Rhaenyra’s safety. We can monitor people who enter the castle and double-check every man and woman who enlist to serve on Dragonstone.”

 

Ser Lorrent nods in agreement. “It will do us no harm to tighten our security.”

 

Rhaenyra allows her mind to wander as the men discuss some ideas for strengthening their defences, and when they’re done, Daemon has to squeeze her hand to draw her attention back to the conversation. When her cheeks heat with embarrassment, her uncle offers her a smirk.

 

“I apologise,” Rhaenyra says, straightening slightly in her chair. She takes a sip of wine before looking at her advisors again. She has one more piece of information to share with them. “Prince Daemon and I decided to marry.”

 

Neither of them looks surprised at her news, and Rhaenyra’s cheeks heat up even more as she realises that even on Dragonstone, she and Daemon have not been discreet in their affections.

 

She swallows her embarrassment and wages on. “We will marry according to Valyrian tradition as soon as possible, but we plan to throw a celebratory feast in a few moons’ time and invite lords and ladies from the nearby lands. And the king, too,” she adds, a sullen note ringing in her voice.

 

It is another thing Rhaenyra and Daemon have decided on, a plan they’ve formed during the last few weeks in Pentos, hatched in whispered words in the quietness of their bedroom. A wedding feast is a perfect opportunity to form alliances, seek friends among nobles living close to Dragonstone, and decide who can be their ally and who is a foe. Inviting the king is a necessary evil; to deny him an invitation will be as good as announcing to the world that the strife between Dragonstone and Red Keep is real, which would only encourage people to reach with their grabby hands for more power. And though tradition dictates having a wedding and a feast on the same day, Rhaenyra does not wish for her father’s presence to taint the memories of her wedding day. The nobles will have to satisfy themselves with a feast a few moons after Daemon and Rhaenyra become husband and wife.

 

Maester Gerardys does not need an explanation of what the feast is for or what they try to achieve with it. “I will prepare a list of houses the closest to Dragonstone and nobles worthy of your attention, princess.”

 

“Thank you.” Rhaenyra offers the maester a smile, trusting his ability to compose the list of potential guests. “I wish to send a letter with the invitation for the king, so be sure to inform me when the time comes to send the ravens.”

 

They stay a little longer, discussing the wedding and everything that needs to be done – the servants have to be informed, and the cooks, as Rhaenyra wishes to send bread, meats and barrels of ale to the village to include the villagers in the celebrations. There’s a matter of finding Daemon a new room, somewhere closer to Rhaenyra’s apartments, so he would not have to make a trip through the castle whenever he wishes to visit her rooms.

 

By the time they’re done, the sky is inky black, and most servants have already retired to their rooms, leaving the castle deadly quiet. Rhaenyra stretches, wincing at the ache lingering in her bones and muscles from the long flight; her head is filled with thoughts of the soft mattress waiting in her room.

 

Daemon dutifully escorts her to her apartments in the Sea Dragon Tower, his hand hovering at her back as they cross the dim corridors. Once they reach the door, he kisses her cheek. “Wait for me in your bed,” he whispers, winking before he turns around and leaves.

 

 

 

Two days later – on the day of their wedding – Rhaenyra and Daemon scurry through the corridors towards the secret entrance to the tunnels leading to the heart of the mountain. It’s the hour of the wolf – the blackest part of the night, and despite the stars and the moon hanging in the inky black sky, the castle seems steeped in darkness.

 

With a soft hum of Dragonstone heartbeat, Rhaenyra and Daemon climb down the narrow staircase carved in the stone. Something in the air – an almost reverent stillness that encompasses them in a bubble – makes them move as quietly as possible, careful not to break the silence.

 

Rhaenyra clings to Daemon’s arm as they venture deeper into the caves, with the flickering light from the torchlight as their only guide in the darkness until, at last, they find the ceremonial chamber they’ve rediscovered moons ago.

 

It looks different now from how Rhaenyra has seen it last – the stone floor has been swept and cleaned, as has the altar, and where once has laid broken chalices and pottery, now a new set sits – old yet in perfect condition. The carvings on the walls have been restored too, and now the glyphs can be deciphered even in the flickering light of the torches.

 

To the fourteen flames, we entrust our bodies, hearts, minds and souls.

 

A smile blooms on Rhaenyra’s face as she takes in the changes, every tiny detail she had missed that night when Daemon showed her the cave, every little thing that has been cleaned and restored by the priests living on Dragonstone.

 

The High Priest already waits for them, draped in a dark brown robe splattered with blood. He nods in greeting before turning his back to them to face the altar, where fourteen tall candles wait to be lit.

 

Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange one look, a secret smile that belongs only to them, before they, too, begin preparing for the ceremony. They take off their shoes and untie their hair, letting it tumble over their shoulders. Lastly, they remove their heavy cloaks, letting fur and velvet pool at their feet in a soft rustle. Only robes of rough white linen cover their nakedness, though barely. Even in the weak, flickering light of torches hanging from the walls, Rhaenyra can see the outline of Daemon’s body under the plain garb, and though they have just got out of bed, she wishes she could run her hands over the planes of hard muscle and smooth skin.

 

Daemon presses a soft kiss to her lips – the last kiss they can share before they are wed. “Ready?” he whispers, and when Rhaenyra nods, he steps into the small pool surrounded by tall shards of dragon glass. Once he’s in, Daemon offers his hand to help Rhaenyra get into the pool, holding her so she would not slip on the slippery steps carved into the stone.

 

The water is not boiling hot the way Rhaenyra likes her baths, but it is not tepid either; it is pleasantly warm, the steam coiling over their bodies in curls as they stand, facing each other and holding their hands.

 

For a moment, they just breathe, letting the weight of the moment and its importance settle on their shoulders. When the priest begins a chant in High Valyrian, a tiny smile appears on Daemon’s lips. He grabs a small pot painted in reds and oranges to resemble flames and fills it with water from the pool before emptying it over Rhaenyra’s head.

 

The cleansing ceremony is meant to erase the traces of their previous lives from their bodies and purify them of anything before their wedding. Rhaenyra closes her eyes and tips her head back, letting the water run over her forehead, nose and lips, slide down her neck onto her chest and seep into the fabric of her robe. She tastes brimstone on her lips, salt, and a hint of smoke that always lingers in the air.

 

When she opens her eyes, Daemon’s gaze burns her skin.

 

She takes the pot from him and fills it with water before tipping it over his head. Fascinated, she observes tiny beads of water on their journey down Daemon’s face and body, how they trickle down his neck and the apple of his throat before disappearing into the fabric of his robe.

 

Once the last drop sinks into the linen, Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, her chest expanding with sulfur-effused air.

 

She turns around, and with nimble fingers, Daemon weaves strands of her silver hair into two braids which he ties together at the back of her head – a symbol of two souls joined as one. Once he’s done, Rhaenyra does the same for him. She smooths tangles and knots from his strands with her finger before braiding his hair in the same hairstyle.

They wait for the priest to finish the prayer before they get out of the pool and take off their soaked robes. Once again, Rhaenyra is grateful for the cave, and its warmth as the thought of standing naked and wet somewhere where the gusts of cold wind can sweep over her body sends a shiver down her back. She would have done it, but dragons are made for fires and warmth, not cold, rain or snow.

 

Wrapped back in their cloaks, Daemon puts their discarded robes into the pot, and together, they carry the pot to the altar. The priest sprinkles the wet rags with bright green powder from the tiny vial before reaching for a torch and offering it to Rhaenyra. She takes it and waits until Daemon’s hand joins hers on the handle before they lower the torch to the pot and watch as the flame takes their robes.

 

A string of words slips from the priest’s lips in a soft murmur that neither Rhaenyra nor Daemon can understand. Although they are the blood of Old Valyria, some rituals and ceremonies are reserved only for those who are members of the ancient order of priests worshipping the Valyrian gods, the fourteen flames, and the magic that has made Rhaenyra and Daemon into dragon riders. They can partake in the ceremony, but the words of the sacred prayers and songs are only for the priests.

 

By the time their robes become blackened scraps in the clay pot, the first streaks of dawn slip into the cave through the hole in the roof, mellowing the heated colours of the flames and the glow they cast on the walls.

 

The priest opens his eyes and smiles. “I will continue my prayers,” he says in a low voice as if to not disturb the magic swirling within the cave. “We will meet again at dusk.”

 

When they reach the entrance to the Sea Dragon Tower, the harsh winter sunrays already spill over the grey walls and towers. With her hand pressed against the heavy iron-clad door, Rhaenyra pauses, glancing at Daemon over her shoulder. For the first time in many moons, they will have to spend almost a whole day without seeing each other, and though it’s only one day, at that moment, it seems like an eternity.

 

The fingers of the hand with which Rhaenyra holds the cloak to her naked body twitch with the urge to reach for Daemon, stroke his cheek or sink into the softness of his hair. As she cannot touch him, Rhaenyra allows her eyes to brush over his face, caress every line and mark carved into his skin, and drown in the lavender pools of his eyes, so full of longing and adoration she might cry at the sight of it.

 

They remain that way for a long time, staring at each other and committing the moment to their memory. In a few hours, they will meet and bind their bodies and souls with blood. In a few hours, Rhaenyra will be able to call Daemon her husband. In a few hours, no one will be able to tear them apart.

