Chapter Text
What does it mean, to want something?
(v.) to feel a need or desire for
–
Daemon and Rhaenyra share the blood of the dragon, they’re restless and chaotic.
Alicent wanted it to be false. She wanted to believe Rhaenyra, to hold on to the hope that despite their estrangement, years of being friends would still give her the privilege of knowing the princess better than her father, the king, did. However, Viserys seemed convinced that something did happen between Rhaenyra and Daemon. So even if Rhaenyra swore to her, on her mother, that it was a mere accusation, doubt still prevailed in her heart.
The sunrise next morning brought terrible news.
Her father came to her room, noticeably missing a pin on his right breast. His unspoken disappointment wounded her more than his farewell did. He left Alicent with a countdown of three days and a dawning feeling of grief and anger.
“Your Grace, Ser Criston is here.”
–
I am the crown, Ser Criston. Or I will be.
Criston wanted honor and glory above all– what knight wouldn’t? But what is honor and glory in the face of his princess, the Realm’s Delight?
He has been her sworn shield over many years and with that came a certain kind of closeness that no common Kingsguard could ever boast. Criston has seen Rhaenyra’s happiness and sadness, the faces she put on at court and the easy smile she had when reading in solitude. During one unremarkable day, she had confessed to him that the reason she chose him was because of his existing battle experience which the other candidates lacked. He stood out to her that way. As she said that, Criston felt a certain pride bloom, one that could rival even the Lannisters’ in its greatness.
But as quickly as she bestowed it, she took it away with a night in her bed and a rejection on the ship.
He had confessed to the queen prior to their trip to Driftmark and carried the guilt ever since. Criston thought it wouldn’t matter, not when they ran away as free lovers– just him and her. Taking the princess away from her burdens would be an honor in itself, a service he offered benevolently and which she spurned. A knight is no whore.
Criston jolted when the doors finally opened. He never had cause to talk to Otto Hightower besides the occasional greetings but circumstances change.
“Ser Criston. I heard you were looking to absolve yourself?”
–
Daemon’s wife, the Lady Rhea Royce, has passed.
Viserys wanted Rhaenyra to be happy and Daemon wanted…Rhaenyra. That was, if his words were to be believed. He wasn’t blind. Daemon had loved Rhaenyra ever since she was a babe, a pink thing so tiny that Viserys shook at first when he tried to hold her, to Aemma’s bemusement. He loved her first with expensive things – silks, fabrics, and jewels that Rhaenyra would not have use for until she grew up. Then he loved her with his presence, bestowing Rhaenyra a care he wouldn't give to other children. His daughter’s fluency in High Valyrian could be credited entirely to Daemon, as well as her riding skills, both on horse and dragon. He remembered her first flight on Syrax. At the age of seven, Rhaenyra has single-handedly took ten years of Viserys' lifespan. His first response was anger, for Daemon's inability to deny his niece anything and for Rhaenyra being unthinking of how her poor parents would react when they saw their only child in the air.
But when they landed, Viserys had forgotten his anger. Rhaenyra was flushed in happiness, her braid completely undone, the tie having been torn away by the wind. Daemon himself was grinning, pride evident on his face as he helped his niece disembark Syrax.
Their closeness was one of the reasons Viserys always countered his council when they grew weary of Daemon. She got better with age, but Rhaenyra used to throw the biggest tantrums when Daemon went away. His brother would play it off with a hug and promises of exotic gifts but Viserys knew he returned as fast as he could from his travels. The goldcloaks adored Daemon and when they accompanied him, the only complaint they would have was how he spent so much time in the markets, looking for a trinket befitting his niece.
Viserys knew Daemon loved Rhaenyra, but he had a hard time with the idea of Daemon being in love with Rhaenyra. The possibility of it being reciprocated was something he wouldn’t even consider.
“Cousin, are you truly well?” Rhaenys lingered in the doorway.
“Yes, yes.” If the nightly tradition of leeches on his body was the definition of ‘well’. “There is just a lot of work running the kingdoms and now my firstborn and heir is about to be married. I always imagined Aemma to be there when our daughter became a bride.” Rhaenys and Viserys had their odds when he was crowned king over her, but Rhaenys had no such history with Aemma. He was certain she missed his late wife as well.
“As long as Rhaenyra is happy, then I’m sure Aemma would be as well.” Viserys winced, which his cousin noticed. “Unless she’s not?”
“Rhaenyra knows her duty.”
“Is there a suitor she would prefer over my son?” she asked, raising a brow. “I have heard rumors from King’s Landing, Viserys.”
