Chapter Text
The Red Keep had been inhabited by numerous Kings and Queens, but all of them had been Targaryen. As the men had made terrible creatures to live by, lesser was known about the women who walked the halls of the Capital. This was something Maegera would often think about, in the sly of the constant noises coming from the castle itself. She had known two, five, seven, nine, twelve and then fourteen. Which it was the name day as the sun shone on the crimson castle. Sometimes, she thought the red stones were chosen for all the blood spilled during the Conquest, as a gruesome homage. “A great feast is to be held in your honour,” announced her uncle Baelon as she turned around, her dress twirling at the words pronounced.
Her hands crossed against her lower stomach as her maid made its way to finish dressing her up whilst the other was still braiding her striking-white hair, reaching a bit past her lower back. Baelon had been distressed, ever since Aemon’s unfortunate death, whenever he stared at his niece. In her lilac eyes, he saw the traces of a brother he had once known, and couldn’t protect for all his sake. Ever since, Baelon had softened even further to the thought of Maegera. Sure, she wasn’t born from Jocelyn and therefore, his father had a few restraints to legitimize her, but that didn’t change how fond the Spring Prince was of his niece. In some way, she reminded him of Alyssa, as well.
She would've loved the girl, he thought. Turbulent, daring, full of fire, just as the Targaryens were. “Is it, uncle ? I thought my gransire would not even wish for my presence amongst my peers.” Baelon laughed at that, sparklingly. Little did she know it was in fact him, who had suggested for old Jaehaerys to concede his will upon the matter, and himself organized the celebration of her nameday. “He did not, but speak to the old man of Myrish-wine, and he can be convinced of anything.” Maegera smiled at that, her uncle always had a way with her. Perhaps thanks to Alyssa, or Saera. The ginger-haired maiden stopped braiding her hair, kept in a high burn circled of two thick breads and then thinner ones to circle her face, the rest of her pure white mane falling freely until the end of her back. Baelon did not live during Valyria, not even the Conquest, but he was sure she could be the flicker of a memory of those ancient times.
“Who will be there, uncle ?”
“Many of the Seven Kingdoms, my niece.” He answered as he politely held her hand to help her reach ground-level again, previously up-lifted by the small platform. “The Lions, the Wolves, the Sun-Spears, the Fishes, Falcons, and even the Roses.” Maegera nearly winced at the thought of her mother’s kin being present at the reception. They had little to do with the House of the Dragon, she thought. She could not even explain how and why her father had taken abed her mother. Perhaps ner beauty, perhaps for favors. She could not decide which reasons she’d use for the day.
“Do you wish for your present now, or later tonight ?” The Spring Prince asked. He always had fine taste when it came to ravishing the women of his entourage, that, for sure, was pure truth told by books and people alike. Maegera took a few seconds to think, piqued by curiosity, just as she was thrilled by the unknown.
“Later, uncle. Though, I do thank you for your investment. When will the reception begin tonight ?”
“When the sun will be bathing the Red Keep in orange hues, my niece. Until then, you might as well do as you please.” Baelon explained, his body leaning slightly forward in friendliness. Maegera smiled back. The Princess was quite known for her ruthlessness, but for her uncle Baelon, everything was worth smiling for. He gave her a curtsy, she granted him one as well, and left to see his attendings shortly afterwards. The halls of the Red Keep buzzed like a stirred hive. Servants ran like silent shadows between sunlit corridors, arms full of silks and dishes and goblets made of silver and red-stained glass. In the distance, Maegera heard the clang of steel — the training yard was still alive with the bellowing of boys who dreamed of dragons.
She walked alone now, no longer with Baelon at her side, and felt her own breath echo softly against the marble columns. Her steps slowed as she passed the empty throne room, and her gaze lingered on the iron monstrosity that sat brooding at the far end. Stairs until no ending, spikes, and the cuts she’d imagine running along the skin of her greatsire. And the many Kings to come.
A thousand swords, and none meant for a woman’s hand , she thought, she ought a Queen to one day sit on the Iron Throne, wishing it was her wearing the crown more than any else. Who did not convey the chair that was the biggest of all ? The thought came unbidden, sharp as milkglass. Her grandfather’s absence made her wonder if, one day, he was not to sit all any further. She wished for it to be tomorrow, that, for her nameday, she’d perhaps become the first woman of the Seven Kingdom to reign.
A sound startled her, a laugh. Raspy, dry, a male hidden behind the maester who had nodded at her, between the halls. She turned around. Dressed in a red and black cloak, her cousin stood tall.
Daemon.
“ Konīr ao issi. ( there you are)” He smirked, his neck-lengthed silver-gold hair brushed slick and pushed back, his purple eyes catching hers like the sun would an unsheathed blade. Maegera blinked slowly. Daemon was ten and six, known to be the finest of all swordsmen within the Kingsguard, and slain numerous opponents, he was supporting his weight on Dark Sister’s hold. “ Ao issi nagegone . (you are late)” She replied to him, in their ancient tongue. Daemon smiled as well.
Stepping forward, he stood by her. He was a head taller than she was, even with the small heels of her shoes. Daemon was known to be rather big. Bigger than Viserys, but not in weight. Just in height. “I find namedays dull, unless there are tourneys or duels involved. But I came for the wine. Mayhaps you will forgive me if I do tell my father has wished for my presence at your reception tonight ?”
Maegera laughed, sardonically. She didn’t wish for Daemon’s presence to be forced, for he was rather known as a troublemaker, no matter how much she appreciated his company as of personal preference. It wasn’t a secret the two twirled around each other like will-o-wisps around a willow tree, but never crossed the line, as Daemon was betrothed to the Lady Rhea Royce of the Vale. Though he seemed to bore no affection for the girl. As much to call her dull and of no use in his life.
