Chapter Text
Of the many landings Rhaenyra had performed throughout the years, this hardly merited ranking among her worst, though she suspected her former master would take qualm with her assessment. The vast chunk of metal still resembled a ship upon its descent, which was a greater claim than many of her other ill-fated misadventures. Reminders of other such endeavors, however, would certainly earn her a tongue-lashing. Rhaenyra merely kept her smile from stretching too wide as the thrill of flight and fight slowly ebbed from her veins, and studiously ignored Criston Cole's heavy stare as she climbed from the cockpit of the warship. She ignored the frantic thrumming of her own pulse, the fear that had become a second heart within her, pounding a steady beat against the cage of her ribs. She walked, steadily, her droid, Syrax, whistling after her, and she gave a shallow bow to the pale-faced man clinging to the armrests of the seat, his knuckles far whiter than they had been when Rhaenyra and her master had found him, bound and imprisoned at the hands of Lord Peake.
"Chancellor," Rhaenyra spoke with the respect dictated by his title, though possessing none of the reverence so many others offered when addressing the leader of the Galactic Republic. "We have arrived upon Coruscant."
Otto Hightower rose a brow, glancing between the plumes of smoke rising from the strangled metal of the crashed ship to Rhaenyra, his gaze pointed and dry.
"I see that, young master Arryn. I must thank you for your services, and yours of course Master Cole." The Supreme Chancellor's words were directed at the other Jedi who had finally risen from his own seat, moving to stand beside his former Padawan.
"Rhaenyra is not a master yet, Chancellor Hightower. Merely a Jedi knight."
Years of discipline and training prevented Rhaenyra from flinching at the harshness of Cole's remarks. Familiarity too, eased the sting somewhat, though it did nothing for the ire, hot and sticky, that rose within her throat.
The chancellor's eyes seemed to gleam as he looked between the two Jedi, though the genial smile upon his face did not fade or twist.
"My apologies, young Jedi. You must forgive an outsider. The Jedi Order remains esoteric to us all." He gave a wry chuckle, though Rhaenyra found no humor in his words. She was spared from saying so by the sound of dull shouts, a steady stream of people running toward the ship, bringing with them a whole manner of supplies. Rhaenyra shifted her gaze to Cole, fighting the urge to squirm at the dark anger she saw in his eyes.
"We should disembark. I wouldn't want to be on this ship when it finally implodes. Besides, Chancellor, the entire galaxy is awaiting your return."
There was no denying the smug veneer of satisfaction that settled across Otto Hightower's face, but Rhaenyra chose not to comment upon it as she lead their small group to the loading bay, swiftly brushing off the medics that attempted to descend upon her, accepting only a bacta patch for the small cut along her cheek. She was almost certain her ribs had been bruised in the fight with Unwin Peake, and a handful of other lacerations were hidden beneath her black tunic. But Rhaenyra could not allow even the cool metal of the medical droids to brush against her skin. She would require humanoid discretion, no matter the problems sentient beings offered in turn.
A crowd of people had gathered along the runway, members of the Blue and Red Guards among them, the attention easily focusing upon the Chancellor. But instead of offering Rhaenyra a chance to slip away, it provided her former master with the opportunity he had been waiting for.
"What you did today was reckless and foolish!" He spat, his eyes so dark Rhaenyra might have thought them black. She was startled by Criston's sudden presence within her space, but not by his words. He had sung some iteration of the dirge nearly every day for the past fifteen years, since Rhaenyra had first been named his padawan. The hatred coating his tongue, however, had been a more recent development.
"We're alive, aren't we?" Rhaenyra returned hotly, knowing it would only serve to anger Criston further. She had been reckless. Careless too. Her mind continued to circle back to the simple trap she had fallen for, the violence she had allowed herself to be pushed into. Distraction had rendered her nearly useless, jeopardizing the entire mission. Rhaenyra was only just able to disguise the tremble that continued to run through her body. "The Chancellor is safe, and we're on Coruscant. Just another happy landing." Her mouth was twisted into an antagonistic smirk, and she watched Cole's face flush deep with anger.
His hand darted out to grasp at Rhaenyra's wrist, his grip bruising and painful, but Rhaenyra refused to grant him the satisfaction of the reaction she knew he craved. Criston preached on peace and duty, but the war had changed him. Rhaenyra had watched as the battles along the Outer Rim steadily chipped away at the man she had once cherished above all others.