 

With a heavy sigh, she pushes the door open and disappears into her tower.

 

 

 

The evening is perfect for the ceremony; although the air is crisp, the wind is gentle in the way it brushes against her hair and robes or ripples over the ground. The sky is slate grey and already peppered with hundreds or mayhaps thousands of stars that blink at Rhaenyra as she slowly walks to the altar, dressed in traditional robes and with an elaborately decorated headpiece crowning her head.

 

Daemon is already waiting for her, similarly dressed in the Valyrian wedding garb. The robes mean to symbolise the origins of Valyrian, who had once been humble shepherds living on the eastern plains. Everything changed once they discovered dragons in the Fourteen Flames, and with the help of arcane arts - ancient spells and blood magic - they managed to tame the firebreathing creatures. The blood staining the trimming of the robes is a symbol of that magic that has turned Valyrians into something more, something closer to gods than men.

 

Although the robes are plain – linen in the colour of dry grass with specks of red, Daemon looks like the epitome of the dragonlord of old. He is a man whose noble heritage could never be questioned, for he reminds Rhaenyra of the heroes depicted on ancient tapestries and drawings she has seen in Pentos, which contained the history of Old Valyria crafted carefully with colourful threads.

 

Maester Gerardys and Ser Robert are there too. Rhaenyra and Daemon have chosen the three men to witness their wedding for the functions they serve. The maester to inform the Citadel and ensure their union is correctly put into records, the knight of the Kingsguard and the castellan of Dragonstone in case anyone has some doubts or tries to question the validity of their marriage.

 

The priest busies himself with lighting up the fourteen candles spread over a large slab of grey stone that serves as the altar, a soft hum of words escaping his lips with every flame that flares to life at the tip of each candle.

 

High in the sky, Syrax and Caraxes dance and twist in circles, their trills and shrieks echoing over the island, as if the dragons have taken it upon themselves to announce Daemon’s and Rhaenyra’s wedding to every soul on Dragonstone.

 

Rhaenyra stands in front of Daemon, excitement fluttering in her belly as she watches him. Their dance to the altar has been slow, marred with obstacles and difficulties, tainted with grief, rage and rejections they’ve faced, but maybe that is what makes everything all the more precious. Mayhaps it’s the years of uncertainty that make this moment feel even more victorious than it should, for they are finally there, ready to bind their souls and bodies in an ancient ritual, and there’s no one and nothing that can stop them.

 

The priest turns to face them, and Rhaenyra and Daemon clasp their hands, both eager for the ceremony to start. The air feels heavy around them, crackling with some strange energy and steeped with magic. It’s almost as if the gods are there to witness their union; their presence is reflected in the sky’s starry canopy, the pearly mists curling inches above the ground, and the distant hum of the waves crashing against the rough walls of the cliff.

 

Rhaenyra has attended weddings before, yet all of them lacked the spark that seems to link Rhaenyra to Daemon and to this moment that will forever remain branded in their memories.

 

With a deep breath, Daemon takes out the shard of dragon glass and looks at her as if to offer one final chance to walk away. The Valyrian wedding is more binding than the one held by the Faith of the Seven – there is no High Septon or the king who can annul the marriage and no way to set aside the spouse if the love fades out. Once they wed, only death can tear them apart.

 

Rhaenyra raises a single brow and steps closer, shutting any lingering questions Daemon might have, shushing any worries about her hesitancy or doubt. A smile curls her lips as, with a trembling hand, Daemon brings the shard to her lips and makes a cut on her bottom lip.

 

There’s something primal in the Valyrian wedding ceremony, Rhaenyra thinks as her eyes devour the tiny bead of crimson that forms on Daemon’s bottom lip. A hint of something almost animalistic that lurks within the craving to spill blood and paint their skin with it, the need to leave marks and scars upon each other hands that will stand as proof of their bond until the day they die, and dragonfire turns their bodies into ash.

 

Daemon feels it as well. Rhaenyra sees it in the heady darkness that overcomes the lavender of his eyes and the eagerness of his tongue as it darts from his mouth as if to lick the drop of blood that decorates her lip. Soon, a tiny silver scar will replace the blood – his own brand upon her body.

 

“Blood of the two joined as one,” the priest starts to chant in a soft melodic voice, and the air around them swells with magic. “Ghostly flame and song of shadows.”

 

The candle flames flicker as Rhaenyra raises the chalice to her lips, taking a small sip of their blood mixed with ceremonial wine. As her mouth fills with the metallic flavour, a frisson of pleasure snakes down Rhaenyra’s spine and rattles with her body.

 

“Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires,” the priest continues, his chant drifting with a brush of wind that carries his voice over the island and further away to the sea and beyond. “A future promised in glass. The stars stand witness. The vow spoken through time of darkness and light.”

 

Rhaenyra grazes her thumb over Daemon’s chin, wiping the tiny pearl of blood gathered on his bottom lip before she leans in to kiss him and seal the vows with a brush of their lips. Daemon, though, is not satisfied with a simple peck; he holds Rhaenyra’s face between his large hands, the warmth of his skin spilling onto her cheeks as Daemon deepens the kiss, pulling her closer and closer as if even an inch of space between their bodies is too much.

 

They have never confessed their love to each other, have never spoken the words Rhaenyra’s parents exchanged daily, yet there’s no hint of doubt in her mind about the truth of Daemon’s feelings for her. It pours from the way his hands cradle her face, the gentle graze of his fingers against her cheeks and neck and the soft sighs that spill from his lips when they’re finally bound by the ancient rites of their ancestors.

 

She moans into his mouth, leaning closer still, as her hands tangle into his silver hair and tug at the braids she has made earlier that day.

 

At last, the need to take a breath makes them pull away from each other. Their lips are swollen and red, and their eyes are full of lust that dances around their blown-up pupils. Rhaenyra barely grabs a gasp of air before Daemon tips his head down again, capturing her lips in another kiss – this one more playful as his mouth curls in a smile against hers. She can almost hear the laughter bubbling deep in Daemon’s chest, the contentment rumbling that is so similar to the sounds Caraxes makes when he’s happy and sated.

 

Rhaenyra breaks the kiss, leaning away as she gasps for a breath. Still, her face is split in a smile, and her cheeks ache from how wide it is. One part of the wedding ceremony is still ahead of them - they need to consummate their marriage. Rhaenyra finds herself so desperate to lead her husband to her chambers that she might have urged him to run if not for their station and the small audience gathered around them.

 

Maester Gerardys cleans the cuts, and once their hands are wrapped in a clean cloth, they do not wait for anyone, only rush to the castle. Fortunately, the halls and corridors are mostly empty as the servants – like the villagers who live at the foot of the Dragonstone – have been encouraged to celebrate Daemon’s and Rhaenyra’s wedding in the servants’ quarters. Because of that, no one sees Rhaenyra and Daemon as they stumble and fall against the walls in desperation to kiss and touch each other on the long trek to Rhaenyra’s chamber.

 

The servants have prepared Rhaenyra’s room for the wedding night with hundreds of candles on every flat surface; their golden glow chases away the darkness of the night and warms Rhaenrya and Daemon as it softly brushes against their bodies with every flutter of air.

 

Yet Daemon’s mood changes when the door to her room closes with a thud. Tenderness and joy sparkling within his lavender eyes replace the hungry need. With his soft eyes, her husband sends delightful shivers down her spine, a tingle that grows stronger with every heartbeat and every breath until Rhaenyra’s whole body quivers in anticipation of his touch.

 

His fingers tremble as he removes the headpiece and gently puts it onto the table while Rhaenyra unties the strings holding his robe together. They undress slowly, and although they’ve seen each other naked hundreds of times before, they savour every new glimpse of skin.

 

Before too long, Rhaenyra stands in front of Daemon, dressed only in her shift and red stockings, shivering slightly under Daemon’s heated gaze.

 

Daemon hardens before her eyes, his cock swelling and stretching towards Rhaenyra as if asking for a pat or a kiss until it stands stiff and long against his stomach. Still, despite the eagerness of his cock, Daemon does not rush to touch her or tear the last garment off her body; instead, he remains rooted to his spot a few feet away with his eyes fixed on Rhaenyra and a lusty curl on his lips.

 

Is it some new game? Does Daemon want to play a shy maiden tonight? The idea makes her want to snort. Smiling flirtatiously, she inches the hem of her shift up, teasing Daemon with a hint of her thighs before she takes it off completely. Then, she unties the ribbons above her knees and takes off her stockings. Once she’s naked, she fixes her eyes on her husband and slowly starts to run her hands over her hips, sliding them higher and higher until she reaches her breasts.

 

“So tell me, husband,” she says, and her stomach flips deliciously when the word ‘husband’ leaves her lips, “am I the wife of your choosing?”

 

She knows his thoughts travel to that day on the bridge that happened many years ago but still remains sharp in their memories. Daemon smiles in reply – a soft, tender curl of his lips that seems so at odds with the lust darkening his eyes. “You’re everything I ever dreamed of,” he hums – a low sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest. Despite his words, he still doesn’t move.