“And will you be there ?”
“How could I not during the celebration due to my dear cousin ?” answered Daemon right away, the steel of his armour not so far from Maegera’s skirts. Perhaps one step away from walking on the thick fabrics. For a few seconds, silence lingered between the two, one of which Maegera was enamoured to look at Daemon as if the world didn’t exist. “And did you bring a gift for your beloved kin, Daemon ?” The latter nodded, his gloved hand reaching for her sleeve as he later descended right to her wrist, then her thin hand.
“One of my choosing. After all, Qilōni gīmi ao sȳrkta ñuhoso ? ( who knows you better in my way ? )” He whispered, his words becoming near mumble as she listened to every one of them.
“ Daorys (no one).”
Daemon’s smile twitched, pleased at her answer — or perhaps at how easily she said it. His fingers lingered just a breath too long on the back of her hand, then slipped away, as if teasing her with what he could take and what he wouldn’t. He drew something from beneath his cloak: a narrow, blackwood box bound in silver clasps, its top engraved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen — but in deep obsidian, not the usual red. He offered it with both hands, though the gesture was not humble. Daemon Targaryen did nothing humbly.
“For you,” he said, in the Common Tongue this time, voice quiet.
Maegera took the box slowly, careful not to show how her hands trembled beneath the silk of her sleeves. The weight was heavier than it seemed, and warm — as if it had been close to his body all day.
She opened it. Inside lay a choker of Valyrian steel, smooth as water, dark as storm clouds, and impossibly light. In the center, set within the metal like a shard of dragonglass, burned a small pale lilac stone — the color of her eyes. It was old. Ancient, even. The kind of thing not found in Westeros, nor crafted any more in this age.
She did not speak right away. Her eyes traced it, her breath caught in her throat.
“Where did you get this?” she asked, voice low. Daemon’s tone was casual. Too casual. “From the ruins of a Valyrian shipwreck that washed up on Driftmark’s black sands last year from Lys.. I took it before the Sea Snake could claim it.”
“You stole it,” she said, smiling despite herself.
“I salvaged it,” he corrected, with a wicked grin. “It was waiting for the right neck.”
She held the choker up against her skin, studying it in a mirror of bronze on the nearest column. Her hair was piled high in curls and twists for the day — too high to try the clasp now. But it would suit her perfectly. The steel shimmered like dragonhide. Maegera could see what Daemon meant.
The right neck.
Daemon stepped closer behind her, looking at her reflection. “It suits you. Dark things usually do.” He was in her back, as he removed his gloves from his hand. His fingers ran to the necklace to circle Maegera’s neck with its chain, the calloused tips running around her milky-toned skin, she could feel Daemon’s breath against her soft complexion, warm. He tied the jewel, placing it himself between the birth of her chest. He did not move an inch away. “ Gevie (beautiful.)”
For a moment, nothing moved. Even the torches along the hall felt to flicker lower, as if they too were listening. Maegera turned slowly, her chin tilted up, face barely inches from his. The iron scent of his armor, the faint spice of wine and dragon oil from his leathers — it all wrapped around her. His fingers were still hovering over her soft skin, drawing the shape of her collarbone and dancing on the snowed-field of her neckline. He’d push a white curl or two away from her face, until he’d make a trail with his hand to the curve of her chest, until the crease of her waist and then the swell of her hip.
He looked down at her, and the smirk was gone.
But then, the echo of a footstep broke the spell. A servant perhaps, or a guard rounding the hall. Maegera turned her head just enough to breathe again.
“Will you stay for me tonight, cousin ? Not just come. I know you bear no affection for the assemblies.” Daemon’s gaze lingered on her mouth before rising back to her eyes. “Always,” he said, before turning on his heel, cloak billowing. “Until tonight, Maegera.” The marble beneath her shoes felt colder now that he was gone. Maegera stood still, her fingers brushing the pendant that now lay above her heart, laid by Daemon himself there. She’d wear it proudly. The weight of the Valyrian steel was nothing compared to the heaviness in her chest. Her reflection in the bronze was the same and yet not.
As she stared back at the lilac stone and rolled it between her fingers, she thought back to the Royce girl from the Vale. Alongside her sheeps and her greenlands. And the sheeps were prettier than she was, and Maegera thought only she was worthy of Daemon Targaryen. She had always been. Fire and Blood, melting alike, in a Dance of Dragons. No one could understand him better than she could, as if they were born in the same mold. No, her cousin had nothing to do with the sheep girl, he was born and fated for silver locks and violet eyes. For dragonriding and the skies, not to settle down in the dirt and the stables.
She moved around, unsure of what to do for the rest of the day, until then. Her lessons were always the same, swordcraft wouldn’t be in order today, for the feast was happening. Therefore, she had little to do, and a lot to bear. Perhaps too much. When she had passed before the tapestries freshly washed, she had also observed the food prepared for the upcoming event, her uncle giving orders here and there. Maegera was known to be quite vain, and it was perhaps too close of truth for her taste, when she noticed that, in fact, being valued as much overflown her with rejoycement. A bastard she was, that she had been, but a legitimized one. And that, in fact, changed it all. Duties weren’t necessarily imposed, if not for expectation to remain worthy of her name.
Her feet led her to the library, where she had asked the Maesters for books about the Conquest again, and there she took a few. At least two of them, slightly thin and quick to read before she made her way to her chambers again to quietly come at her occupation, until her ladies came forth inside of her room, with a dress held carefully, as well as a box and a pair of shoes, closed black sandals that wrapped in ribbons around the calves. She turned around. “What is this ?”