Damn it all to the seven hells. He was certain that everyone that needed to be quieted were done so already, either with gold or a sword to the neck. “Whoever you heard, he is of no consequence.”
“I would hardly classify Daemon as someone of no consequence.” Rhaenys scoffed. He was not at all surprised that she knew of his brother’s involvement. “Tell me what happened. Or what you know of it.”
And so Viserys did, all of it, even Daemon’s absurd request.
“It is not so absurd, cousin.” Rhaenys sighed. “Though not the Targaryen ideal of a brother-sister match, a marriage between uncle and niece is hardly strange.”
“Daemon is not fit for the throne.”
“Good thing he would not be the one sitting in it then.”
“He is married!” The words he has long since used as an excuse flew from his mouth before he could remember that, no, Daemon wasn’t married. Not anymore.
“If he has made himself a widow because that’s the primary reason you refused his proposal, what else would he be willing to do?” Rhaenys sighed. There was no denial to be heard from Viserys. The timing of her death, their conversation, and his brother's exile was too conspicuous. “I know not the matters of Rhaenyra’s heart, much less Daemon’s, nor do I want to be involved in them. But I would rather not put my son’s life on the line when I know Daemon will see him as an obstacle.”
“Are you going to reject the match?” he asked and his cousin shook her head.
“I would be a fool to turn my king away.” she said. “You might think the same, with your brother.”
(Viserys held Rhaenyra’s shaking hands, a few moments before the guests started arriving.
“Are you nervous, daughter?”
“It’s nothing, kepa. I just have this bizarre feeling that something is going to go wrong.” Rhaenyra confessed then shook her head. “Wedding jitters,”)
–
Daemon was familiar with wants, they were rarely unfulfilled, at least for him. He was no king, not even an heir– just a prince, a second son, and yet people bent to him (or he bends them over, the distinction doesn’t matter). And yet this feeling was no mere want.
That should’ve been me. This was the first thought in his mind as he entered the throne room. The second thought was, She looks beautiful. It wasn’t an unusual observation and neither was it new to Daemon. A lot of women were pretty or comely but none possess the perfection and Valyrian uniqueness that found its home in the body of his niece.
The tension was palpable and he felt every single eye on him. Daemon relished in it, siphoning bravado from their attentions as he tried to not buckle under the expression on Rhaenyra’s face. Her eyes, brave and resigned, followed him as he made his way to the high table. Trying to not make his ongoing affections obvious, Daemon turned to his brother and smirked. Now that emotion, anger, that he could handle. He merely smiled, all innocence and hidden wrath.
The throne room was lavishly decorated but as he sat, his eyes only gravitated to one spot. He watched Rhaenyra and he knew that she knew it; she stole looks at him too. Then she would turn to smile at Laenor and act sweet with him, as if the piteous show would change the misery she would find in their marriage bed.
It was a happy accident when, mere moments after their meeting, Rhea Royce took it upon herself to spook the horse and get crushed by it. He was putting them both out of their misery by finishing her off with a rock. Let it not be said that the Rogue Prince cannot be generous. As soon as she drew her last breath, Daemon made arrangements for his journey back to King's Landing. Back to Rhaenyra's side. What would Viserys now say if he were to ask for her hand again? What would Rhaenyra say, if she knew that this would be the second time?
As he neared the Keep and heard the news of her impending nuptials – to the Velaryon boy nonetheless – he felt his ire for Viserys grow again. Daemon had asked his brother first. Instead of sticking with family, he chose to soothe the temper of a house he had angered with his own actions. The Velaryons were of Valyrian blood and strong allies but he’d thought that Viserys would put Rhaenyra’s happiness above all duty. Why wed her to someone undeserving? What does that boy know of how to love Rhaenyra as a man does his wife?
What had the Hightowers done to Viserys, to turn him into this selfish creature? The girl he took to wife wasn't even that comely. Daemon had certainly seen prettier whores– warmer too. Her disposition rivaled the coldness in his late wife's. He didn't even bother to stand up when the Hightower whelp (not a queen, certainly not his queen) made an entrance in her green gown, looking as if she wasn't openly dividing the court into two.
Daemon caught the Velaryon heir looking at him before he turned his attention back to Rhaenyra. Laenor was a good strategist and knight but he couldn't make Rhaenyra queen; he was too honorable and straightforward, and not at all interested in a wet cunt. He would be useless against the green cunts planning to put their blood on the throne.
Daemon watched as the betrothed pair made their way to the floor to begin dancing, feeling like someone who has dreamt of the doom of Valyria and is witnessing it. He has never felt so far from Rhaenyra.
(He has seven days and he’s afraid it wouldn’t be enough.)