 

Rhaenyra is too impatient to play his game. She puts her hand on his chest and pushes Daemon towards the bed. Once he sits down, Rhaenyra leans in and brushes her lips against his in a slow sensual kiss that at last coaxes a moan from Daemon’s throat. She pours all of her affection into the kiss, her hopes for their future and the dreams she holds deep in her heart.

 

It’s only after she climbs onto his lap that her husband seems to remember it’s their wedding night. He runs his large warm hands over her thighs and backside, stroking the soft flesh almost adoringly.

 

Usually, their coupling is accompanied by laughter and teasing or desperate cries and filthy words that spill from their lips in the throes of passion. Yet for their wedding night, Daemon chooses a silence that is charged with every shallow breath and broken gasp.

 

He rolls Rhaenyra onto the soft pillows and lavishes her body with kisses, trailing his lips over her neck and collarbones before he sinks lower to her breasts and stomach. His hands trace shapes and paths over her smooth skin as if he’s drawing a map of her pleasure with his fingertips, expertly pulling moans and breathless sighs from Rhaenyra’s parted lips.

 

Under his heated gaze, Rhaenyra flares like a flame brought to life, with her hips and chest rising to meet Daemon’s lips and hands. His cock presses against her thigh, hot and hard, promising a night of bliss, and when he, at last, spreads her legs open to tease her damp folds, Rhaenyra is ready to beg and weep for him.

 

She is well used to her husband’s slow tortures, the way he can spend hours teasing her with his tongue before, at last, he grants her the pleasure of his cock. Tonight, he seems even more cruel, teasing her and denying her pleasure until Rhaenyra feels half-mad with desire, so close to her peak yet unable to reach it without his permission.

 

It’s not until tears of need fill her eyes that Daemon finally sinks into her heat. Gripping her thigh with his hand, he spreads her open and slides his cock into her slick cunt. His other hand fists a pillow next to her head, and with languid, almost lazy thrusts, he draws moans from her mouth, each sound she makes deepening the curl of his lips.

 

She clings to him, tightening her arms around his shoulders to pull him closer, desperate to feel the sweet weight of his body and the burn of his heated skin on hers as their hips continue the slow, sensual dance.

 

When the first wave of pleasure washes over her, Rhaenyra breaks the silence with Daemon’s name that falls from her lips in an almost inaudible whisper. He answers her call with a moan of his own, and his thrusts gain speed.

 

A sharp spark of pleasure low in her belly signals her peak. Rhaenyra gasps, digging her nails into Daemon’s back and tightening her leg around his hip to bring him closer. She clenches around him, the walls of her cunt fluttering and squeezing his hard length until he offers his surrender and spills his seed deep into her heat.

 

Still trembling from her release, Rhaenyra cradles Daemon to her breast, soothing his shallow breaths with soft caresses of her fingers over his spine. She draws stars around his scars, traces shapes on his glistening skin as she savours the flickers of pleasure that wash over her body.

 

When their hearts return to their regular steady beats, Daemon lifts his head and offers her a smile. He shifts over her body to press his lips against hers before his slow torture starts anew, with kisses that alight her senses and make her nerves quiver.

 

“Again?” Rhaenyra asks before a moan slips from her throat when Daemon’s tongue laps at her nipple.

 

“It’s our wedding night,” he hums and moves to lavish her other breast with the same attention. “I intend to consummate our marriage most thoroughly. It is my duty as your husband, after all.”

 

Rhaenyra sinks her fingers into his hair, guiding him in his quest to pleasure her. “Do your duty then, husband.”

 

 

 

The first guests arrive four moons after their wedding and a little more than a moon before the planned feast. Laena and Laenor fly to Dragonstone on their dragons ahead of the Velaryon ships, bringing a joyful atmosphere full of japes and teasing.

 

Rhaenyra has feared Laena’s visit and the possible sulkiness the girl might feel about Rhaenyra’s wedding to Daemon, but her fears have proved to be baseless. It seems that whatever hopes Laena has had for her future with Daemon are now gone and buried, for Rhaenyra doesn’t notice any longing glances or gloomy frowns on her cousin’s face. Instead, Laena seems determined to prove her acceptance of the union with her frequent jests about the wedding night and constant hints about children, which only makes Rhaenyra roll her eyes and Daemon smirk arrogantly.

 

She wants to have children one day, give Daemon sons and daughters to dote on, and fill Dragonstone with laughter and joy, but not yet. The nightmares her mother has faced trying to provide the king with a son still plague Rhaenyra’s memory frequently enough to keep her away from the birthing bed.

 

Shortly after Laena and Laenor, the rest of the Velayron party arrives, though thankfully, Vaemond Velaryon is absent from the group. Instead, it’s his son, Daeron, who captains the ship carrying Laena’s and Laenor’s relatives – aunts, uncles and cousins, and with their presence in the castle, Rhaenyra and Daemon grow busier than they’ve been in a very long time.

 

It is then that Rhaenyra meets Laenor’s new wife, lady Celia Celtigar, a pretty girl of three and twenty, who always seems to be in a merry mood, offering her smiles and giggles freely and without much prompting. Rhaenyra has been curious about the match ever since she found out about it, but lady Celia seems rather fond of Laenor and of Ser Joffrey, too, often joining the two men in their mischief and jokes, seemingly not at all perturbed by the close friendship the two men share.

 

As far as she can see, everything seems to go according to the Sea Snake’s plan, for the young wife of the heir to Driftmark is already sporting a small bump under her pretty teal gown. Still, it is unkind to ask how the lady has accomplished that feat considering Laenor’s preferences, so Rhaenyra has only congratulated the young couple without pressing Laena for the details.

 

After the Velaryon party, an unexpected guest comes to Dragonstone as Ser Torrhen Manderly and his men ask Rhaenyra for shelter on Dragonstone from the storm that has been chasing them on their journey back to White Harbour.

 

Before long, Dragonstone is crowded with nobles as it has not been in decades or mayhaps even longer. The Celtigars of Claw Isle, the Stauntons of Rook’s rest, the Mootons from Maidenpool, the Darklyns from Duskendale, the Masseys and Bar Emmons and even the Baratheons - they all answer her invitation and come to Dragonstone with their families, knights and servants. Rhaenyra is not so naïve to think they have come only to share her happiness and bestow good wishes upon her and her new husband. No, the nobles are driven to her island by curiosity and the desire for an alliance with dragons, but as Rhaenyra herself is looking for friends, she does not begrudge their ambitions.

 

Instead, Rhaenyra does her best to be a good host, and so does Daemon. Neither of them likes or has much patience for politicking. Still, it is necessary to secure Rhaenyra’s claim over Dragonstone, especially when they’ve not known how the king has reacted to the news of their wedding.

 

To her father, Rhaenyra has sent an additional letter along with the invitation – an explanation of sorts of what she hopes to accomplish by inviting him to the celebration and what he should expect. She does not seek to worm her way into her father’s good graces nor holds hope for titles or gold, but the House of the Dragon is weakened by the divisions, and neither Rhaenyra nor Daemon are willing to see it crumble under her father’s fickle reign. If Rhaenyra and Daemon have to pretend they have forgiven the king for his slights to present the united front, then so be it.

 

And if her father manages to bring their House to ruin anyway, then at least Rhaenyra and Daemon will have allies and friends who might help them when danger knocks on their door.

 

Rhaenys arrives before the king and his entourage. The Queen Who Never Was lands on Dragonstone just as the late afternoon sun peeks through the clouds as if it wants to welcome the princess of the blood in the home of their ancestors. Meleyes circles above the Stone Drum and the Sea Dragon Tower three times before Rhaenys guides her Red Queen to the Dragonpit.

 

Rhaenyra sends a few knights and Ser Robert Quince to welcome Rhaenys on Dragonstone while she and Daemon wait for their cousin in the throne room. Despite the king’s impending arrival, the day has been almost pleasant, with the morning spent hawking on the hills of Dragonstone and the luncheon full of laughter and jests.

 

Enjoying privacy, Rhaenyra and Daemon share a few kisses while waiting for Rhaenys. Although over four moons have passed since their wedding, neither of them has lost the joy and excitement their marriage brings, and according to most nobles gathered on Dragonstone, they’re still acting like newlyweds.

 

Rhaenyra hopes this flame burning bright between them will never die.

 

They separate when Rhaenys walks through the door but stay close, neither willing to let the other go.

 

“Cousin, welcome to Dragonstone,” Rhaenyra says. She is grateful smiles and laughter come so effortlessly to her now – a few words from Daemon’s lips can spark peals of laughter from her lips, while a kiss can bring a smile to her face even when she’s in the worst mood. If not for this, Rhaenyra’s lips might have turned into something more akin to a grimace than a smile. She thought she found an ally in the older princess, but when an opportunity arose, Rhaenys and her husband crawled back to the king. “Thank you for coming.”

 

Rhaenys raises one brow at the hint of ice in Rhaenyra’s voice but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she offers a polite smile. “Thank you for the invitation, and congratulations on your marriage, Rhaenyra. And to you, Daemon,” she says, turning her penetrative gaze to Daemon. “I wish you both many happy years.”

 

“Thank you, Rhaenys,” Daemon says as he snakes his arm around Rhaenyra’s waist, pulling her against his side.