Lady Ornella raised her voice first, slightly trembling in all of her shyness before her mistress. “A first gift, made from both your half-sister, Princess Rhaenys, and your dear uncle Baelon, your ladyship.” She raised from her seat and observed the dress, held on a wooden model. It was black, with a gradient of red as the colours of her father’s family would, but the intricate embroideries were made in the Tyrell gold and green. The skirt wasn’t too thick, enough for a good twirl, but the waistline was close to the body, to encircle the thinness of it. The sleeves were loose, done like the dresses she owned in Old Valyria fashion.
The box full of jewels, aligned next to it, held precious stones made out of pure gold and gemstones as rubies. There were also a few rings to put on her fingers, but not the one she wished Daemon would give her, hairpins were given, holding the sigil merging both the Rose and the Dragon.
The shoes were pitch black, sandals, closed to the toes in round shape and small heels to help to her height, the ribbons thin but tight to tie around her calves. Small crystals were put on the sides of each shoe. Maegera smirked, the tip of her plump lip creasing as she stared at her ladies.
It was close to what she thought was worthy of her, of her standing. She passed a vague hand on the fabric and raised her lilac eyes back on Lady Ornella, still slightly shaking. “How late is it ?”
“Near the end of noon, Princess Maegera.”
She circled around the dress, as she began to remove the jewels set in her mane of snow, putting it away on the stand nearby. “Then help me wash and change, the time has soon come for me to give my honours to my sweet half-sister and my beloved uncle.”
Without much more of a ceremony, Maegera asked for the doors to be closed as the women would soon run to give her a hot bath. Her body reddening at the temperature, but she cared none as she stared at Starfyre flying high in the sky, near the almighty Meleys. She rested her head on the iron, closing her eyes as her body was closely scrubbed with soap, of jasmin sambac and coconut cream made from Essos, her body hair removed with honey and lemon. Lady Ornella was the one who would brush her long white curls, putting in it a mixture of a cream made out of shredded oranges, coconut fat, vanilla bean from Tyrosh. Until dry and settled, twirled high again in hoops and her long locks decorated of those same offered jewels. Oils were spread on her body as perfume, and her body now covered by the dress. A paste was put lightly on her lips, painting them a powdered pink shade.
It hugged her curves, slight but definitely there. Both Rhaenys and Baelon had seen close to the detail as she turned around to see the back in the mirror. She placed back Daemon’s gift in the crease of her chest, showing it proudly before all to see. Ornella stared at the present, sure enough to not have seen this jewel even once in her life. “If not imprudent, your Grace, from whom have you received this beautiful necklace ?”
“My dear cousin Daemon, who had ought to offer me my nameday’s present in private.”
Ornella twitched a brow up, but answered nothing. Maegera was quick enough to offend, and she didn’t wish to be whipped or worse. Even less to that day, that’d be unbearable. The Princess smiled at her reflection in the mirror. They could both hear the muzzling of the Red Keep enhancing, the numerous guests arriving slowly but surely for the feast to come. Maegera quickly realized she had not seen her lady mother during the day, and relished in that. Melany Tyrell and her daughter were not always on the best terms. Perhaps it was better for the Keep to remain as peaceful as it could be, thanks to that.
Even for her fourteenth nameday.
“I will now go. I dismiss you for the night, you might as well do as you please.” With that, she rumbled and tossed her a bag of coins. Gold coins. “Spend them as you like. I will tell the guards to not look, as you go.” She continued, Ornella opened her eyes wide, unsure of what to do, but her body bent forward, thankful of her mistress. “Thank you, your Grace.”
With a wave, the maid disappeared into the halls, leaving the girl on her own. She could hear chatters, banners lifted in the air and carriages held by men and horses both alike from the heights of her window. She waited there, until it was, once again, her dear uncle Baelon who invited himself and stared at her, a proud smirk on his face. “Rhaenys had seen the truth. This does look beautiful on you, dear niece. The seamstress has done wonders. Your father would've adored seeing you like this.”
She bowed to him, her lips curling again as she grabbed her uncle’s hand and they walked out. The halls were emptied. “Are you nervous ?”
“No, why would I be ?” she replied right away. “It is my day.”
“And the court will remember it. You’ll have them all on their knees by night’s end.”
She didn’t respond— not with words, just a laugh. The hall was still bathed in golden torchlight and muffled music. She walked beside him, head high, her curls bouncing lightly with each step, the scent of coconut, jasmine, and warm vanilla trailing like a silent herald. Her perfume mixed with the smoke of torches, the faint tang of wine from the kitchens, and the distant echo of laughter.
At the top of the grand staircase, she paused.
The ballroom had been transformed — long tables dressed in green and gold, silk banners of Targaryen red-and-black sweeping down from the rafters. Musicians tuned their instruments in one corner. Knights in polished armor mingled with lords in embroidered doublets, with ladies glittering like moving jewels. Her name was already in their mouths.
“Aemon’s girl”
“The Tyrell.”
The moment she descended the stairs, silence rippled through the crowd like a sudden draft. All movement slowed, all eyes lifted. She walked slowly. Music stopped, she let them stare at her. Like a status, or new tapestries. A jewel, carved out of rhinestones right from the bat, as she looked at the assembly with a smirk and her uncle Baelon by her side. Her sister Rhaenys was sitting at the dinner table, in the back of the room, King Jaehaerys right in the middle and his lady wife to his right. All of his children, with Viserys and Aemma Arryn both there as well, all lifting their gazes to her. The powdered-pink lips, the shimmering jewels in her hair, the way her dress clung to her. Baelon gave her confidence, as he grabbed a cup and raised it in the air. “Tonight is the fourteenth name day of my niece, Princess Maegera Targaryen, daughter of my late brother Aemon, who fought bravely until his very last breath.” Baelon's voice rang strong and clear, the sound commanding the attention of all who dared even whisper. “Rider to Starfyre, blood of Old Valyria.”