"Do not—" he snarled, but was interrupted by the low, smooth voice of another.
"I do hope this is not the sort of reward the Jedi Order bestows upon the knights they might call heroes."
Criston dropped Rhaenyra's wrist as if burned, spinning around almost instantly, allowing her a single moment to collect herself, catching her breath just in time for the sight of Daemon Targaryen to dispel it from her lungs once more.
As the medics, guards, onlookers, and devoted politicians gathered around the Chancellor, the Valyrian senator and prince had peeled himself away from the pack, wandering to where Criston and Rhaenyra stood, several paces away from the others. The Jedi, particularly Criston and Rhaenyra, were more than familiar with Senator Targaryen. Their order was tasked with keeping the peace throughout the galaxy, and prior to the war, Daemon Targaryen had almost always been at the center of any disruptions.
It was almost strange, Rhaenyra mused, considering he hailed from a planet renowned for its peace. But she need only think on Laenor and Laena to be reminded that one's planet was so rarely a reflection of the soul. She supposed her own connection to the fiery sands of Tatooine was an exception, rather than the expectation.
"This is Jedi business, Senator Targaryen. I suggest you greet the Chancellor like your fellow politicians." Criston's voice was stiff, his tone a thinly veiled sneer. Daemon read it for what it was, and only responded with a simple smirk.
"Is that so?" Daemon canted his head ever so slightly to the approach of Master Eustace and Master Mellos moving steadily toward the assembled trio. Criston clenched his jaw tightly, taking another step away from Rhaenyra.
As the two, legendary Jedi masters reached the group, both inclined their heads toward Daemon, a respectful dismissal which he surprisingly honored, though not without a last, lingering gaze upon Rhaenyra. From the corner of her eye, she saw Criston's face twist in fury and disgust, and she knew it had not slipped past his notice. Thankfully, Eustace and Mellos seemed none the wiser as they issued the two Jedi onto the hovercraft that would bring them to the Galactic Senate building.
The majority of onlookers and medics had been dismissed, affording enough room for Rhaenyra to all but collapse upon one of the chairs, her knees spread wide to stretch aching limbs, and her head resting upon the window, her gaze following the hushed conversation with just enough cues to suggest she was listening to the reprimands doled out by the senior Jedi masters. She did not need to truly listen to their words to know what they were saying. It was only an echo of Criston's own rebuke.
Reckless. Violent. Dangerous .
It was nothing that had not been said of Rhaenyra before. The whispers had followed her, ever since she had arrived at the Jedi Temple, her strange purple eyes haunted with ghosts, her pale skin making the puckered scarring where her slave tracker had once been embedded within her easily visible to the naked eye. Rumors of prophecy and promise dogged Rhaenyra's step, but the other edge of the blade followed too. Darkness seemed to cling to her, or at least the Jedi had convinced themselves of such truths. It was anger they saw within her. Anger and hatred and passion that burned so hot, its fiery depths left them to tremble before her.
Rhaenyra had heard these arguments, these slights against her. She knew it was why she had not been named a master, though the title held little of the allure it once had. She knew her every move was carefully watched by the Jedi Council, and yet she could not bring herself to find remorse within her soul. They were fools , she often thought, when hours of meditation bore no fruit, and waves of anger crested upon her. They sought to bind her, to control her. They spoke of the Force, and yet it was the masters with their esteemed wisdom who knew nothing of it. Not the way Rhaenyra did.
Such thoughts were poison. They were treasonous, slander against the Jedi Order. And yet of Rhaenyra's many sins, her thoughts were least among them.
The ride upon the hovercraft was mercifully swift, the Jedi's condemnation of her actions being cut short as the traveling party prepared to disembark. The Chancellor was first to climb from the hovercraft, followed by his coterie of politicians and guards, and finally the Jedi.
A group of people was waiting upon the steps to the Galactic Senate building, and Rhaenyra's steps nearly faltered. She cursed herself for not putting together the pieces sooner; Daemon's presence upon the runway should have been an indication. Though the Chancellor hailed from Old Town, he had served Valyria faithfully for years. She should not have been surprised to see the king awaiting his return, nor the queen — the Chancellor's daughter — trembling at his side.
