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Chapter Text

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 of the sept, where light filtered through stained glass windows casting a kaleidoscope of holy hues across the sanctum, Daemon Targaryen beheld a vision that would sear itself into the annals of history. Anastasia Hightower a figure once synonymous with purity and devotion, now transformed into something far more formidable.

Her white gown, once a symbol of her untainted faith, hung in tatters, the pristine fabric marred by crimson stains. The hem, once kissing the ground in silent reverence, now fluttered in disarray, whispering tales of violence and betrayal. Her auburn curls, cascading in waves to her waist, glowed like a halo of flames under the golden sunlight, a stark contrast to the darkness that now enveloped her.

Anastasia's hazel eyes, once filled with the light of the Seven, now blazed with an unholy fire. They pierced through Daemon, stripping away his bravado and baring his soul. Her gaze was not one of a mortal woman, but of a deity awakened, a goddess forged in the crucible of vengeance and pain. In hand, she held the severed head of Rhaenyra Targaryen by the hair, the lifeless eyes a haunting reminder of the cost of ambition and treachery. In her other hand, she wielded his own sword—Dark Sister, that had tasted the blood of countless, now an extension of her wrath.

This was not the wife he had known, but something transcendent—deity of wrath and retribution. The sept, usually a place of solace and prayer, had become an altar for a new, darker faith. The Seven Kingdoms, the Seven Hells, the Seven Heavens, and the Seven Gods themselves seemed to bow in reverence to this newly risen goddess. The stained glass saints, the carved wooden effigies, and the golden chandeliers all seemed to dim in her presence, their sanctity overshadowed by her unholy transformation. The battlefield was her temple, the fallen her congregation, and Daemon, the sinner who had created her, stood ready to pay the ultimate penance.

He felt the weight of his deeds crush him, the enormity of his sins pressing him down. He had taken a saint and forged a monster, yet in her monstrous glory, she demanded worship. The urge to kneel came over him, not as an act of submission, but as an act of reverence. He dropped to his knees, the cold stone floor biting into his flesh, but he welcomed the pain. It was a penance, an offering to the goddess who stood before him. He bowed his head, not in shame, but in awe, his entire being thrumming with the need to atone, to be worthy of her gaze.

The sept echoed with the silent cries of the divine, mourning the loss of their purest vessel while simultaneously celebrating the birth of a new deity. Anastasia’s transformation was both tragic and beautiful, a dark symphony that played through the hallowed halls. Each step she took left a trail of blood and sanctity intertwined, a path that none would dare to follow but all would be forced to acknowledge.

In the eyes of the Faith, she had become a paradox—both blasphemy and sanctity, a creature of the light wrapped in shadows. Her presence was a sermon of its own, a declaration that holiness and monstrosity were but two sides of the same coin. The faithful would whisper her name in fear and reverence, her image forever etched into the sacred lore of the Seven.

Daemon, kneeling before her, felt the weight of the Seven pressing down upon him, their judgment and their mercy intertwined. He had killed a saint and in doing so, created a goddess. And in that moment, as he stared up at her, he knew that he would spend the rest of his days in worship, a devotee to the dark divinity he had unleashed.

The sept, bathed in the morning light, bore witness to this unholy sacrament, the sacred and the profane melding into a single, indelible moment. As the first rays of dawn broke through, illuminating Anastasia Hightower in all her glory, Daemon Targaryen surrendered himself to the goddess he had forged, offering the remnants of his shattered soul as a penance for his sins.

Anastasia approached him, her steps reverberating through the sepulchral silence, each one a drumbeat heralding judgment. The head of Rhaenyra Targaryen was discarded carelessly, rolling away like a forsaken relic. With a swift, brutal motion, she grabbed Daemon by his hair, yanking his head back, the pain shot through his scalp, but it was nothing compared to the torment in his heart as his indigo eyes gazed into her hazel ones as they burned.

Dark Sister, the sword that had been his companion through countless battles, now rested against his throat. Its cold steel bit into his skin, a whisper of death that sent a shiver down his spine. This was no longer a mere weapon, in her hands, it was the instrument of divine retribution. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as he looked up at her, the woman he had loved and wronged, the mother of his children, now transformed into a goddess.

“You dare look at me with those eyes, Daemon Targaryen?” Her words dripped with venom, each syllable a lash that tore into his soul. “You, who brought ruin upon our marriage, for the sake of that harlot!” She spat the last word, the contempt in her voice palpable.