Then the hall erupted into applause, cups raised in answer, voices rising in praise. Some cheered out of loyalty, others out of awe. Some, perhaps, out of fear. But none remained indifferent. Maegera descended the final steps as if she were walking on smoke and air. The long train of her dress swirled behind her, a comet-tail of molten silk. She moved with grace too honed for her years, her education had built her. Her eyes moved around the room, but Daemon seemed to be nowhere to be found, with a thorn inside of her heart, she recently stepped in and bowed before her grandfather, his beard white and clean. “My Lord Gransire and King, I am honoured to see you be welcomed at this table tonight, for I thought you’d rather not come at all. I am thankful, it is my greatest gift.” She lied, of course. King Jaehaerys watched her closely, his look stern and closed as he detailed her. She looked like her father, if not for her dark brows and her fringe of black eyelashes, details from her mother. The Old King’s mouth twitched, not even quite a smile. “Sit, child. There is much to celebrate.”
Beside him, Queen Alysanne’s expression was softer, though her fingers had stilled above her goblet.
Without another word, she took the seat dedicated to her, invited by her uncle, next to her half-sister. Rhaenys, with her black and white straight locks, was wearing a red and black dress, just as thought, with a cape. “My Lady-Sister, I do have to say the dress suits you very well. You might despise being half a Rose, but Green finds you well.”
“I shall thank you, sister.” She nodded. “For your gift made with our uncle Baelon, you always had great taste. As for my heritage, I daresay it is not being a Rose that I despise. It is more… personal.”
Her mother trying to raise her away from her Valyrian blood, so desperately, above all. Rhaenys nodded, holding her cup to her as she would a sister celebrating the life of another. “Then, feast. It is in your honour.”
The feast began with wild boar glazed in sweet wine, followed by honeyed doves and bowls of pomegranate and blood oranges. Music resumed, strings and pipes playing a melody of both Reach and even the Summer Isles. Valyrian tunes, mixed with those of the Westerosi. She could see Rhea Royce, sat at the guest's table, the Lannisters and the Starks alike. Lions and Wolves together, she laughed inside. They might as well try to prey at each other , she thought.
She sipped from her goblet slowly, her gaze drifting through the great hall, studying each face that dared to look her way and those that didn’t. A Baratheon looking at her too long, a daring Tully, the mighty Strongs. Her fingers grazed the stem of the goblet. Her nails were painted crimson, matching the rubies at her throat. A queen’s colour, Rhaenys had called it once, perhaps jokingly. Perhaps not. The music jarred the guests, dancing around after the feast. The pile of gifts soon opened and showed for the greatest to expose their wealth. Maegera thanked them all, individually before finishing the very last one by Lord Benjen Stark, who had offered her a white and red gown with fur around the neckline and the wrists, made with a few bears of the most beautiful handfacture. “Winterfell sends its regards—and may the warmth of the Reach never thaw your fire.”
Maegera stood slowly, lifting her cup in turn. “And may Winterfell always remind the realm how to endure.”
More applause. Another ripple of conversation and glances exchanged. She felt it again—that buzzing tension under the skin of the feast.
The music slowed, as the door opened in a thud and the silhouette of The Rogue Prince showed itself. Her cousin wrapped in the most delicate fabrics, in old Valyria’s dressing as well, his mid-length hair slicked back, his brow lifted right to her, and the silence seemed to hang in the air as she stared at him. Fashionably late, but no less confident, in walked forth as the guards announced him. “Prince Daemon Targaryen, Grand Son of his Grace, the King Jaehaerys the First, son of the Spring Prince Baelon and brother to Viserys Targaryen.” The round applauded, just as she did, her saliva caught in her throat as Maegera barely heard her half-sister speak.
“Always knowing how to make an entrance, that one.”
Maegera’s eyes stayed locked on Daemon, as if the very air around him had shifted the room’s gravity. His presence rippled through the hall like a knife through silk—sharp. The old Valyrian style he wore shimmered in hues of smoke and blood, embroidered with dragons that seemed to twist and writhe with every step. He wore no crown, no armor, but he needed none; his smirk was sharper than steel.
“Indeed,” Maegera murmured, barely above a whisper. “He never comes unnoticed.”
Rhaenys’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace. “He likes to remind the realm he is not his brother.” Daemon’s eyes found Maegera before any other. He dipped his head faintly toward the dais where Jaehaerys sat, but the bow was shallow—borderline insolent. Still, the King said nothing, only observed, his expression unreadable.
Queen Alysanne leaned into her husband, whispering something only he heard. A flicker of irritation passed over Jaehaerys’s face, but he nodded and gestured to a place at the high table.
Maegera kept her expression composed, but her fingers curled around the goblet in front of her. Wine touched her lips but she didn’t drink. She didn’t trust her hand not to tremble.
When Daemon finally reached them, he stopped before the table, his violet eyes flickering from her to Baelon, then to the King. “Forgive my tardiness,” he said smoothly, “but a night as bright as this deserved a proper entrance.”
“Then you timed it well, Grandson,” Queen Alysanne replied coolly. “The feast has just begun.”