 

They call for a servant to take Rhaenys to the room they have prepared for her, so she can refresh and rest before supper, and though Rhaenys accepts their offer, she seeks Rhaenyra before the evening meal.

 

When Rhaenyra enters the Chamber of the Painted Table, where the servant has informed her that Rhaenys is waiting, she finds the older princess tracing carvings with her finger. The sky outside already darkens, but the servants, or mayhaps Rhaenys herself, have lit a few candles to brighten the room.

 

Rhaenys goes straight to the point. “You’re angry with me,” she says without glancing up. Her eyes are locked somewhere between King’s Landing and Driftmark as her fingers skip over the distance separating the two places on the table. “I understand your plight, Rhaenyra, more than anyone else, and I hope you can understand mine.” Only then does Rhaenys lift her eyes to meet Rhaenyra’s cold gaze. “Whatever grievances I have towards your father and however wronged I feel for the crown that has been taken from me, I don’t want to see our House crumble to dust.”

 

Rhaenyra lifts her chin. “Neither do I.”

 

“I know,” Rhaenys says. She leans against the table with her hip and folds her arms over her chest. “That is why I hope you’ll understand why I agreed to join your father in King’s Landing. The need to strengthen our House has led me to this decision more than any positions he has offered.”

 

Snorting, Rhaenyra shakes her head. “But they definitely sweetened the deal, right?”

 

“For my husband, perhaps,” Rhaenys says with a shrug. “Corlys is a proud man, and he needs some encouragement, but even if your father had not offered seats on his Small Council, I would have still gone to King’s Landing if only to add strength to his reign. You know he has been in a vulnerable position, and it was only a matter of time before new vultures would have descended on him. I would not ask you to forget your grievances so soon, so it had to be me.”

 

Rhaenyra and Daemon suspect some bird of prey is already circling over the Red Keep, eyeing the spot Otto Hightower has left. At least Otto Hightower has been a known enemy; the next candidate might be more dangerous than a second son with a talent for whispering into the king’s ear.

 

Still, that it has been Rhaenys who has rushed to help the king is a surprise. “I thought you enjoyed watching the king fumble under the weight of his ill-suited crown,” she says, remembering a conversation they had at Driftmark.

 

“I do.” A flash of a predatory smile flitters over Rhaenys’ face before she grows serious again. “But there are limits to what I find entertaining. A threat to the crown is a threat to us all,” the older princess says with a steely note. “Otto Hightower, with all his ambitions and cunning, has never resorted to murder.”

 

“So it is true then? About Tyland Lannister, Larys Strong and the queen?” Rhaenyra asks. Although she has almost accepted the danger lurking around them, a hint of fear pokes its head as she waits for Rhaenys to confirm Daemon’s suspicions.

 

Rhaenys doesn’t do that, though. A frown forms between her brows as she purses her lips. “I don’t know,” she admits after a long, tense pause. “Each death has been investigated, and nothing suggests that those deaths were anything but accidents. Tyland Lannister had debts and was killed by a man hired to recover the gold he owed – some brute from the Flea Bottom who had confessed when the Gold Cloaks found him. Larys Strong slipped on the steps.”

 

“And what about Alicent? You suspected Daemon had something to do with it,” Rhaenyra accuses her cousin. She remembers how Rhaenys looked at Daemon when lord Corlys gave them the news of the queen’s death.

 

Yet when she mentions it, Rhaenys huffs, a baffled expression slipping onto her face. “Of course not. Alicent’s death would have brought Daemon no gain. Why would he kill her? I was only curious whether he also found her death strange.”

 

Rhaenyra decides to let it go for the moment. There’s nothing to gain in arguing whether Rhaenys has suspected Daemon. “It was strange.”

 

“It was, but she was examined by Mellos – one of Hightower’s lackeys – and he found nothing,” Rhaenys shrugs. “As I cannot think of a reason one would have for killing her, I’m not going to waste my time on this matter.”

 

It feels wrong to discard Alicent’s death so carelessly as if her life has not meant anything, but Rhaenyra is too willing to let it die to protest. Alicent has already taken too much of her thoughts and tears.

 

“Yet even if it all is just a series of unfortunate accidents, your father’s vulnerability has become a problem. Otto Hightower has not been the only one to dream of rising higher than it should be allowed. He has not been the only one to dare to dance with dragons, and definitely, he has not been the only one willing to divide us to conquer the Seven Kingdoms.” Rhaenys hand brushes over the map, fingers circling castles marked on the slab of wood. “There are others who will seek to replace him, and alone, your father has been ridiculously outmatched. Before long, the shadow of vultures circling above the Red Keep would have shown up on Driftmark and Dragonstone.”

 

Once again, Rhaenyra marvels at how they all step in to protect the king, who has so often disregarded their opinions in favour of Otto Hightower, hurt them and put them in danger. Yet he is the head of their family, and no matter how incompetent he is and how many insults he has thrown in their faces, the House of the Dragon serves as his shield.

 

Though perhaps it is not just that  - after all, Rhaenys knows that if the king falls, they will be next in line, just like Daemon and Rhaenyra are aware of the shadows following them. And who knows, with so few of them, mayhaps someone is already dreaming of getting rid of dragons once and for all.

 

“I will do my duty to our House, as will Daemon,” Rhaenyra says. Guilt pools in her belly, but Rhaenyra doesn’t allow it to settle there. She doubts Rhaenys is willing to put Laenor and Laena in danger to protect the king and the good name of their House. It’s wise to have a backup plan if the king fails them again. Still, she needs to make sure there are no misunderstandings between them. “But just to be clear. I will play pretend in public, but I do not wish to continue the farce behind closed doors.”

 

Rhaenys nods, accepting Rhaenyra’s words. “I will inform Viserys about your terms,” she says. “And to ease your worries, there’s a chance the next vulture will not have an easy path to the king. Otto Hightower’s betrayal seems to have taught your father to be more careful about whom he trusts. Much has changed in King’s Landing.”

 

Somehow Rhaenyra doubts that.

 

The Sea Snake’s ship – with the king on the board – arrives two days after Rhaenys. After sending the welcoming party to the docks, Rhaenyra and Daemon, and their guests gather in the courtyard to wait for the king.

 

Despite the sun peeking through the clouds and the cloak trimmed with fur over her shoulders, Rhaenyra feels cold. It’s not a chill of winter air brushing against her skin that sends shivers down her spine and makes her skin rise in goosebumps, but a coldness that lingers inside her that grows sharper still as her father’s party rides through the gates.

 

The king looks healthier than he has the last time Rhaenyra has seen him, and it’s like another blow to her heart. While she has spent a year mourning the loss of her father and the dreams she has had, the king seems to be getting stronger and better, nourished with his decisions and the knowledge that, at last, he has a male heir to succeed him.

 

She curtseys, bowing her head slightly, but only enough not to be seen as disrespectful while everyone around her and Daemon falls upon one knee. In the privacy of her head, Rhaenyra repeats why she’s doing this and why it’s important. It’s her future that she is securing – hers and Daemon’s, and that of their future children.

 

Sensing her inner turmoil, Daemon grabs her hand the moment the king bides them to rise, wrapping his fingers around her palm in a comforting gesture. Rhaenyra lets out a large breath, grasping at the strength and support her husband offers as she traces with her thumb the scar she left upon his hand when they wed. Turning to him, she offers him a grateful smile, which Daemon accepts with a wink.

 

“Rhaenyra,” the king whispers. His voice shakes with emotion, sorrow clinging to each letter of her name.

 

He does not deserve to sound so sad, Rhaenyra thinks. A fresh wave of anger washes over her as her eyes slide over her father’s face, finally noticing the new lines the time has added to his face. “Your Grace,” she answers the greeting, making sure to veil the anger in her voice. They’re meant to put on a performance for the nobles gathered at Dragonstone, and Rhaenyra cannot allow herself to let her rage be known.

 

The king’s face crumbles slightly before he manages to collect himself.

 

Once again, Daemon saves Rhaenyra from searching her head for anything to say. He inches closer to her, his body brushing against hers, offering warmth and protection. “Viserys,” he says. Despite the smirk on his lips, there’s a note of warning in his voice, inaudible for anyone not accustomed to Daemon’s silent threats. Yet Rhaenyra knows that her father has heard it loud and clear.

 

“Daemon.” The king’s eyes flit between them, probably noting how close they stand or their still intertwined hands. The smile he offers is tense, too fake to convince anyone that he is pleased with their union.

 

Silence follows their greeting, and though the reason for inviting the king has been convincing nobles that the House of the Dragon stands strong and united, Rhaenyra stubbornly refuses to break the tension that stretches between the three of them. This is the moment when the king should offer his congratulations; Rhaenyra won’t be the only one to put in the effort or bend backwards to appease the crowd.

 

Before their awkwardness can become another fodder for gossip, the carriage comes through the gate, and the door opens with a loud thud.

 

Rhaenyra can barely register what is happening before she hears her name called in a high childish voice and a small figure with silver hair shimmering in the sunlight barges into her.

 

She freezes as Aegon’s skinny arms wrap around her waist. “I’ve missed you,” Aegon says, pressing his face into her. It’s like some invisible force holds her in its iron-clad grip, preventing even the slightest movement and wiping her head of all thoughts.