–
What lengths will you go to, to get what you want?
“In her goblet Ser Criston. Surely you know which one?”
–
Daemon had such a beautiful face, that was, for a coward who left her half-dressed in a whorehouse. Still, she could not help but admire how he looked in their house colors. Not for the first time that night, Rhaenyra wished that she wore black and red instead of white. The dress was beautiful but it was not her– it was too soft, too maidenly, and she was anything but.
As she finished her wine, she gestured for the maid to refill it again.
“Am I such a terrible companion that you’d rather imbibe yourself?” Laenor whispered in her ear. Rhaenyra repressed an involuntary shiver as his breath hit the back of her neck.
“Don’t do that, you surprised me!” Rhaenyra reprimanded him though he didn’t look the least bit guilty.
“I had no other choice,” he shrugged. “You were rather out of it, and I, your lover, am feeling quite neglected.”
Rhaenyra hid a snort in her goblet. “If you continue like that then, yes, I would rather choose wine as my company.” Of course Rhaenyra didn’t mind Laenor’s ribbing, it was one of the things that made the ostentatious celebration bearable. After their agreement, Laenor abandoned his anxieties and approached their match in a most light-hearted manner. He even introduced her to Joffrey who was brash but amusing in his boyishness.
“Why are your eyes straying so much anyway? Looking for your actual lover in the crowd?” He surveyed the crowd, trying to find someone who stood out. Rhaenyra contemplated her response before deciding that she didn’t care if Laenor knew.
“He’s not in the crowd.”
“Oh. Is he not in attendance?”
“Look closer.”
Laenor’s brow furrowed in confusion before looking at the occupants of their table, his brows rising. “Are you pining after my father? Because I must say, he is quite devoted to my mother, and while you’re my friend, I would hate to have you as a step-mother.”
“Laenor!” she giggled, drawing looks from their family nearby.
(And if Daemon’s smile slipped, if his hands started fiddling with the knife– Rhaenyra didn’t care enough to notice it. Of course not.)
Her cousin leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands clasped. He angled away from his father to give them a semblance of privacy. “Daemon, really?”
“Sort of. It is rather complicated.” At once Rhaenyra felt nervous but also giddy at being able to talk about him, them. Laenor knew of Targaryen customs enough that he wouldn’t find it strange, and he was open-minded enough to actually find amusement in it. It also helped that he had experience with forbidden lov– desires. A jolt went through her stomach powerful enough to make her wince.
“I don’t blame you. He is quite handsome. I’ve seen him a lot during our time in the Stepstones, you know. A very fierce warrior, if not absolutely insane– my uncle’s words, not mine.” he remarked.
Rhaenyra put down her goblet, the wine suddenly tasted bitter in her mouth. Instead of making a scathing reply against the compliments, she jested, “Will I need to compete with you for his affections, Laenor?”
Laenor’s eyes danced over her shoulder and she knew that he was observing Daemon. “With the way he’s looking at you? I’d say there is no competition for me to participate in.”
Discomfort pierced Rhaenyra, though not entirely from what Laenor said. It bordered on physical and she shifted in her seat. She didn’t want to entertain the hope that Daemon missed her because then she’d have to remove him from the box where all the men who only courted her for the Iron Throne went. If he wasn’t like them, then who was he? A friend? An uncle?
Laenor’s worried face pierced through the thick veil of her thought. Rhaenyra gulped, her throat felt dry.
“Rhaenyra, are you alright?” She squinted at her cousin whose mouth didn’t move. Only when a hand touched her shoulder did she realize that it was her father who spoke. “Rhaenyra? You have eaten very little, and your dance with Laenor is approaching.”
“I’ll eat after.” She tried to smile but it felt more like a grimace. The thought of food made her queasy for some reason.
Soon the minstrels started playing and Laenor escorted her. As they were walking down the stairs, Laenor whispered to her. “Are you well? You look pale.”
“It’s the wine.” she assured him. “I’ll be better when we’re done.”
When the drumbeats stopped, signaling the end of the dance, they bowed to each other yet Rhaenyra didn't rise. The pain in her stomach was debilitating and she felt a thick liquid rush up her throat. She put a hand to her mouth, hoping to stave off whatever it was until she could make her way back to her seat at the table, but it seemed like the guests had noticed. So much for trying not to make a scene.
“I’m fine,” she meant to say but it never came out. Instead there was a scream from one of the ladies and an alarmed call from Laenor. Why was everybody starting to panic? The sound was making her head hurt.
Rhaenyra looked down at herself and found blood splattered down her front, stark against the white of her dress.
Before she knew it, Rhaenyra
was
falling–
–