With a flourishing bow, he turned again toward Maegera. “Princess,” he greeted her, voice laced with honey and smoke. “Fourteen summers now… I might as well wish you a happy day again.” He rejoiced in seeing his present hanging within her chest, his eyes lingering perhaps a bit too long on it as he sat at the end of the table, at the right side. His bethrothed’s eyes locked on his, though he didn’t even salute her when he entered the room. Without much more of a warning, the music picked up again, slowly, as the hall breathed once more. Maegera took a sip of wine, needing to cool the tension building in her chest. The moment she looked up again, Daemon was already watching her—not like a man looking at a girl, but like a predator watching another of its kind, curious whether she would bare teeth or retreat.
And she did none.
Instead the tables were soon dismissed as well as the food and pairs were made to dance together. She was asked to rise from her seat, as her uncle Baelon joyfully asked her for a dance, which she accepted. Grabbing his hand, he made her twirl, and made steps to the left and right, until the crowd was now merged and the duos changed. Baelon would eventually find the hand of Rhaenys, whilst Viserys would give a dance to lady Baratheon and Aemma to Lord Benjen. As the table emptied itself to leave, the Children of the Dragon to banter and amuse themselves. It took a few songs for the crowd to ease and Daemon to find the hand of his cousin, the latter swirling and swaying between the sons and daughters of many houses.
“ Rȳ mōrī (at last),” He spurred like a snake to her, his voice becoming near a whistle as she attempted to keep her attention fixed on him. “ Nyke umazigho ao (I found you).” Maegera’s brow furrowed, her hand inside of Daemon’s as his hand travelled to her waist and grabbed her, possessively. “ Yenka tha ao sagon rūsīr aōha ābrazȳrys, dubys (Shouldn’t you be with your wife, cousin ? )” Daemon let one of his hands fall and cupped her cheek abruptly with the latter, causing the Princess to smile. “ Ziry iksos daor ābrazȳrys hen ñuhon (She is no wife of mine).” He whispered to her. Maegera’s lips twirled into a smirk, one of her hand holding is as he made her spin around to drag her back to him, her back smashing against his chest.
“ Ziry jāhor sagon (She will be),” She breathed into the crook of his neck, the room was heated. Maegera didn’t know if it was the wine, or Daemon’s body against hers that ignited such a flame within her core. The tension was barely hidden thanks to the music and the drums resonating inside of the room. His mouth came close to her ear, and it perhaps played louder than any songs of their beloved fallen land.
“ Daor lo nyke kostagon dohaeragon ziry (Not if I can help it.)”
Daemon’s breath ghosted against her skin, his hand tightening just slightly at her waist, anchoring her to him in a way that defied every rule of the court and every expectation set upon them. The tension was no longer subtle.
The drums thundered, feet moved around them, but Maegera only heard her blood pounding in her ears.
“Careful,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded as she turned her head slightly toward his. Her voice was soft, nearly lost in the cacophony of laughter and music, but it struck like a dagger. “You speak like a traitor.”
Daemon laughed, low and unbothered. “Only a traitor to duty, never to what I wish for.” She inhaled sharply, but it was not from shock. No, it was a realization. She knew this part of him. Reckless. Consuming. Maddeningly free. And gods, how it mirrored something inside her, she had tried too long to tame. To take him as he was.
Their dance was less than a waltz and more a duel of wills. He pulled her closer with every step; she allowed it with every breath, yet never yielded. “You shouldn’t touch me like that,” she said suddenly, though her voice was devoid of true protest. “Not here.”
Daemon laughed darkly at her ear, and made his way right to her hand, he made her dance, move around the room, until they reached out of the doors, as the guards had spread themselves around the room, leaving the two doors unguarded and open, his hand lingered until music became a mere noise in the back. They buried themselves in the halls, emptied of all presence, as their steps resonated within the very walls. Maegera was following him closely, as he had led her to the Throne Room, the Iron chair sitting unoccupied, he walked forth and opened his hand toward her. As if inviting her. She widened her eyes, in wonder, almost hesitating as she, despite all sense of thinking, stepped in his direction and grabbed his palm into hers as he carefully grabbed her hips to help her climb the stairs until the royal seat. She made her way, observing Daemon from atop, and the room, trying not to cut herself on the chair.
“Why ?” she asked of him, her voice resonating through the immense, gleaming room, dwelling in the moonlight of its ground-to-ceiling windows. The ten and six Daemon, pouted almost, but dared to answer. “I wanted to see how this seat would look on you.”
“And how does it look then, cousin ?” she asked right back, almost unwilling to wait until she could reply. Daemon cracked one of his fingers, his violet eyes lingering on her feminine figure.
“I wish I could see you be crowned and climb those stairs. The crown would sit beautifully upon your head. Perhaps a bit too thin for your curls, but we could arrange that. Mayhaps it’d be me, to lay the gold upon you.”
She smiled at him, sincerely this time, her face almost hidden beneath her hair, her breaths becoming more and more peaceful as minutes went by. “I would make you the Hand of the Queen, then.”
Then, reality came crashing back, cruel and unrelenting. Their stolen stillness shattered by the voices of Viserys and Aemma, echoing through the stony corridors of the Keep — sharp, calling out, dragging them back into a world that wouldn’t allow such closeness. “Daemon! Maegera!” The names rang like bells of warning, urgency sharpening every sound. Maegera’s hand tightened on his, grounding them both. “We need to go,” she whispered, urgency barely contained. Without another word, they bolted, her skirts whispering against the stone floor, his boots striking fast and soundless. Together, they slipped into the inner maze of Maegor’s Holdfast, ducking through passages long forgotten by all but ghosts. Daemon moved like water through the cracks of the Keep, as though the castle itself conspired with him. No guard could catch what they couldn’t see— and Daemon Targaryen, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, had always known how to vanish.
