Chapter Text
Loyalty
one
...
It had been more than a decade ago, but Rhaenyra still remembered the day she lost her place as heir so clearly it could have occurred yesterday.
It was one of those moments in time that was branded into her like hot metal dies on a wooden sign; the letters offering a warning she could no longer ignore—you aren’t wanted here anymore.
She knew the fact of her gender was a disappointment to the advisors that served the crown, and perhaps to the kingdom, too. It was something so undeniable that few even attempted to hide it, even from her once young ears. And so she had grown up, and grown used to the reality of not being good enough, or at least not being as good as a son—at least in the eyes of some.
But for a brief few years, while she was heir, she had enjoyed the illusion that she was enough for the one person who mattered most, the person who was supposed to love her the most—her father.
And so being told quite abruptly and publicly that this was no longer the case, having the realization that it had never been the case, that she was merely a placeholder, was a blow that burned.
The meeting’s tone had been somber, and there was no joy in her father’s voice as he followed the council's wishes. But she found little comfort in this, that he made no attempt to warn her, nor did he offer an apology or even words of comfort.
He simply told her after the meeting ended, that he wore the crown, but he was just the king, the advisors were his backbone and their combined vote counted for more than his.
She had swallowed back a sob, the involuntary response to hearing the admission of just how little she meant to her father from his own lips. Perhaps he did not mean for them to have such weight, but she was crushed by them all the same.,
Somehow, she did not scream, or cry, or feel much sadness on that day.
Instead she felt…resentment, for what had been taken from her.
And then she felt nothing at all, a numbness spreading through her veins. For what did her feelings matter, when she was nothing?
…
The next day, there was another meaning—and likely little expectation of her attending. But she would not let the men who had voted against her being their queen feel justified in their actions, and they would if she spent the day in bed. They would think her weak, weepy, womanly, and unfit for the crown, just as they had suspected.
And so she did attend. Her head was held high, and she wore a black gown, a sign of how she was mourning her promised future. Some of the men, the advisors to her father, looked at her, and when they did she was unabashed in how she returned their gaze—keeping it until they looked ashamed and unsettled, before finally adverting their own eyes elsewhere.
When her father spoke, guilt was heavy in every word. He tried to make amends by offering what he could —he even promised her Dragonstone, unwilling to take her entire inheritance, just the title and throne.
“That’s very generous,” She said, voice steady but far from happy. How could she be, when she was being denied the title of queen? She adored Dragonstone, and in another life she would be happy simply being the lady of a fine Keep. But in this life, it paled in comparison to what she had once been promised.
“Is there anything else I can offer you?” Viserys asked, desperate to appease his daughter.
She looked at him, a small smile forming on her lips for the first time in days.
“I’d like you to support my choice of husband.” She said,
“Of course.” Viserys agreed, granting her wish immediately.
She might be nothing to her father, but would be something to her husband.
And she would not compromise on the man who took that title.
…
She had married Daemon at Dragonstone mere weeks later—thinking there was little reason to wait. There was no life for either of them in King’s Landing, they weren’t wanted there—both had been all but banished by the king’s council—and so they would focus on building a new life, a life together on the island their ancestors had long called home.
…
She remembered her wedding day like it was yesterday, too.
She had burned on that day, too, but it had raged in her cunt and not her gut. Spreading through her like a wildfire of desire, a heat for her uncle that was consuming and unlike anything she had ever known— better than anything she had ever known.
Bloody kisses were gentle against each other's lips, but her uncle’s grew more demanding as they trailed down her neck. He sucked at her flesh, bit at it, and promised to leave behind marks so there would be no question of his eagerness to fulfill his duty as her husband.
He wanted the servants to know how he’d taken her—to see bruises that mapped where his lips had been. She wanted them too, the evidence to prove to herself that he’d coupled with her and desired her in such a way.
And perhaps he wanted that too, proof that he'd finally had her in a way he’d desired for longer than a man his age should admit to.
When she swore he’d tasted every inch of her flesh, her skin bathed by his tongue, he fulfilled his duty and then some just as he’d promised.
...
He’d been kind, the first time he fucked her. The pain of his appendage spearing her was agony, but the stroke of his fingers and murmured words of comfort were bliss. His thrusts were slow and loving, hips gently butting up against each other, like ocean waters lapping at the shore on a calm day. They found a rhythm that worked, despite her inexperience in this act and the pain--but then, that stemmed from inexperience, too .