Daemon struggled to find his voice, his mind a whirlwind of guilt and regret. “Anastasia, I—”

“Silence!” She roared, the blade pressing harder against his throat, drawing a thin line of blood. “Do not speak her name in my presence. You have done nothing but bring shame and misery upon our family. Our children. Our grandchildren. You sacrificed them all on the altar of your lust and ambition.”

Her words were relentless, each accusation a dagger that pierced his defenses. “You abandoned us, left us to fend for ourselves while you chased after that whore. You made a mockery of our vows, of the Seven who witnessed our union. You shattered our lives, Daemon, and for what? For a throne that was never yours to claim.”

Daemon’s breath hitched, the weight of her condemnation pressing down on him. “I thought I was doing what was best for us—for the realm.”

“Best for us?” She echoed, her laughter cold and hollow. “You did what was best for you. You cloaked your selfish desires in the guise of duty. You tore this family apart with your lies and your betrayal.”

He tried to reach for her, to offer some semblance of comfort, but she slapped his hand away, her eyes blazing with righteous fury. “Do not touch me. You have soiled everything you have touched.”

Her grip on his hair tightened, pulling him closer until their faces were inches apart. “You have sinned, in ways that cannot be forgiven. You have turned our lives into a living hell, and now, you will face the consequences.”

Daemon’s eyes filled with tears, the realization of his failures crashing down upon him. “I am sorry, Anastasia. I am so sorry.”

“Sorry?” She sneered. “Your apologies are as worthless as your promises. You have destroyed everything that was good and pure in our lives. You have turned me into this.” She gestured to herself. “You have made me a monster, Daemon, and now, I will make you pay.”

Her words were a litany of his sins, recited with the fervor of a prayer, each one a testament to his fall from grace. “For every tear our children and grandchildren cried, for every night I lay awake in anguish, for every moment of despair you have caused, I will make you suffer. The Seven will judge you, but first, you will know my wrath.”

Daemon’s spirit crumbled under the weight of her words. He had no defense, no justification. She was right, and he knew it. He had betrayed her, their children, their grandchildren, their very legacy. He had taken a saint and created a creature of vengeance.

Anastasia’s voice softened, but the menace remained. “Look at me. Look at what you have wrought. I stand here, not as your wife, but as your judge, your executioner, and you will kneel before me, not in love, but in penance.”

With a final, searing glance, she released him, the blade of Dark Sister falling from his throat. Daemon fell to the ground, his body wracked with sobs, the realization of his sins crashing over him like the relentless waves of the Narrow Sea. She stood over him, a goddess of retribution, in the holy sepulcher, the embodiment of righteous fury. In that moment, Daemon Targaryen knew that he had not just lost his life, but his very heart and soul.

Chapter Text

116 AC

𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 paced the length of Viserys' solar, his boots hitting the stone floor with a force that echoed his frustration. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror the dark mood in the room. He clenched his fists, his anger barely contained, as he turned to face his brother.

"Viserys, you can't do this.” Daemon's voice was a low growl, his eyes blazing with the intensity of a dragon's fire. "Marrying a Hightower was bad enough for you, but now you want to shackle me to one as well?!"

Viserys, seated behind his ornate desk, looked up from the parchment he had been inspecting. His face was a mask of weary determination. "You brought this upon yourself, Daemon.” He replied, his tone as cold as the winter winds beyond the Wall. "Your behavior has left me no choice. Lady Anastasia Hightower will be your wife, and that is final."

Otto Hightower stood nearby, his face a portrait of barely concealed displeasure. He stepped forward, his voice a smooth, persuasive tone that had swayed many a council. "Your Grace, surely there must be another way. My daughter—"

"Enough, Otto.” Viserys interrupted, raising a hand to silence his Hand of the King. "The decision is made. I already had ravens sent to Oldtown. Lady Anastasia will be here within days."

Daemon's laughter was bitter, a sound devoid of joy. "So, I am to be dragged to the altar, like a lamb to the slaughter?" He shook his head, his silver hair catching the light like a halo of fire. "You think this will tame me, brother?"

Viserys' eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. "You will marry her, Daemon. You will consummate the marriage, and you will have children. Or I will strip you of everything. Your titles, your lands, your very name. I will see you reduced to nothing."