The reunion was a joyous, boisterous affair, though the Valyrian king's eyes often drifted toward Rhaenyra, whose spine stiffened under the weight of his stare. She knew what he assumed, what half the galaxy assumed. That Rhaenyra, the slave girl plucked from Tatooine and cast into the Jedi Order by Ryam Redwyne, was the same daughter that had been stolen away from Valyria in the dead of night, her screams drowned by cloth forced into her mouth, her mother's silence purchased at the price of a blaster pressed to Rhaenyra's own temple. She suspected it was true, that the king of Valyria might very well be the man who had sired her. But Rhaenyra had no knowledge of him, nor love for the man she had never truly met. Her love had been spent and spilled upon the burning sands of the planet beneath twin suns, her screams fading like her mother's life force, into the dry, desert night. She resented the heavy weight of the king's gaze, the expectation and longing placed at her feet. She was a Jedi knight. It was her duty to rescind attachment, to foreswear love and affection. That she had long ago abandoned such principles was of business to the king.
Alicent's gaze too, burned upon Rhaenyra's skin. They had been friends once, or as close of an approximation as they could have achieved. Friendship cultivated outside of the Jedi Order was a tenuous, fragile thing. Rhaenyra did not think her heart could ever latch upon another the way it had so securely fastened to Laenor and Laena. There had only ever been one exception.
But even with their stations in life separating them, Alicent and Rhaenyra had been fond of one another. The Chancellor — then only a Senator — had taken special interest in the girl discovered by Master Redwyne. The trials of Valyria that had brought Rhaenyra into the sphere of galactic influence had garnered his attention, and his daughter, close in age to Rhaenyra, had been offered as a companion. Time and circumstance had eroded what little connection existed between the two women and now Rhaenyra stood, feeling little more than a stranger before the queen of Valyria, fighting to quell the harsh lull of resentment as she remembered her mother's own soft features, hardened by a life of slavery upon cruel sands.
The greeting was swift, a fact for which Rhaenyra felt immense gratitude, rocking back on ankles that ached beneath her weight. The adrenaline had started to seep from her blood, leaving only fatigue in its place. Soft murmurs were exchanged in the midst of loud politicking, and dismissal was made clear as backs were turned with even the Jedi masters offering Rhaenyra nothing more than a nod and pursed lips. Criston shots her a single, lingering black look before he followed the masters and politicians into the bowels of the Senate building, and Rhaenyra sucked in a deep breath, allowing her lungs to fill with oxygen to the point of near pain, her head spinning as she finally turned on her heel, nervous glances tossed over her shoulders as she navigated the maze of wide columns until she finally reached the stone pillar where a cloaked figure lingered.
No one, save for Rhaenyra, had noticed him slip away from the group, the moment the hovercraft touched upon the ground. His station as a senator and prince of Valyria had granted him access to the runway where Rhaenyra had crash-landed the General's ship, but it had not been on behalf of his king that Daemon Targaryen had awaited their return.
Daemon wasted little time in gathering Rhaenyra in his arms, tugging her body against his. Rhaenyra melted into his touch easily, the exhaustion fading from her countenance as Daemon bent his head and pressed his lips firmly against her own, his gloved hands reaching up to cup her face. No one would ever mistake Daemon Targaryen's touch to be gentle, even with her, the wife he had wed in secret. But Rhaenyra was not made for delicate caresses. As his leather-clad thumb dug into the hollow of her cheek, Rhaenyra gasped against his mouth, her own hands reaching up to grasp at the rich, velvet vest he wore, the red mingling with the black of her own apparel.
Black and red, the colors of the royal house of Valyria. Rhaenyra was a Jedi, and was taught not to give way to the vice of vanity. She wore the uniform of the republic, the mark of a peace-keeping servant. But she had seen the way Daemon's eyes had darkened with lust when she arrived at his apartment, the usual swaths of brown traded in for a cloak of black. Criston had disapproved, but Rhaenyra had steadily learned to ignore even that. Her former's master approval seemed to mean so little when her husband had shown his with his head bent between her legs.
He would have her in gowns, her husband, if he could. Rhaenyra had learned in the incipient days of their marriage, just how her husband longed to see her draped in the fabrics and jewels of his home planet.