Tears had been kissed away, as he muttered apologies and promises to be good to her. He’d even paused part way through—stilling himself inside of her, and pressing firmly against her clitoris until she was thrusting herself against him, and she felt herself move away from the pain and towards something different, something better, which quickly became something wonderful, leaving her writhing on his length as she came.
He was less careful after that, pressing deeper into her, holding her hips tighter, chasing his own pleasure now that she had found her release. But somehow that felt good too, having him use her body as if it was made for him. There was satisfaction in being a warm place for his cock, so much so that she was almost sad when the soft length slipped out of her.
She did not have to mourn the loss for long. They seemed to have an equal appetite for each other, that verged on ravenous, rarely leaving their bed, much less their rooms, during those first few days of marriage. No, instead they spent time wrapped in each other, making love and fucking again, and again.
And again.
And again.
She smiled at the memory, thinking fondly on those early days when they were insatiable. Though now, more than a decade later, they were not so different—always hungry for flesh, and favoring that of their spouses above all others. If she shifted, she could feel the marks Daemon left on her breast that morning, and the slight aching of her cunt, still stretched from him the ferocity he’d had when taking her.
It was a good ache, though, Daemon had never been anything less than precisely what she wanted and needed. Sometimes that was harshness in the marital bed, good conversation over supper, or a midday race on their dragons that made her feel she was a girl of nine, not nearing the end of her twenties. But no matter the location, occasion, or time of day, he was always a constant source of physical comfort to her.
Though that could not compare to the emotional comfort he offered, especially in the weeks after she was disinherited and filled with despair.
They bonded over the betrayal of having a future on the throne stripped from them.
Of having someone they loved and trusted take it from them.
They mourned the loss of Viserys in their life, and mourned the loss of their place in King’s Landing.
But they never failed to celebrate their life together and their place in Dragonstone.
Dragonstone was their home, and they were each other's future now. With that fact engraved in their minds and marked by rings around their finger's, anger for previous possibilities slowly faded to bitterness.
And eventually, even that faded away, too.
…
They had been on Dragonstone for several years—long enough for there to be a babe in the cradle and another half grown in her womb—when Daemon found the writings from the maester to the first king. She thought the musings from the old journals rather deranged at first, it was absurd, the thought and theory that the iron throne, and the crown chosen by its occupant had some sort of consciousness of their own. She insisted it wasn’t possible, but as Daemon explored the libraries further, he found more and more claims of such.
…
That was before she visited her father, before she saw how he was rotting away.
After that, it was hard to be so disbelieving.
And she found something akin to hope burning.
“Do you think I’m deserving?” She asked Daemon. He had smiled, something soft and coy and his words sounding amused despite the seriousness of her query.
“I think one of us is, and we should leave it up to the crown to decide.”
She supposed it mattered little, as long as one of them could claim the throne, allowing it to pass through their children.
“What of Aegon?” She asked her husband, “I think he will come to us, eventually. And if he doesn’t, I think he will die.”
She bit her lip, wondering how long that would take.
…
Her father died.
There was little effect on her, when she heard. For he had been so close to death for so long she was unsurprised. It seemed almost a blessing that the gods would finally allow his form to pass on, finding as much life in plumes of smoke and ashes as he had in the final few years of his existence.
She didn’t cry, but she clung to Daemon throughout the funeral.
Her voice shook slightly as she commanded Syrax to light the pyre.
And then, they left.
They did not stay for the coronation.
…
As a gift, though, they sent a scroll to the new king.
Aegon was puzzled, as he read it—confused by the implications.
Did his sister and uncle truly believe the crown chose its wearer?
That it killed the unworthy?
It was preposterous!
He set aside the pages.
But when he closed his eyes, he saw his fathers ravaged form.
He swallowed, no, it couldn’t be true. And if it was, it would happen to him, too.
He was heir. He was King. Just as his mother and grandfather wanted him to be.
That mattered more than what a pile of iron formed into a chair could possibly desire, surely.
And he…he desired a drink.
…
Word came to Dragonstone soon after, of how Aegon ailed.
His symptoms didn’t make sense for a young man who was previously healthy.
Now they said he was pale, flesh bruised, nose bleeding, coughing up blood, and unable to sleep.
“A tragedy,” Rhaenyra said dryly.
“Indeed,” responded Daemon.
…
Her husband was right, Aegon did come to them.