Daemon's jaw tightened, his pride warring with the reality of his brother's threat. He glanced at Otto, seeking an ally, but found only resignation in the older man's eyes. Otto's voice was softer now, almost pleading. "Your Grace, consider what you are asking of my daughter. She is—"

"She is a woman of the Faith." Viserys cut in, his tone brooking no argument. "She will do her duty, as you will do yours, Daemon. The gods have willed it."

Daemon's laughter was gone, replaced by a simmering rage. "The gods? Or you, Viserys? You play at being a god, deciding the fates of men and women as if they were pieces on a cyvasse board."

Viserys stood, his presence commanding the room. "I do what I must to maintain the stability of the realm. You have left me no choice, Daemon. This marriage will happen, and you will accept it."

Daemon's eyes flashed, a storm brewing in their depths. "I will never accept this.” He spat. "You are condemning me to a life of misery."

Viserys stepped around the desk, closing the distance between them. "And what of the misery you have caused? The chaos you have sown? This is your penance, Daemon. Your path to redemption."

Otto interjected, his voice strained. "Your Grace, Anastasia is delicate. She has been sheltered all her life. This... arrangement will be hard on her."

Viserys sighed, a flicker of sympathy crossing his face. "I do not do this lightly, Otto. But it must be done. For the good of the realm."

Daemon turned away, his shoulders tense. "You speak of the realm as if it were a god. But what of us? What of our lives?"

Viserys' voice softened, a rare glimpse of the brotherly bond that had once existed between them. "Our lives are the realm, Daemon. We must sacrifice for it, as it sacrifices for us."

Daemon's laughter was a hollow echo in the room. "Sacrifice? Is that what you call it?" He shook his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Very well, Viserys. I will marry that Hightower. But do not expect me to play the dutiful husband."

Viserys nodded, a look of finality in his eyes. "You will do your duty, Daemon. Or you will face the consequences. The gods are watching."

As Daemon stormed out of the solar, Otto turned to Viserys, his expression one of deep concern. "Are you sure about this, Your Grace?"

Viserys sighed, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his decision. "No, Otto. But it is done. Let us hope the gods smile upon this union, for all our sakes."

As Daemon  stormed through the Red Keep, his anger a palpable force that seemed to part the crowds before him. His footsteps echoed through the stone corridors, each stride more determined than the last. He knew where he would find her, his brother's queen and the sister of his unwanted bride-to-be. His path led him to the nursery, where the sound of children’s laughter and cooing filled the air, a stark contrast to the tempest brewing within him.

Pushing open the heavy oak door, Daemon stepped inside. The room was bathed in the soft morning light, casting a serene glow over the scene. Alicent, her belly rounded with her latest pregnancy, sat among her children. Aegon, a lively toddler, was stacking wooden blocks, while Helaena, clutched a stuffed dragon, her innocent eyes wide with curiosity. Newborn Aemond lay in his cradle, oblivious to the world. The sight might have softened another man's heart, but Daemon was no such man.

Alicent looked up, her eyes widening with fear at the sight of the Rogue Prince. She instinctively placed a protective hand over her belly.

"Daemon, what do you want?" She asked, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound composed.

"Information." Daemon replied curtly, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "Tell me about your sister, Anastasia. I want to know everything."

Alicent swallowed hard, her mind racing. "Anastasia is... delicate.” She began cautiously. "She’s been sheltered her entire life, protected by our family. She’s kind, gentle, and—"

"So I am to wed a fragile bird, locked away in a gilded cage? How fitting for Viserys' idea of punishment." Daemon interrupted with a sneer.

Alicent's eyes flashed with a rare spark of defiance. "You speak of her as if she is some burden. Anastasia is a blessing. You should be thankful to be the one to wed her."

"Thankful?" Daemon laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Thankful to be saddled with a sickly, pious girl who’s never stepped foot outside Oldtown? Spare me, Alicent."

Alicent rose to her feet, her protective instincts flaring. "Anastasia is more than you could ever understand. She is devout and pure of heart. She has a strength you cannot see because you are blinded by your own arrogance."

Daemon took a step closer, his presence looming. "Strength? What strength is there in hiding behind cloistered walls and prayer books? I need a wife, not a saint."

Aegon, sensing his mother's distress, picked up one of his toys and hurled it at Daemon. The wooden horse struck Daemon's leg, and he turned his gaze to the boy, his eyes narrowing.

"Keep your brat under control." Daemon growled, his patience wearing thin.

Alicent quickly moved to shield Aegon, her eyes pleading. "Daemon, please. He’s just a child."