 

Wrapped around Rhaenyra is the child who has stolen the crown from her, a boy who has robbed her of Viserys’ love and left Rhaenyra with nothing. Although he is unaware of it, Aegon is the reason for her doubts and fears, the cause of her tears – both those squeezed from her by sorrow and those wrung in furious fits.

 

And yet, with all these thoughts, memories so faint they seem almost faded out by time and anger start to flood her head. Nearly three years ago, she tried to teach Aegon how to pronounce her name correctly, and it seems he has learnt it at last in her absence. Images of herself and Aegon as a babe flash before her eyes. She remembers the pink-faced babe reaching to play with loose strands of her hair, a toothless grin gracing his lips. She remembers afternoons in the godswood when she observed Alicent playing with Aegon in the grass, conflicted by the desire to join them and bring her loneliness to an end, grief for all the children her mother has lost and anger at her friend’s betrayal.

 

Slowly and as if on its own accord, her hand falls upon Aegon’s head, her fingers sinking into his soft silver hair. She runs her fingers through the silky strands before, at last, she makes a decision, the longing lurking somewhere deep within her heart winning over the anger, envy and bitterness. Rhaenyra crouches down to look at Aegon, trying to fit the face of the boy into the toddler from her memories.

 

She sees nothing of Alicent on the boy’s face. Whatever Rhaenyra’s friend has left in her son is invisible under the famed Targaryen beauty, buried under silver strands of hair and gleaming purple eyes. Instead, she sees her father on Aegon’s face and even hints of herself in the boy’s smile and Daemon in the mischievous glint in his eyes.

 

“I have a gift for you,” Aegon says slowly in High Valyrian. It is a surprise to hear him speak in the language of their ancestors when the last time she saw him, he could barely speak a few words in the common tongue.

 

A maid approaches them, bowing her head slightly to Rhaenyra as she hands Aegon a bouquet of pale blue roses. Aegon grabs it and throws the flowers in Rhaenyra’s face, a blush soft like petals of rosy tulips blooming on his cheeks.

 

“Lord Dustin says winter roses are the most beautiful flowers,” Aegon says, a small, shy smile playing at the corner of his lips. “They grow in the North, but Lord Dustin has brought a few seeds when he has come to King’s Landing, and we’ve planted them in the godswood. We brought some for your garden, too. We brought some for your garden, too.”

 

A tall man with scarred face takes a small step forward. “You won’t find flowers as resilient and beautiful as our winter roses,” he says with a broad grin. Rhaenyra assumes he’s the new master of laws – lord Roderick Dustin, of whom Rhaenys has had nothing but good things to say.

 

Aegon nods his head, drawing Rhaenyra’s attention back to himself. “They’re almost as pretty as you.” His words and the sweet smile on his lips make the ladies around them coo and clap, which in turn makes Aegon lose some of his confidence. The boy blushes harder until the rosiness of his cheek cannot be excused with winter air.

 

Daemon throws his head back and laughs, the sound booming through the courtyard. “So, not quite the ladies’ man yet, but on a path to becoming one, I think.”

 

With that, the tension is broken, and the crowds disperse. The king and his entourage are led to the rooms the servants have prepared, and Rhaenyra can let out a relieved breath. The first meeting with the king – and one under the watchful eyes of the nobles, too – is behind her.

 

 

 

The first trial they face is a stroll in Aegon’s garden. The place for their first outing as a family has been chosen strategically; the garden offers privacy while still allowing curious nobles to catch a glimpse of them and provides enough distractions to fog the awkwardness that clings to them whenever they have to interact. With some luck on their side, no one will notice how long and tense the pauses are, how the king stumbles before every sentence or how there is no hint of warmth in Rhaenyra’s voice when she answers her father’s questions.

 

Daemon finds the whole thing ridiculous, and as they prepare for the day, he alternatively laughs and mocks their need to grovel before the nobles who don’t have dragons and rages at the king for bringing them so low that it seems like a necessary action.

 

While schemes and plots have always been a part of courtly life, by treating Otto Hightower better than his own family, Viserys has shown the whole realm how powerful weapon honeyed words can be against dragonfire. After all, you can’t burn something you can’t see, and when threats lurk in the shadows, it is difficult to recognise the monster before it strikes. The king’s weakness has forced Rhaenyra and Daemon to play the game of lesser men, to move slowly over the board instead of soaring high above it.

 

Rhaenyra listens to her husband patiently as he makes his frustration known, and when he pauses to catch a breath, she moves to grasp his hand, pulling him to her. Their family name means a lot to her, but while Rhaenyra has grown surrounded by the towers that have already begun melting under her father’s foolishness, Daemon has seen those walls grow tall and strong during Jaehaerys reign as their House rose more powerful than ever. Between the two of them, Daemon is the one who sees the differences with his own eyes instead of basing her judgement on stories and tales of the Old King and his Good Queen.

 

“It will not last much longer,” she whispers, running her hand over his back, letting her fingers trace shapes on his spine to calm his frayed nerves.

 

After a fortnight of entertaining the nobles with hunts and hawking, sparing sessions in the courtyard and mock melees, tea parties in the garden, dancing and horse riding across the island, their grand event – the feast – is just around the corner. Once it’s over, the nobles will slowly trickle out of the island, leaving them alone at last.

 

Together, they step out of Rhaenyra’s bedroom and head to the garden, where a small party is already waiting. Rhaenys with her children, a few knights to guard them during their stroll and servants to rush and bring whatever might be needed for the afternoon.

 

Fortunately for them, it does not rain, nor it’s too cold for a young boy to run through the gardens. There’s even a hint of sun peeking from behind the clouds, casting gold specks over the frozen ground and melting the frost from leaves and grass. Rhaenyra is sure the garden will be crowded – their guests too curious to let the opportunity of watching the princess with her half-brother pass. With no entertainment planned for the day, the nobles will have the time to admire the beauty of Aegon’s garden.

 

They don’t wait long before the king comes, Aegon trotting dutifully at his side along with his caretaker, a Volantene woman named Saraela, who is the one Aegon has to thank for his knowledge of High Valyrian. With the king come the knights of the Kingsguard, the elderly lady Rosby with her two grandchildren and another group of servants.

 

If anything, there are enough people for Rhaenyra to successfully avoid the king without drawing too much attention to the fact that she doesn’t want to spend time with him alone.

 

When he spots Rhaenyra, Aegon rushes to her side, his hand already reaching to clasp hers. Under his arm is a small leather pouch, and when asked, Aegon explains the bag holds seeds of winter roses, so they can pick a spot and plant the flowers during their stroll.

 

The king takes a step forward, obvious in his wish to stay at Aegon’s side as if he’s scared she will do something to his precious heir. Rhaenyra can barely suppress the urge to throw some snide remark at him or roll her eyes at his fears. Even if she has been angry with Aegon, she’s not a monster willing to hurt a child for his father’s slights. Fortunately, before the king can join them, Daemon blocks his path, suggesting they should allow Rhaenyra some privacy to bond with her half-brother, and the king has no choice but to accept.

 

And so they march along the narrow path lined with pines and spruces. Aegon babbles about his garden in the Red Keep, showing off his somewhat surprising knowledge of plants and herbs. Every now and then, he points at a tree or a shrub and tells Rhaenyra its name, pride steeping over his features whenever he manages to name a plant whose name Rhaenyra doesn’t know.

 

As Rhaenyra suspected, they meet nobles on their strolls. And though they greet them with smiles and kind words, under cloaks of courtesy, curiosity shines in their eyes as they glance between Rhaenyra and Aegon, searching for any signs of animosity between the siblings. Once Rhaenyra satisfies nobles’ silent inquires, they turn their gazes to the king and Daemon, who walk a few paces behind and, again, seek hints of resentment or anger.

 

Rhaenyra is grateful for Aegon’s childish innocence. Even if the boy feels the distance Rhaenyra tries to put between them, he doesn’t let it stop him from clinging to her. With his cheeky grins and his tight grip on her hand, Aegon smothers whatever doubts the nobles might have about their relationship.

 

At last, when they venture into a more secluded part of the garden, the nobles seem to disappear, satisfied with the act the royal family has put on. After hearing the spot is Rhaenyra’s favourite place in the garden, Aegon is adamant they have to plant winter roses there and with a nod, Rhaenyra agrees.

 

She observes as Aegon supervises a man who digs a hole between the shrubs of buddleia, where in spring and summer, butterflies flutter around in dozens before joining him to help the boy sprinkle the ground with seeds.

 

Once it’s done, the boy turns to look at her, a broad grin on his face. “They will grow fast as it’s winter now. Lord Roderick says winter is the best time to plant them. They grow the fastest in winter.”

 

“Do you like lord Roderick?” She asks. Aegon talks a lot about the man – the stories he has brought from the North of the king beyond the wall and his army of wildlings, of wolves roaming the frozen woods and snow lying on the ground even during summer. Mayhaps with Aegon’s eagerness to talk, Rhaenyra can find more information about her father’s new small council.

 

The boy nods his head eagerly. “He is nice and has the best stories. And he often laughs, unlike lord Corlys.”

 

A hint of a smile appears on Rhaenyra’s lips. “Lord Corlys doesn’t laugh?”