It was Daemon who greeted him at the bridge—who helped him off Sunfyre. He was a poor excuse for a man at this point, much less a king. His skin was too fair, pallid in a way that spoke of poor health. His eyes were reddened, rimmed with bruises. He seemed to have lost weight, though he was hardly an imposing figure when Daemon last saw him, given his naturally slight height and slender form.
He asked to see his sister. Begged, really.
Daemon indulged the young king, half dragging and half helping him to the throne room of their keep, where his wife held court from their ancestral seat. The guards, dressed in gold cloaks to mark their humble beginnings as city watch, cleared the way for Daemon, opening doors and trying their best to look away from the mess that was the boy.
Rhaenyra was already there, on her throne—one that was less than she deserved, but all she’d been allowed.
She had been waiting there for her brother since Syrax and Caraxes alerted the keep to Sunfyre’s screeches. To be truthful, she had been waiting for much longer than that, waiting from the moment she heard there was a crown placed atop his head.
It had been unlike her and her husband to stay at home instead of facing the sight of him being crowned head on. Their tempers were true to their name Targaryen, and it urged them to fight, their bodies and minds feeling they deserved the title, even when they had long since lost their places as heir.
But they had lost that place, and they would not regain it by force, not yet.
They waited patiently, knowing if they truly deserved it, they would have it.
He would give it to them. For her brother was not a noble man, no matter his title. He would rather live a long pathetic life than die a proud death as king. But that worked in their favor, so she would not berate him for it.
Still, though she was confident this would be the case, eventually, she had not expected it to be so soon, given how slow her father’s decline was. Perhaps it spoke to what a poor candidate Aegon was for the title, for it had only taken mere months to reduce him to this state.
And what a state it was.
She almost felt pity for him, his form too thin and pale. Moaning in pain as Daemon released him and he collapsed against the floor, unable to support his body without help. It took Aegon a moment to right himself, and even then, he remained kneeling. It was a miracle he had managed to fly here, she thought, wondering how tightly he had been strapped to the saddle to remain mounted for so many hours.
His head tilted up, lazily as if the action hurt, and his eyes met hers. The suffering in his gaze was blatant, and bruises were drawn beneath his eyes and across his usually handsome cheekbones, which seemed gaunt rather than regal as they once had. His lips were chapped, split at the corners and lazily leaking blood. He must have felt it, wiping at his chin with his bandaged hands.
“Brother,” she said—trying to hide the smugness of seeing him suffer in his undeserved role.
“Sister,” he responded, words no more than a whisper.
“I—please.” He begged, lowering his head and releasing something akin to a sob.
Rhaenyra didn’t respond, for it wasn’t a question.
“Please take it off.” He cried, looking back up at her with damp eyes.
“The crown.” He clarified, when she stayed silent.
“I—it cuts me, it cuts everyone who tries.” He said, raising his bandaged hands before her.
Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, “And if I try and succeed?” She asked.
“It’s yours, the crown, the throne, just please. It’s killing me.” He begged.
She stood then, crossing the few steps between them, until she was close enough to reach out. Her index finger tilted his chin back. Up close, the pallor of his skin was worse, the bruises darker, the helplessness in his eyes more desperate.
“You’d accept me as queen? Kneel to me?” She asked, and he nodded as vigorously as he could given his depleted state.
She heard the click of her husband's footsteps then, and felt his palm on her shoulder.
“You’d have to prove your loyalty to her, if she lets you live. It may not come easily.” Daemon said.
“Anything, please, I'll do anything.” He begged.
Rhaenyra looked over her shoulder, meeting Daemon’s gaze. “He is quite sweet when he begs,” she admitted to her husband. “Do you think he means it? That he’d do anything?” She asked, wondering if he was genuine.
Daemon moved closer still, pressing the length of his body behind her own. “You do inspire loyalty, my niece. You bent the rogue prince into a husband, think of what you could do with a failed king.”
She grinned at that, her decision made.
The crown was lifted off Aegon’s blonde locks, leaving behind a ring of bloodstains where it had dug into his forehead and flesh. He moaned in relief, sagging back against the stone floor with a sob.
Rhaenyra’s nose wrinkled as she admired the crown— it would need cleaning before she would dare wear it, though truly this coronet is not the one she would have chosen. But that was the least of her concern, not when she felt like celebrating. For even if there was much to be done, for the first time in years she had the confidence that she would be Queen.
She would sit on the Iron Throne.
Daemon would be by her side as her consort.
Her son would be king someday.
And Aegon…well, she was confident she’d find a place for him.
Perhaps on his knees?
Still, it was a better fate than she planned for most of the Hightowers...
...
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