Daemon’s expression darkened as he leaned in closer to Alicent, his voice a dangerous whisper. "If your sister is anything like you describe, perhaps I should kill her and spare us both the misery."

Alicent gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "You wouldn’t dare."

"Wouldn’t I?" Daemon's smile was cold, calculating. "Your sister means nothing to me. This marriage means nothing to me. Remember that."

Alicent’s eyes filled with tears, but she stood her ground, her voice steady. "Anastasia is a good person, Daemon. She will be a good wife to you, a good mother, if you give her a chance. You may not see it now, but she could be your salvation."

Daemon scoffed, turning away. "Salvation? I don’t need saving, Alicent. And I certainly don’t need your sister."

As he strode out of the nursery, Daemon could feel the weight of Alicent’s gaze on his back, a mix of fear and determination. Her words lingered in his mind, though he pushed them aside with a growl. Salvation, indeed. The gods may play their games, but Daemon Targaryen was no pawn. He would meet this challenge on his own terms, and the Seven be damned.

Once Daemon stormed out of the nursery, Alicent crumpled to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. She gathered Aegon and Helaena into her arms, holding them close as if they were her last tether to sanity. The room, once filled with the innocent laughter of children, now felt heavy with the weight of her fears.

She pressed her forehead against Aegon's soft hair, her voice a choked whisper. "Mother, protect her. Father, guide her. Warrior, give her strength. Maiden, shield her purity. Smith, grant her resilience. Crone, give her wisdom. Stranger, spare her from suffering." Her prayers felt hollow, the words slipping through her fingers like grains of sand. She could still see Daemon’s cold, calculating eyes, his threat echoing in her mind.

She thought of Anastasia, delicate and kind, who had cared for her when their mother passed. The pain of those memories was sharp, like a dagger in her heart. She remembered Anastasia's gentle touch, her soothing words, and the way she had always managed to bring light into the darkest of days. Alicent’s heart ached with regret. She had shared stories of her beloved sister with Viserys, hoping to bring some joy into their lives, never imagining he would use that knowledge to bind Anastasia to a man like Daemon.

Aegon, his young face scrunched in confusion, patted her cheek with his tiny hand. "Mama, why you sad?" He asked, his voice filled with concern.

Alicent forced a smile, though her heart felt heavy as lead. "Mama's just worried about Aunt Anya, my sweet boy. She is going to marry someone very... difficult."

Helaena, too young to understand, simply nestled closer, her stuffed dragon clutched tightly in her small arms. Alicent's tears fell onto Helaena's soft locks as she held her children close, seeking solace in their innocence.

The door creaked open, and her father entered the room. His face was a mask of stoicism, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern as he took in the scene before him. "Alicent.” He said, his voice low and steady. “What has happened?"

Alicent wiped her tears hastily, trying to compose herself. "Daemon was here. He... He threatened Anastasia."

Otto's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening. "What did he say?"

"He said he might kill her." Alicent whispered, her voice barely audible.

Otto sighed deeply, his hand coming to rest on Alicent's shoulder. "Viserys has made his decision. We must trust that the gods will watch over Anastasia."

Alicent shook her head, her voice trembling with emotion. "How can we trust in the gods when Daemon Targaryen is involved? He killed Rhea Royce, or at least that's what the whispers say. Now Anastasia is to be his wife, to appease the High Septon for Daemon’s disrespect and disregard for his first marriage."

Otto's expression hardened. "We have no proof that Daemon killed his first wife. But I understand your fears."

Alicent looked up at him, desperation in her eyes. "Father, I regret telling Viserys about Anastasia. I didn't know he would do this. I wanted to share stories of my sweet sister, not condemn her to this fate."

Otto's gaze softened, if only slightly. "We cannot change what has been done, Alicent. We must find a way to ensure Anastasia's safety."

Alicent clung to his words, searching for hope. "How? How can we protect her from a man like Daemon?"

Otto was silent for a moment, his mind working through the possibilities. "We will have to be vigilant. Ensure that she has allies within the court, and that Daemon knows he is being watched. He may be a dragon, but even dragons can be tempered."

Alicent nodded, though her heart still felt heavy with dread. "I will pray for her, every night. And I will speak to Viserys again. Perhaps there is still a way to change his mind."

Otto squeezed her shoulder gently. "Do what you must, but be careful. Viserys is not easily swayed once he has made a decision."

As Otto left the room, Alicent pulled her children closer, her prayers now a constant murmur. The nursery, once a place of warmth and light, now felt like a cold, foreboding chamber.