(Their home planet, he would firmly correct, though Rhaenyra could never bring herself to call the lush, vibrant planet home . Not when she choked on the word, blood and ash mingling in her mouth as she recalled the burning sand stretched out for miles. Not when home had only ever meant chains . Not when home had meant muña .)
Rhaenyra's occupation deprived Daemon of his desire, but she would grant him what little she could offer. He was a selfish creature, Daemon Targaryen. They were well-suited in that regard.
She had asked him once, why he longed to see her in decadent gowns, when he only ever seemed so eager to divest her of any clothing at all. He had not answered, but in his eyes, Rhaenyra had found answer enough. She should have grown knowing the feeling of Myrish lace upon her skin, and Pentoshi fabric pooled against her waist. He remembered a small, precocious thing that had yearned for such comforts, and he would see her in them now. He too thought her the long-lost daughter of his brother, the king. Rhaenyra wondered what it said about her that she cared not what blood they shared, as long as his arms remained open to her.
It was only another sin to add to her pile.
"I have missed you," Rhaenyra gasped harshly against Daemon's mouth, breaking the silence with her confession. She would have waited, demanded he lay claim to the longing first, but she was impatient. A vice the Order had not yet rid her of, if such a thing was possible. A self-satisfied smirk curled around his lips, and Daemon leaned down again to nip at Rhaenyra's mouth. The flicker of irritation faded, as it always did, at the promise of Daemon's mouth upon her own.
"I have missed you too, zaldrītsos ," Daemon rumbled. Rhaenyra's hand flattened against his chest, resting upon his heart to feel the fierce beat of it beneath her fingertips. "I was beginning to suspect they would never drag you back from the Outer Rim."
Though his words were spoken lightly, there were shadows in his eyes that promised certain carnage, had his premonition held truth. Rhaenyra was the Jedi knight between the pair, but there were times when Daemon's gaze would darken, and Rhaenyra would repress a shiver, the Force itself seeming to tremble in his very presence. She had little doubt that Daemon himself would fling himself toward the battlefield if he thought her fallen to the enemy of the Republic.
It had been almost four months since she had last seen her husband. He had been on some pathetic excuse of a mission, the cover so thinly veiled even Westerling had struggled to pretend to believe the lie. Daemon's determination to have her screams echo across Eriadu, coupled with her hoarse voice the next day had almost assuredly destroyed whatever semblance of a falsehood the two touted to the squadron Rhaenyra had been assigned. It had been weeks before she was able to look Westerling in the eye again. But the clones were not Jedi. They did not care what rules were followed, and which were blatantly flouted. They followed their commands and loyally guarded the backs of their fellow soldiers. Rhaenyra had proven herself among their ranks, and she knew she had their trust.
But such opportunities to delight in her husband were rare — increasingly so as the war waged ever onward. Daemon had not been alone in his despair that Rhaenyra had been damned to the Outer Rim in perpetuity, though Rhaenyra had begun to take on the razor's edge of panic.
"I know, I—" Rhaenyra continued to gasp into Daemon's mouth, rising to her tiptoes to chase his lips with her own, but he withdrew, even turning his face, spurning a kiss from her as his gaze narrowed, staring down at the flush of embarrassment beginning to spread across her cheeks. To her horror, Rhaenyra realized tears were gathering in her eyes, and she buried her face in Daemon's chest, hoping to escape the fierce scrutiny of her husband, though she knew it was a futile wish.
"What's wrong?" Daemon demanded, his tone carving into her flesh, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Rhaenyra was the Jedi knight, and yet the prince from the peaceful planet was no less a warrior. She knew he would easily split her open with his words alone, fingers digging within her heart to pluck the truth to which she clung so tightly. He would have his answers, but Rhaenyra selfishly grasped at what lingering moments of peace she could convince herself existed before the spoken word allowed the fear to rush in.
"You're trembling, I know something is wrong." Daemon's hands skimmed at Rhaenyra's sides, a gesture that so often brought comfort but today only elicited a hiss of pain as the palm of his hand pressed against tender, bruised flesh. Daemon's eyes narrowed further into slits, forcing her head back so that he might look upon her face to see the flash of pain. "You're hurt." His voice was low and dark, danger humming through the air, warping the space around them as if his voice alone commanded the Force. "You need a medic. Why did you not seek attention when you landed?"