 

“No,” Aegon says with a frown, “father says it’s because he did not want to come to King’s Landing, but aunt Rhaenys forced him to.”

 

At least, Rhaenys has not been lying. As they move down another path, Rhaenyra asks her brother questions about the small council and the nobles at the king’s court, trying to find as much as possible from Aegon’s loose mouth. It is a mistake many nobles make – ignore children’s presence as they see it as unimportant and unthreatening. After all, even if a child overhears something, surely they will not understand or forget whatever they’ve heard soon after.

 

As their stroll slowly comes to an end, Rhaenyra muses over the new information, wondering whether Rhaenys has been correct after all with her feeling about changes in the Red Keep. Perchance, the king really has learnt his lesson from Otto Hightower’s betrayal and realised he cannot blindly trust his advisors.

 

Before she can question Aegon some more, Daemon joins them. He has left the king behind, and judging by their expressions, whatever conversation they’ve shared has not been pleasant. There’s something strange in Daemon’s eyes, fear lurking in the lavender pools, though Daemon tries to hide it behind a smile.

 

Gently, he grabs her hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing a light kiss on her knuckles.

 

“What happened?” She asks softly, so Aegon will not hear. She cups Daemon’s cheek, stroking soft skin dotted with slight stubble with her thumb, hoping to soothe whatever hurt the king has inflicted on her husband with her touch.

 

Instead of answering her question, Daemon leans into her palm. He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, and when his eyelids flutter open, some of the shadows have dispersed, though not all.

 

“Nothing,” he says with forced lightness. The odd sound of Daemon’s voice combined with the shadows swirling in his eyes makes Rhaenyra even more worried. “I think I earned myself the right to spend some time at my wife’s side,” he says.

 

Yet later, when they’re in bed, Daemon clings to her as his hips slowly rock into hers from behind. His face is buried into her hair, and his shallow gasps fan her silver locks as he searches for solace in her body. There’s an odd note of vulnerability in his groans and something akin to desperation in the tight grip of his hands, as if he’s afraid she might disappear the moment he lets her go. When he finds his release, Rhaenyra twists in his arms and cradles his head to her breasts.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, running her fingers through Daemon’s hair. “It was unfair of me to ask you to deal with him all by yourself.”

 

After all, Rhaenyra is not the only person who has been hurt by the king, and though Daemon will never admit it out loud, Viserys has broken his heart more times than any could count.

 

Daemon cranes his head to look at her. “I offered,” he says, trying to force a smile to his lips.

 

“What did he do this time?”

 

He shakes his head before returning to his favourite spot on her chest. “Nothing. Just wisps of dreams he clings to so he can feel special.” He pauses as if he is trying to make some sense of the king’s faith in dreams before shrugging. Yet despite the nonchalance in his voice, Rhaenyra almost hears his teeth cracking as he clenches his jaw. “I just wish for him to be gone already.”

 

“Soon,” she promises. In three days, they will all gather in the great hall for the grand feast, and after that, there will be no reason for the king to linger on Dragonstone.

 

 

 

At last, the long-awaited day comes. Although a part of Rhaenyra wants to celebrate her wedding, hear toasts being called in their honour, dance and laugh and drink, another part is more apprehensive of the event. So far, Rhaenyra has successfully twisted from having any meaningful conversation with her father – though not for his lack of trying. At the feast, Rhaenyra will sit next to him and won’t be able to slip away whenever the king opens his mouth or looks at her with an unfairly wistful gaze. Their every interaction will be carefully watched by the peeping eyes of the nobles invited to the celebration. Rhaenyra knows whatever happens at the feast will spread over the Seven Kingdoms in a blink, carried by whispers and gossip.

 

They can’t make any mistakes, or all their efforts will be for nought.

 

Even Rhaenyra’s appearance has to be perfect, without any signs that would hint at her loss of station or anything that could suggest she is anything but a dragon.

 

She wears one of her Pentoshi gowns, though altered slightly lest the nobles will call her a whore and try to send her to the Street of Silk. The seamstress added another layer of fabric to the skirt to ensure no one would catch a glimpse of her thighs, and though the gown is heavier and more constricting that way, it has not taken anything from its beauty.

 

The black silk flows flawlessly over her body. The bodice decorated with tiny garnets clings to her chest just the way Rhaenyra and Daemon prefer, revealing the tops of her breasts though not enough to scandalise anyone. Dragons embroidered onto the fabric of the voluminous skirt in a crimson thread serve as a reminder that despite being replaced by a male heir, she still remains a Targaryen and a dragonrider.

 

Rhaenyra’s maids weave her long hair into a beautiful intricate braid, twisting a string adorned with rubies and onyxes into the strands of her silver hair. And a valyrian steel necklace decorates Rhaenyra’s neck.

 

Once the maids are done, Rhaenyra takes a long time to examine herself in the mirror, searching for anything that requires fixing, though thankfully, she looks flawless. She lets out a relieved breath before smiling at her maids in thanks, and some of the heavy weight pressing on her shoulders lifts as she crosses one thing from her mental list of the things that need to be perfect.

 

As the maids leave the room, she stands to pour pear brandy into her cup and takes a small sip, savouring the sweet taste on her tongue. With closed eyes, she allows the brandy to loosen her muscles and calm her nerves. Instead of fretting even more, Rhaenyra focuses on Laena’s words. This is her wedding feast, and despite the king’s presence in the hall, Rhaenyra deserves to enjoy it.

 

After sprinkling herself with a few drops of her favourite Lyseni perfume, Rhaenyra takes another look at her reflection in the mirror. Yet before she can fixate on the slight flush of her cheeks or the hint of love bite Daemon has left on her shoulder, her husband enters the room, a wooden box in his hands.

 

She smiles as she sees the box, already knowing what it means – Daemon has another gift for her.

 

He laughs at her eagerness but does not try to tease or keep her waiting. “Turn around,” he says in a low voice, reminding Rhaenyra of another gift he has brought her – the priceless necklace that decorates her neck.

 

Slowly she does as he says, the anticipation making her bite her lip.

 

Daemon comes to stand behind her, his body brushing against hers as he leans to press a soft kiss to her shoulder. His fingers reach for the fastening of her necklace. “Valyrian steel looks beautiful on you, princess, but tonight, you ought to have something new.”

 

Rhaenyra closes her eyes, breathing deeply as Daemon puts something around her neck. The new jewellery is much heavier and colder than the necklace he has just taken off, pressing on her throat in an unfamiliar way.

 

He straightens the necklace, ensuring it’s properly set around her neck, before kissing her cheek. “You can open your eyes.”

 

When she does, her gaze immediately falls to her neck, where Daemon has placed a heavy choker shaped like a dragon. Its long, lean body coils around Rhaenyra’s neck, reminding her of Caraxes with the tiny rubies so similar to his scarlet scales; even the obsidians set in the place of the dragon’s eyes have a fearsome glint to them, much like her uncle’s mount.

 

The resemblance is a little too big to ignore, and Rhaenyra immediately understands her uncle’s intent. She bites her grin. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers, her fingers brushing over gleaming stones.

 

Daemon’s lips curl in a satisfied smile. “It pales in comparison to your beauty,” he says, adoration coating his voice. “But I believe it’s flashing enough for the occasion.”

 

Rhaenyra doesn’t need the mirror to know her cheeks flushed at Daemon’s compliment. She turns around, winding her arms around his neck and offers him a kiss to thank him for the gift. “It’s perfect,” she says against his lips.

 

He responds to her kiss eagerly, though he is careful not to ruin her braid or wrinkle her gown. His arm snakes around Rhaenyra’s waist, and he pulls her closer, pressing his lips harder against hers and opening her mouth with his tongue. Daemon smiles at each hum and whimper he manages to coax from her with his lips and touch. Much too soon, he pulls away. “Are you ready?”

 

Still breathless from his kiss and with her eyes still closed, Rhaenyra searches for strength deep inside of her, grabbing at the tendrils of the dragonfire that burns in her heart as she tries to collect herself.

 

One night. That’s all she has to endure. One night of smiling at her father and pretending everything is alright, forgotten and forgiven.

 

She opens her eyes. “Yes.”

 

To anyone else, she would have sounded sure, but Daemon knows her better than anyone else,  and he can hear the lie lingering beneath the false confidence. “I will be at your side all night,” he promises. “And once the feast is over, I will compensate you for any foolishness Viserys will commit tonight,” he adds to her giggle.

 

And mayhaps it’s that last vow that he makes that pushes Rhaenyra forward, and with her hand intertwined with Daemon’s, she exits the safety of her room.

 

 

 

 

The great hall is transformed for the feast. Long tables are set with food and beverages and decorations made of flowers, fruits, stuffed birds and candles. Braziers are scattered all over the room to warm the space against winter winds that blow outside, rattling against windows and whistling into the castle’s walls.

 

On a slight dais stands the table for the most honourable guests – the king and whoever has been deemed worthy, and the Velaryons, and as Rhaenyra and Daemon enter the hall, everyone is there already, waiting for them.

 

Aegon, seated on the king’s left, looks at Rhaenyra with a slight frown. “You will get cold,” he says, pointing at Rhaenyra’s bare shoulders.