But the Keep was alive with sound now, and their absence had not gone unnoticed. Bootsteps echoed down corridors, iron-tipped and urgent. The guards were spreading fast, their calls bouncing off the walls, commanding the others to search every hallway, every stairwell. “They were seen near the eastern wing!” one barked. Another: “Check the old library! He may have dragged her off again!” It wasn’t the first time Daemon had vanished from his brother’s reach, nor the first time Maegera had disappeared like smoke through her mother’s fingers— but it was the first time they’d done so together, in the full glare of court suspicion. The Keep’s torches flared as shadows crossed them, as soldiers hastened down halls, rattling doors, flinging them open in bursts of noise.
He led her with unerring precision, the pad of his thumb brushing her wrist as they turned corner after corner, breathless, limbs burning with the thrill of escape. “There,” he muttered, pulling aside a thick cabinet near an alcove that opened into shadow. Behind it, a narrow corridor yawned in the dark, old and long forgotten, the kind of passage not marked on maps. A single line of light stretched across the floor like a blade, just enough to see by— but not enough to reveal them unless one was especially keen. Daemon slid inside first, then tugged Maegera in by the waist, her body pressed against his, heart pounding between them like war drums. Her breath hitched at the sudden intimacy of it, the closeness cloaked by shadow. His hair fell forward, silver strands brushing her temples as he looked down at her, his expression unreadable. They stayed like that, suspended between silence and breath, their proximity speaking louder than any word could. His gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips, back again, as if he were memorizing her, as if this moment, in all its chaos, belonged to them alone.
For a few seconds, Daemon stared. Into her gaze , on her lips, back in her lilac eyes, and he did this a few times. Over and over, as she was silent. A hunger settled on him, that he could only keep to himself for so long. “Daemon…” she whispered against him, her breath reaching for him. Craving, feasting on the crumbles of their passion. He cupped her cheeks again, deliberately now, more precise this time and drew the shape of her jawline, the swell of her lips, traced her eyelashes until his lips fell on hers abruptly. It was grazing on her flesh, devouring her kiss with a hunger barely caged, as though starving on the taste of her. She answered back with the same fire, her tongue mingling with ease once there was even the slightest of openings. He explored her, his hands slid down her neck, tracing the curve of her shoulders, and then, the softness of a covered chest. She sighed within their kiss, her fingers exploring him as well. Every muscle, every inch of them both, given to each other, settled in that one moment. The Rogue Prince pushed her face aside, as well as her white curls, his tongue tracing the thinness of her jugular, heaving a sigh and almost a moan from the princess.
Though he relished in it, he could not risk having the two of them caught in such a proximity, for her sake. Daemon covered her mouth with that very same hand, his teeth finding her flesh appealing, reddening the paleness of it. It was enticing, for both of them. He kissed her collarbone, and descended until the crease of her chest, Maegera grabbed his chin, forcing her cousin to look at her. “We can’t, not here, not now. If we are foun-...”
Daemon kissed her, just to cut her off. “As long as we don't sing to each other.” She barely braced herself against the cold stone, when he let her go. She could already feel him tight inside his breeches, and she wanted more. Always more of him, her Rogue Prince. She knew him no maid male, but for sure she was a virgin herself. Yet, impetuous Maegera, fireborn Maegera, wasn’t scared.
Not of him. Never of him. He was the only one of their kin, who fully understood her, and who fully took her for who she was. Not what he ought her to be. He pursued his trail down her chest, moving around the fabric of her dress as his hand cupped one of her breast, a soft half-a-fist of a flesh, inside of his palm, his palm tickling her peaks with his thumb as she bit her lip, and he managed to draw both of them out to leave them hang. Perky. The Silver-haired Rogue, approached, his tongue off the soft mound and twirled it around the flesh of it before wrapping himself around her, making her tense and straightened.
“Dae-...” He stopped her, again, laying his free hand upon her lips, as her hand traveled down to his waistband, grabbing his hardened shaft, between his legs. Daemon sighed, continuing his devilish-game until her two breasts were marked by his touch, and teeth.
“ Ao issi gevie (You are beautiful),” He whispered to her ear, biting her lobe, continuing to play with the two globes of flesh in his hand, swaying them into his hand. “Sir gevie.” He laid his hand on hers, on his length, encouraging her to tighten her grip, sighing himself, feeling way too tight inside of his breeches. “ Nyke dijāves ao syt sīr bōsa (I desire you for so long), ūndegon nyke avy jūndan (when I look at you.)”
Maegera breathed in, trying to find back her pace as she caressed him, softly, on his masculinity, feeling herself aroused between her legs. “ Yne jurnē? (Are you looking at me)”
He smiled at her and kissed her again, his palm palpating her crotch, as she arched herself to feel him even further. “ Va mōriot (Always).”
Maegera didn’t know how long they were gone, it could be twenty minutes, like an hour, like six, but she couldn’t care less. All she could feel and think was Daemon against her, how she wanted him to sway his hips against hers in a song long known amidst all kinds. He was touching her, his dexterity roaming around, lifting her skirts until he could find the soft skin of her fleshed thighs and explore their inner flesh, reaching out to her laces. He placed a careful index on her slit, and as if she realized what she was about to do, within this very small corridor into Maegor’s Holdfast, she placed her hand upon his, trembling. The Silver-Haired stopped his kisses and whispers again, staring right into her eyes, as a servant passed through the corridor.