Some of the polish wore from his voice, the raw bleed of anger seeping through, as it always did when Daemon thought her to be harmed in any way. He knew she could care for herself. He knew the hazards of her position. Never once had Daemon demanded she leave the Jedi, though Rhaenyra had long suspected he wanted it of her. Her husband did not coddle her so much as he loathed the idea that any thing or being might leave a mark upon her, when she was his to claim.
"I can't," Rhaenyra whispered, the words falling from trembling lips. The darkness did not fade from her husband's gaze. "Daemon, I — I can't see a medic. Not now, I — I'm pregnant."
She had not spoken the words aloud. Not to Westerling, nor Darklyn, nor even Laena, when the two had convened upon Mykapo with their squadrons, squashing a brief rebellion amongst the pirates. It was a truth — a terror, a want — she could not give voice to, not even when she missed four consecutive cycles, or when her breasts grew heavy and tender, or when her belly began to swell, ever so slightly beneath her tunic. It was a truth, but it was also her damnation, the Jedi knight, the chosen one , secretly wed to a Valyrian prince who might very well be her uncle.
It was everything she had ever wanted.
The pair were frozen, suspended in time, but as the seconds slipped by, panic mounted within Rhaenyra. The darkness had not faded from Daemon's face, but he wore an inscrutable look. It often drove Rhaenyra to madness, how much she struggled to read her husband at times. She blamed it on the distance, the separation required by their different paths, but they were not lacking for intimacy. Sometimes, Rhaenyra felt as though she might be the only person in the entire galaxy that truly understood Daemon for who he was. She knew Daemon was the only one left alive that could understand her, his High Valyrian curling around her lips, putting to words emotions she had only ever felt within her heart, within the force.
And yet there were still moments that he seemed to slip from her grasp, into the shadows where Rhaenyra did not know how to follow, away from her reach. She drew back, her breathing turning ragged, her fear turning sharp and visceral, the Force vibrating around them, not soothing her anxiety, but feeding into it.
"Say something!" Rhaenyra demanded, her throat dry and aching. Already she was mapping out the exit paths in her mind, the path she would need to take to escape the forest of columns, the route that would offer her the greatest discretion upon her trek to the Jedi temple, the steps she would have to take. Surely she had not been the only Jedi to have fallen to such a predicament. The Jedi were forbidden attachments, but sexual encounters fell upon a gray area. Children did not. Marriage did not. She could tend to a wounded heart in privacy, but a child was—
" Stop. "
It was a command, harsh and unyielding, and against her every instinct, Rhaenrya stilled, only then realizing she had been struggling in Daemon's hold, squirming away from him as panic had descended over her vision, clouding her from seeing the gleam of satisfaction in his gaze. She was frozen, though her body remained tensed, poised to strike, to escape at a moment's notice. Her fingers twitched, as if trembling for her lightsaber at her hip, though she doubted she could ever truly use it upon her husband, even if he were to press a blaster to her skin.
Perhaps that was why the Jedi Order spoke so harshly about attachments. Perhaps their wisdom led them to the conclusion that love had no end, even if the loved had chosen a path contrary to peace. Rhaenyra believed in the Order, followed the teachings she could, but she knew there were commands she could not follow. It was a question she had ruminated over, in the days that led to her marriage upon Valyria. Whether, if given the command, she might bring an end to Daemon. Never , she had thought, the word instantaneous and drenched in passion. And then...
If he put you in chains?
It had been a traitorous question. One she refused to revisit, for how her fingers twitched at her hip. But Daemon had not placed chains upon her. She could break his grip easily. She could bend the Force to her will, crush his windpipe and starve him of oxygen. There were a hundred different ways she could bring about Daemon's end. He knew them. He knew her . But he was unafraid, even as he felt her deadly stillness in his arms.
Daemon had never once feared Rhaenyra. She loved him for it, even when she thought she might sometimes hate him too.
"This is," Daemon growled, his hand stretched out to tip Rhaenyra's chin upward so that she was forced to stare into the violent flames dancing in his eyes, nearly black in their intensity, "The happiest moment of my life."