 

Rhaenyra chuckles. Before she can say anything, though, Daemon’s arm wraps around her shoulders. His finger brushes over the tops of her breasts that spill from the low neckline of her gown. “Don’t worry, little nephew. If your sister gets cold, I know how to warm her up.”

 

A few lords sitting close to them hear Daemon’s proclamation and laugh, but the king sitting next to her grows red in the face. Rhaenyra doesn’t know whether embarrassment or anger makes her father blush like some untouched maiden, nor does she care.

 

“But you don’t have a cloak to give her,” Aegon says, full of childish innocence. The frown between his pale brows deepens.

 

More laughter follows the boy’s words, and before Daemon can share what exactly his solution entails, Rhaenyra turns to her brother and says, “he will go to my room and bring my shawl.”

 

At last, the boy accepts her answer. “I’d give you my doublet, but it wouldn’t fit.”

 

With that, the feast starts as servants enter the room carrying trays with more food – roasted quail in a nest of vegetables, crabs boiled in eastern spices and fish tarts straight from the oven. A pleasant hum fills the room as the nobles engage in conversation while the bards Daemon has brought from Crownlands, Riverlands and Stormlands play soft melodies on flutes, harps and lutes.

 

Yet, at their table, awkwardness hangs in the air. Rhaenyra focuses on her plate, trying hard not to think about her father’s presence and the sharp breaths he takes that indicate he’s about to start a conversation.

 

At last, he finds some courage when the servants start bringing desserts to the tables. As Daemon puts a large slice of lemon cake on her plate, the king clears his throat nervously. “I heard you’ve dismissed Ser Alfred Broome,” he says.

 

She huffs. “If I can, I tend to avoid men who think a cock or a lack of thereof decides who is worthy or unworthy of respect,” she says, though she keeps her voice quiet.

 

The king winces, understanding the hidden meaning behind her words, and Corlys chokes on his wine, surprised by her choice of words.

 

Daemon chuckles. “Good thing you did,” he says with a proud grin, “though you’ve never told me what he did to earn your wroth.”

                                                                       

Broome’s words echo faintly in her ears, too insignificant to make her angry but important enough for her to remember the incident. Despite the man’s disrespect toward her, Rhaenyra knows she can never share with Daemon what the old knight has said – if she tells him, Daemon will search the whole Seven Kingdoms to bring the man to justice.

 

It’s her turn to squeeze her husband’s hand and offer him a smile. “It’s unimportant,” she says. “All that matters is that he won’t ever step foot on Dragonstone again unless he wishes to become Syrax’s next meal.”

 

This time, even Laenor chokes, though the sound is drowned by Daemon’s laughter.

 

The king tries again, this time attempting to steer the conversation away from dragons’ meals. “But isn’t Ser Robert a bit too young to be a castellan?”

 

Although the smile is fixed firmly on her lips, Rhaenyra’s eyes are cold as she glares at her father. “Age does not always make someone more capable. I’ve seen men twice his age who have fumbled over every decision they’ve made. Ser Robert has proved that despite his age, he is good at his job.”

 

Again, the king blinks a few times as if her answer is unexpected. Three years ago, she accepted his decision silently, too heartbroken to speak her mind and too eager to leave to point out his mistakes. She does not need to stay silent anymore, especially if her decisions are being questioned as if her father has any right to do it after clinging to Otto Hightower’s sleeve for over a decade. He has been a king asking his servant for permission to breathe, yet now, he dares to act as if she’s unreasonable and foolish.

 

After that, though, there are no more questions, and the conversation is firmly held in Rhaenys’ hands. Expertly, she steers away from any subject that can poke at some unhealed wound or tender spot and manages to avoid topics that will surely infuse the flames of anyone’s wrath.

 

Once everyone has their fill of food, the musicians begin to play a little louder, coaxing the guests to the dancefloor set in the centre of the room.

 

Daemon stands up and offers his hand, a smirk on his lips as he tugs her out of her seat. “I believe we ought to start the dancing,” he says.

 

Rhaenyra is so grateful she wants to pull him into a passionate kiss. Daemon does not enjoy dancing, though Rhaenyra has always managed to drag him onto the dancefloor with big eyes and pretty smiles. Today, though, dancing also means getting away from the king, and after their brief exchange, Rhaenyra can’t think of anything she would want more than putting some distance between herself and her father.

 

With curious eyes of their guests watching their every move, Daemon leads Rhaenyra to the dancefloor before wrapping his arms around her. As his wont, he pulls her a little closer than is considered appropriate, his lips hovering just an inch from her forehead, his warm breath fanning her cheeks.

 

Slowly, other nobles join them on the dancefloor, but Rhaenyra barely pays them attention. She keeps her gaze locked with Daemon, swaying gently in the rhythm of The Vow Unspoken. When the song ends, Daemon keeps his arms around her, sweeping her into another dance.

 

They spend most of the evening twirling amidst the crowd, the sound of rustling skirts and laughter mixing with flutes and drums. After they share more than a dozen dances together, the nobles around them decide Daemon has had enough and bravely approach them to ask Rhaenyra for a dance – Boremund Baratheon, Simon Staunton, Celia’s brother, Addam, and even Laenor.

 

The cheerful grin on his lips reminds Rhaenyra of the ball at Driftmark, where Laenor has swept in to keep her away from Daemon. For that reason, she almost refuses him, teasing him about the role he has played in Laena’s scheme.

 

“She’s my sister,” Laenor says, laughter breaking his words. “And she can be horrid if I don’t do what she says.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure.” She rolls her eyes, though her anger at the Velaryon siblings has long faded away, their friendship too strong to be broken by something so silly, especially when, in the end, Daemon has become her husband, not Laena’s. “How do you think it’s going?”

 

Out of all the people gathered in the room, the Velaryons are among the trusted few who know the reasons for the feast or the invitation the king has received. Laenor and Laena, especially, are well aware of Rhaenyra’s feelings towards her father and the anxiety tormenting her at the thought of his arrival.

 

Laenor is quiet for a moment, spinning her further away from the gossiping crowd to ensure no one can hear them. “I’m not sure anyone believes there’s a great love between you and Daemon and the king, but most seem to believe you have reached some agreement,” he says quietly. His words might not ease her fears completely, but Rhaenyra can always count on Laenor to be honest, even if the truth is not exactly what she wants to hear.

 

Before she can ask another question, the song changes and another person approaches them. It’s her father. He smiles awkwardly at Laenor. “Ser Laenor, may I cut in?”

 

Although he can’t refuse the king, Laenor still checks with her if it’s alright, the question clear in his kind eyes. Rhaenyra offers him a smile, though inside, she’s burning with fury. “Thank you for the dance, Laenor.”

 

With yet another awkward smile on his lips, the king wraps his hand around Rhaenyra’s and brings his arm around her waist before they begin the dance. The musicians play The Maids that Bloom in Spring, and memories of her childhood flood Rhaenyra’s head.

 

Feasts and balls have always been frequent at her father’s court, and, as a little girl, she has spent many a night twirling upon the dancefloor in her father’s arms. The Maids that Bloom in Spring has always been their favourite song, the first notes never failing to bring them to the dancefloor, which has not gone unnoticed by the bards living in the Red Keep as they played the song sometimes a dozen times in a single night to please the king and the princess.

 

When the singer sings I loved a maid as fair as summer, Rhaenyra feels a sting of tears in the corner of her eyes. Those nights of feasting and dancing in King’s Landing have always been precious to her, sweet moments coated in happiness and bliss when everything has been bright and radiant in her childish eyes. Now, everything is tainted by the bitterness she feels for the man who spins her around the dancefloor, anger for his decisions and the price she has had to pay for his whims and dreams.

 

The king clears his throat as the song slows down a little, the steps turning from quick spins into leisured swaying. “Rhaenyra,” he starts, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “I-“

 

She does not wish to hear what he has to say. Rhaenyra’s opinions and thoughts have never mattered much to the man in front of her, always easily dismissed with a few whispers of the king’s trusted Hand, so why should she listen to him now? “All you need to do is smile,” she says coldly, “conversation is not necessary.”

 

Rhaenyra counts the heartbeats until the last note plays, and the dance ends. With her eyes, she searches the hall for Daemon, hoping her husband will sense her need and step in and put some distance between Rhaenyra and the king, who now has the gall to look at her with eyes swimming with tears.

 

He does, of course, he does. Daemon has always found his way to her whenever she needed him the most, the shadow of Caraxes’ wings appearing above King’s Landing whenever Rhaenyra’s longing for her uncle has grown too strong to bear. Now, too, he seems to hear her silent huffs, feel them from across the room where he stands talking with a few younger men.

 

It takes him only a few notes of a flute to come to her rescue, and his imposing presence halts the awkward dance Rhaenyra has shared with her father.

 

The king is displeased by Daemon’s presence – he grimaces as if Daemon has interrupted something important as if he and Rhaenyra have been in the middle of a riveting conversation instead of drowning in stale silence. “You don’t even like to dance,” he grumbles, quiet enough, so no one but Rhaenyra and Daemon hears him.