The Rogue Prince smiled again, he quickly understood : she was comprehending what he was doing to her, and in what position they were. Daemon was also well aware this could not thaw the fire between them, for it’d surely leave ashes behind them both. “Trust me, if it goes wrong, I’ll take it,” He murmured, not in a plea, not an order, but nearly a wish. She took a few seconds until she let him do it again, in a nod. Her nails dug into his shoulder, not to push him away, but to anchor herself to the choice she was making. “Yes,” she whispered. His middle finger passed through the white fabric and was tickling her heat, circling around her bud as he, once again, collected all her moans. Daemon’s touch moved like a whispered secret, shameful and intricate, slow and deliberate, seeking her warmth. He kissed her again and again— a kiss that devoured her breath, swallowed her doubts— and this time, she answered with hunger of her own.
They heard it all, orders, the rattling of keys, the impatient scraping of sword pommels against stone. His grip on Maegera’s hand tightened. “They’re sweeping the upper levels,” he whispered against her ear, low and controlled, though the fire in his eyes betrayed the thrill pulsing beneath his skin. He lived for this: the danger, the edge, the rebellion. But she was no bystander. They darted across an open archway, two guards thundered past in the other direction, unaware of how close their quarry had come. One wrong step, one misplaced breath, and they would be seen. But Daemon’s slight laugh had been enough to reassure her.
He pursued, his fingers pinching her bud, tickling it, until one of them slid inside of her sheath and she pushed her head back. Her own hand trying to work its way in his trousers as she managed to do so, caressing his swollen tip. Daemon bit her lip, adding another presence inside of her again, her dress now a muffle of fabrics, whilst he explored her, back and forth, at a different pace. The silver-haired prince was learning, being taught how to please his beloved cousin the way only he could do. And he’d adapt if she clenches, going faster or slower. Her own arousal now reached the end of his index and middle finger.
He left her lips, letting her take a breath from his reckless attacks, and kneeled, hiding his silhouette underneath her skirts. Maegera nearly whimpered at the sheer coming from his cousin’s lips near her own. “Daemo-...” but a kiss on her inner thigh made her shut. Abruptly covering her chest again just as she did her mouth, she clenched her fist around itself when Daemon kissed her most precious intimacy and explored her. She could feel herself burn. For him. A knot in her stomach slowly formed itself, as the Prince was devouring her most intimate place, his tongue coming back and forth, up and down, left and right. She closed her eyes, her back arched, as she worked her way to hide him completely beneath her dress. He was tasting her, eating her as if she was the best of a feast. She could only hold herself together, as much as she could. His fingers slid inside of her again, pushing the nectar from her mouth. Her cheeks flushed, she bit her lower lip, trying to hold on as she could not retain a moan any further. Her voice slipped from her throat, his name as well, as he grabbed her soft flesh.
“I-... I can’-... Daem-... This… This is…” she could not even speak as she felt him smirk against her warmth, she could soon come undone on his tongue, if he didn’t pull back. But the Prince didn’t wish to, he wanted her. His appetites bigger than his sense of reason. Just as she did for him. Thus, he pursued, until he didn’t stop, and Maegera had no choice than to let go and moan in the Red Keep to hear. After a short while, he raised again on his legs, kissing her with relish so she could taste herself on his tongue and lips.
“Take me. Take me,” she begged of him, trying to drag his length out of his breeches, but he stopped her, holding her cheeks together as she stared into his violet eyes, nearly desperate for him. Daemon refrained himself, and it took nearly everything from him to do so. Instead, he approached again, his breath clashing with hers, panting. He adored seeing her like this, disheveled, her skin flushed and reddened, lips swollen because of him.
“If it were only for me, I’d do it here and now,” admitted Daemon, his voice laced with untamed desire. “You’d be a delight, wrapped around me.”
He kissed her forehead, almost tenderly. “But I can’t. If I do, I won't stop myself. And it wouldn’t be a moan or two, that your pretty voice would let out,” He pursued, holding her by her waist. He pushed the cabinet a bit more on them, hearing the sounds of boots coming for them, thus hidden furthermore. “And I’d rather take you in a bed, laid clothless before me, with those curls, and this flesh exposed to my eyes, cousin.”
“Why did you do this, then?” she asked abruptly, her head nearly in haze. Daemon smiled at her curiosity, how visceral she was at that moment. “ Nyke jaelagon ao, avy jorrāelan, issa jorrāeliarza (I want you, I love you, my beloved cousin).”
She didn’t answer with anything else but a kiss, tasting the reminiscence of their sin. Her cousin didn’t wait enough for an answer, as Daemon carefully did not make a sound or say a word, for the last group of guards passing by to walk away. Afterwards, he asked her to pursue in the corridor, reaching for a staircase. Taking his hand, they both climbed until the next floor. The Royal Quarters. A safety passage, to protect the royals. “How did you know of this path ?” she asked him, trying to forget she was merely breaking into his arms a few minutes earlier. He turned around, his silver locks falling freely on his forehead. “I used to sneak out to Flea Bottom, two years ago. I know all the secret paths of this castle. I could lead you even to the sewers, but firstly, your chambers.”
“Keep the sewers away from me, would you,” she started, her voice steadying as she listened to him. “Why my chambers ?”
But before she could insist, Daemon locked the two of them inside of her rooms, the lock falling abruptly behind them, Maegera furrowed her brows. The Rogue Prince He kissed her again, and again, until she had almost no breath in her lungs. “There is something else I wish to give you.” He mumbled between two encounters. He roamed around, inside one of his discreet pockets before drawing a little box out of it, opening it before her. A dragonhead, its mouth half opened in a “D” shape. She smiled at him, as he attached it underneath the lilac stone. “The necklace came in two parts. Though… I had thought I would've given it to you in the presence of our family.”