And Rhaenyra broke .
Her education had begun late at the Jedi Temple. She had been the only child ever accepted at such an age, nine years old, and with Valyrian blood from an Outer Rim planet, no less. She had been mocked, finding herself behind in nearly every arena. Rhaenyra had devoted herself to mastering all that made a being a Jedi. She had honed her craft over the years, forging herself into a deadly weapon to be wielded at the behest of the Republic. She knew a hundred ways to kill a sentient being, though her mission was always intended to be one of peace. And yet, even as a Jedi knight, even as a warrior of the galaxy, Rhaenyra still woke to the taste of sand in her mouth, the screams of Tatooine ringing in her ears. Beneath her monastic uniform and simple braid that declared her to be a soldier, she remained the small, lonely girl, begging for salvation from gods that had never walked the sandy dunes of her cursed planet. She was still the girl who wept and ached for a family stolen from her, a family she was never to be granted again.
Only Daemon still saw that girl.
The tears spilled freely over her cheeks as he drew her close, allowing her to bury her face against his chest once more, saying nothing as her tears stained the rich fabric smothered beneath her face. Fear and joy and sorrow mingled together as Rhaenyra at last allowed herself to give way to the emotions she had been shoving aside, for the warfront was no place for a general to fall to pieces.
Daemon was silent, allowing Rhaenyra's sobs to settle into a soft stream of tears which eventually faded into a choked chuckle. Her husband pulled back, raising his eyebrows at the Jedi, and Rhaenyra gave him only a weepy chortle.
"I've meditated more the past three months than I think I have since I was brought to the Temple."
Daemon, having long been the only audience to Rhaenyra's many rants about the practice of meditating away one's emotions, joined her laughter, fingers once again tracing her cheek as he held her face lovingly in his hand. His other slipped between them, his movement slow, offering Rhaenyra the opportunity to bat his hand away. Hers remained clenched at her sides, even as Daemon rested his free hand against the small curve of her belly, hidden away beneath her loose-fitting tunic.
She had hardly touched the slope where her child grew in the months since she had realized what her missed cycles had indicated. Rhaenyra had been around expecting mothers before. She had seen how often their hands drifted to their bellies, caressing the weight of the unborn children beneath their skin. Rhaenyra had been mindful of the drift of her own hands, often finding ways to keep herself occupied, lest she give herself away. Her men could forgive her dalliances with a Valyrian prince. Perhaps they could even forgive her marriage, if they knew of it. They almost certainly suspected her affections ran far deeper than any gray area the Jedi Order would allow. But a baby?
The war was no place for a baby. The war was no place for a mother.
It was a fear, one of many, that rose high in her throat. She was to be a mother , and yet she was a Jedi knight, a general in the midst of a war. She fought for the galaxy, even when it had turned its back on her, abandoned her and her mother to the fiery sands of a planet that gave her no love in return. Rhaenyra did not know how to be a mother, let alone how to navigate the fissure that existed, the aching rend between her duty and her heart. War loomed ever larger, with the enemy growing bolder — so bold as to snatch the Supreme Chancellor in broad daylight and—
"I told you to stop," Daemon chided, his eyes still dark, though playful as the smirk upon his lips. "That means stop thinking."
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, but her husband accepted none of it.
"There will be time for your fears," he promised, his voice low. "We will figure this out, Rhaenyra. But for now, we are expecting a child, and its mother has been reckless ." The word was spoken on a growl. Unlike Criston's same admonishment, Daemon's sent heat pooling in her stomach, her toes curling against the soft leather of her boots. She gave Daemon only a smirk, which he quickly swallowed with another burning kiss.
"You will not be so reckless again," he murmured into Rhaenyra's mouth, his hand sliding between her legs, brushing at the dampness he could feel even through the fabric of her pants, forcing her to gasp out her agreement as she desperately sought friction against the heel of his palm. "You are carrying my child. The future of Valyria. There will be time for everything else."
He overwhelmed her senses, leaving her feeling weightless and happy, with no room for confusion over his words, draping a heavy black cloak over her figure and leading her to his speedcraft, mindful of any watchful eyes even as Rhaenyra moved on trembling legs, fatigue finally catching up with her.
There would be time, as Daemon had said, for everything else.