 

“I don’t,” Daemon agrees with a shrug, “but my wife does, and I believe it’s my husbandly duty to please her.” The smug smirk on Daemon’s lips gives away the hidden meaning of his words. As if it is not enough, Daemon adds, “And it’s a task I’m taking with utmost diligence.”

 

For a heartbeat, Rhaenyra thinks the king might choke to death. His face grows red like a beetroot, and tiny veins on his forehead threaten to pop. He opens and closes his mouth a few times as if searching for the words that can express his thoughts, perchance considering exiling Daemon again before Rhaenyra clears her throat gently and, with a glare, reminds him why he is there. If this lasts a little longer, they will draw attention to themselves, and whatever they’ve managed to achieve in the past few days will crumble into dust.

 

For once, the king seems to understand the message ringing clear in Rhaenyra’s eyes and obeys, allowing Daemon to replace him at Rhaenyra’s side. Even before her father walks away, Rhaenyra stands on her tiptoes and kisses Daemon on the mouth, careless about whoever watches them and the silly rules the nobles insist on following. Slipping her tongue into Daemon’s mouth, she smiles at the soft groan she coaxes from her husband and inches closer to his warmth.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers when she pulls away to catch a breath.

 

Daemon licks his lips. “I’m at your service, princess,” he whispers, lust coating his voice. Leaning closer, he lets his lips brush against Rhaenyra’s earlobe as he whispers, “I do not like to see you so stressed out, but I enjoy helping you relax.”

 

Heat spills onto Rhaenyra’s cheeks as his words stir a memory that’s still fresh in her mind – Daemon taking her against the wall in the empty corridor, his cock effortlessly fucking away whatever tension the king’s visit has put onto her shoulders.

 

The urge to drag Daemon into some secluded corner and have him work away the strain the brief conversation has brought her nerves is too strong to resist. Yet, before Rhaenyra can share her idea with her uncle, the servants stride into the room, carrying a tray with a huge lamprey pie.

 

Noticing the disappointment painting her face, Daemon’s lips stretch in an arrogant smirk. “I will make it up to you later,” he promises, guiding her back to the table. His fingers flutter at the top of the curve of her backside, a sweet promise of whatever he has in mind for later. “Try to pretend he is not here. It is, after all, our wedding feast – anyone or anything that displeases you should be ignored.”

 

He seems determined not to let the king’s presence ruin the evening. After they cut the pie, Daemon tugs her onto his lap. He wraps his arm tightly around her waist, earning laughs and cheers from the nobles, which only grow in strength as Daemon captures her lips in a passionate kiss, which she returns with as much vigour, for once uncaring about her father’s presence at the table.

 

Rhaenyra has been forced to witness when her father has been courting her best friend; mayhaps now it is time to return the favour.

 

She remains on Daemon’s lap for the rest of the night, sharing his cup and stealing kisses whenever she wants to.

 

Two seats away, the king drinks almost greedily as if he hopes the wine will shield his eyes from seeing Daemon’s wandering hands or lips. From the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra observes him as he appears to be talking himself into something, and she hopes it’s not yet another attempt at conversation. Finally, he takes another gulp of wine before standing up slowly. The room grows quiet.

 

Viserys’ face betrays the fight he fights within himself, conflicting emotions clashing against each other in his purple eyes before, at last, he manages to collect himself and bring a smile to his lips. He clears his throat. “I believe it’s time for me to make a toast,” he starts, forming his words carefully to keep his voice steady. He lifts his cup, and his gaze falls on Rhaenyra and Daemon with a strange emotion shining in his purple eyes. “To my daughter and brother. I wish you only happy years in your marriage.”

 

The guests cheer loudly, clinking their cups and shouting wishes of happiness before they drink. When the king sits down, letting out a heavy breath as if the mere toast has almost been more than he could bear, lord Roderick stands up. The man is red in the face from the ale he has consumed during the feast but surprisingly steady on his feet. “Every wedding feast should end with bedding!” he calls, evoking more laughter. A few other lords cheer him eagerly, loudly voicing their approval of his idea.

 

Daemon laughs. “Oh, there was a bedding, lord Dustin, I assure you. The wedding has been consummated most thoroughly.”

 

Rhaenyra nods in agreement, the rum she has drunk making her bolder. “In fact,” she starts, laughter breaking her words, “the reason why we meet for a wedding feast and not the wedding itself is that we were too impatient to wait for the bedding.”

 

More laughter rings through the hall. At last, the liquor has managed to strip cloaks of stiff propriety from the nobles’ backs, and they seem all too willing to join the bawdy jokes that are a part of every wedding feast.

 

“Then I doubt a second bedding will be a problem!” Someone shouts.

 

Lord Roderick agrees. “Let’s bed them again!”

 

The bards grab the idea swiftly and start playing The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown. “I like your suggestion, lord Dustin,” Daemon says. He wraps his arm around Rhaenyra’s back while his other slides under her knees. Before anyone can think of escorting Rhaenyra to the bedroom, Daemon stands up, lifting Rhaenyra effortlessly into his arms. “But I don’t need anyone’s help to undress my wife,” he shouts.

 

The last thing she sees is a look of horror on her father’s face. Giggles tumble from Rhaenyra’s mouth as the sound of their guests’ laughter follows them on their way out of the hall.

 

When they step out of the smoky, noisy room, Rhaenyra lets out a loud but happy sigh. “Finally,” she says, wrapping her arms tighter around Daemon’s neck. “So, what you have planned for us?”

 

The look Daemon gives her is absolutely sinful. Lust swirls in his eyes as they sweep over her face and brush over the tops of her breasts that spill from the low neckline of her gown. “I can only promise you won’t get any sleep, at least until dawn breaks the sky.”

 

 

 

It takes another sennight before, at last, the king boards the Sea Snake’s ship to sail back to King’s Landing. Standing on the balcony of her bedroom, Rhaenyra observes the boat that carries her father and half-siblings and its pale sails fluttering in the wind as it slowly sways away from Dragonstone. It’s not until the ship becomes so tiny it can be mistaken for a seagull gliding above the dark waters surrounding her island that Rhaenyra releases a heavy sigh, allowing the tension to seep off her shoulders.

 

Daemon wraps his arms around her in a tender hold and leans his chin on her shoulder, humming softly. “Finally alone.”

 

It’s not quite the truth yet, for some of their guests still linger on Dragonstone, but the biggest obstacle to their happiness has left. Rhaenyra twists in Daemon’s arms, turning her back to her father’s ship, choosing instead to drown in the depths of her husbands’ eyes.

 

A gentle wisp of breeze grazes over their skin and hair. Rhaenyra sinks deeper into Daemon’s embrace, resting her head against his chest, lulled into a peaceful silence by the soft hum of his breaths and the steady beat of his heart.

 

Almost three years ago, when her father replaced her with Aegon, Rhaenyra thought the wound he had inflicted on her would never heal. Roaming Dragonstone halls in the dead of night, she believed the sting of rejection would follow her forever, along with the dream of the crown and proving herself worthy to the king, to the father for whose love she has yearned so terribly.

 

Now, enveloped in Daemon’s arms, she thinks that mayhaps it has been for the best. As the heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra would not have got to know the warmth of Daemon’s embraces or the passion in his kisses; she would not have been able to call him ‘husband’ and plan their future together.

 

For the first time, a smile blooms on her lips at the thought of her disinheritance. In the end, Rhaenyra has gained more than she has lost, she realises as she cranes her neck, tilting her face towards Daemon’s like a flower turns to the sun. She meets his lavender eyes, and her smile grows impossibly wide. “Finally alone,” she whispers in agreement, a sense of pure contentment expanding her chest.

 

 

 

Notes:

Wow. This story came to an end. I still can't believe it. I hope the final chapter did not disappoint you.

Anyway, some backstory for this chapter. It was a freaking struggle from the start to the end, though I hope it wasn't obvious to you when you were reading. Long story short, after some thought, I realised my plans for this chapter were a bit illogical, considering what happened in chapter 6, and I basically had to change most of my outline. Initially, I had planned Rhaenyra's and Viserys' first meeting to happen years in the future and in much more sombre circumstances. His presence at the feast celebrating Daemyra's wedding threw all my plans to the wind since I couldn't even use the ideas I originally had in mind for their first meeting. So if you're angry that you had to wait so long for this chapter, I'm happy to announce that it is, once again, Viserys' fault.

Anyway, I wasn't sitting idly, and my struggles with this chapter bore fruit in the form of an unplanned one-shot. It's a companion fic to this chapter, so if you're interested, be on the lookout. I will post it in a few days.

Also, I have a question regarding the sequel. The first chapter is almost ready to go, and the rest is in various state of drafts and outlines, so do you want it now? Or do you prefer to wait and have more regular updates (though I have to say I'm not sure how long it will take me to finish it)? Tell me in the comments.

Here are a few clues about the sequel: 🔥🗺️👰🏇🌞🍼

Last but not least, thank you all for all of your kudos, bookmarks and comments. The response to this fic left me speechless, and I absolutely loved reading all your thoughts, ideas and theories.

Thank you for your kind words. Your comments helped me get through writer's block and overcome any doubts and fears I faced regarding this story, and they made me smile every time I read them.

💜💜💜

Notes:

Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts 💜
See you back in two weeks or so.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of the kingdom where the broken are crowned