“ Kirimvose (thank you) , ” she quickly gasped whilst Daemon attached it to his first present. “Do you… regret what has been done ?”
Daemon scoffed at her, arranging her hair as she breathed hollowly, almost feeling stupid as she stared at him, seeking an answer. He wrapped his hand around her neck, lifting it to her jawline and kissed the sharpest part of it. “The only one I bear is to not have removed this dress from your body and make you call my name,” he bit a portion of her flesh, heaving a whimper from her swollen lips. his passions igniting again. “But I can’t.”
Maegera opened her eyes, her slit pupils struck in his. “Why ?”
Daemon hovered over her mouth, like a cat on its prey, his words nearly opening the contact between them two. She lingered in it, diving into the sin of their incest. A mandatory conception for Targaryens, Blood of the Dragon. “You are now suitable for marriage, for your fourteenth spring, and I have no doubt the Old King will want to draft you away. Whether to Old Town, Highgarden to be next to your Lady Mother, or even wed you to a suitor of his choosing. You might be a bastard by blood, given your father’s doings, but you have been legitimised, and therefore, your maidenhead is precious to the crown. You are alliances, power, wealth. Our Grandsire wants to persevere in that.”
Maegera swallowed hard, her saliva barely getting past her throat as Daemon was making a meal out of her skin, but it was she who had hunger for him. Therefore, she pushed him back, until his legs met the edge of her bedding and she climbed atop of him, straddling the Rogue Prince, his hands travelling around her hips. He smirked, she leaned in. Her teeth grind upon his ear, the line of his neck, until the corners of his mouth and lips again. Nearly unable to detach herself from her cousin. “Yet, you have hid yourself beneath my skirts to taste me, and explore what my Lord Hubsand should’ve. Wouldn’t that be enough for my maidenhead to be taken ?”
Daemon shook his head left to right. “No, only the contact of this,” he lifted his bossom up, now stuck against her warmth. “Can be counted as such. As of now, you remain a maiden, cousin.”
The white-haired woman ran her finger on his cheek, her lezard pupils, slit like Starfyre’s, meeting him. “I do not want to be, I want you .” The Rogue Prince felt his chest tightened just as he had become in his breeches again, ignited, though he ultimately decided to ignore it, he pushed his body up, warping Maegera in his arms as he removed her. “ Gaomagon ao daor jaelagon issa hae olive hae nyke gaogamon, Daemon ? ( Do you not want me as much as I do, Daemon)” She stood, her head high and fierce, nearly offended by his refusal to give in. He laughed again, nearly a spark in his throat, as he pulled on her long white locks to force his gaze into hers. “ Ao issi skoros nyke jaelagon, Maegera. Olvie , (You are what I want, Maegera, Most)” He whistled between his teeth, unphased by the princess’s sudden surge of impetuousness. “ Se ziry iksos hae vazigi bona nyke daor gūrogon ao (And it is as such that I refuse to take you). ” She closed her eyes, understanding this wouldn’t turn the way she’d wish it’d be.
“ Pār, māzigon naejot issa (Then, come to me).” Without further insistence, she departed, opening the double doors of her chambers to walk back to the feast, the music still chanting. There, she sneaked between the guests and quickly met the gaze of her uncle, ever so suspicious. She looked slightly disheveled and perhaps a dash of disappointment. He walked forth, sitting next to her. “Viserys and Aemma have claimed to see you and Daemon walk out,” he began. “I will not speak sweetly, did something happen ? The King has sent guards after you didn’t come back for a couple minutes.”
Maegera tried to find an excuse, she could be as disappointed as she wished, but she wouldn’t denounce the moment of passion her cousin and she had shared. “No. Daemon wished to give me his present personally, and therefore take a moment away from court. We… Hastened due to me panicking. I didn’t think my departure would cause such a fuss. Viserys and his…”
He cut her short. “Yes. He doesn’t hold much value for his brother. They don’t share the same… Temperament. In fact, he is much closer to your father than me, when it comes to personality.”
Baelon smiled at her again. “What did my son give you ?”
She grabbed the Dragonhead with the necklace, handing it over to him. “This. He has found the stone from a Valyrian shipwreck near Lys and salvaged it, to say his words,” she paused, taking a moment to see the reflection of herself. “The stone came this afternoon to wrap itself around my neck, the dragonhead hanging, tonight.”
“It is, indeed, quite a jewel.”
The Spring Prince didn’t wish to speak it aloud, not here, not tonight (he wouldn’t put all of this to a waste) but he knew Daemon, he knew his boy, and as such, he wasn’t a fool. A man he was before being a father, and a young male he had been as well. He understood, fast and swift, that didn’t tell entirely the truth to him, that she would simply not. Something tilted in his mind, a sharp sting whispering he could not trust the entirety of the girl’s words. No matter how much he adored her. He had seen, many times, how his second born would sometimes look at Aemon’s girl, how his eyes lingered on her waist; the days they’d spare, when he’d teach her swordcraft. it was not the gaze of a cousin, or even a suitor. It was the way Aenar the Exile might have looked at his sister-wife as they fled Valyria. After all, the Rogue Prince was a man of ten and six years. Sixteen summers, breaking the laws. The silver-haired prince knew it well. He had the same look for Alyssa, and from this, came Viserys, Daemon, and Aegon.
And it had destroyed her. He closed his eyes briefly. From guilt, and grief. No, what he felt now was a far older grief — the kind one inherits with a name like Targaryen . It sat in the bone, in the blood. In theirs, in a dynasty that could only be destroyed by one thing : themselves.
But, Baelon knew the poison would linger for long, before ultimately killing its victims.
It was just a matter of time.