Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They say that, in the moments before death, you can see your life flash before your eyes. As he plummeted toward his end, Daemon Targaryen didn't see a fucking thing. But many thoughts raced through his mind.

He had always told himself he had no regrets. But that wasn’t true.

He regretted surrendering his crown to his ungrateful niece. He regretted marrying her. He regretted letting her place Harwin Strong’s children above his own—if Aegon and Viserys were even his at all.

His eyes searched the sky for the great green beast, but it had already vanished beneath the waters of the God's Eye, taking its rider with it. Bitterness and fury gripped the Rogue Prince. Everything he had done—everything he had sacrificed—had been for the honor and glory of House Targaryen. And for what? So a drunkard or a spoiled child could sit the Iron Throne? His House had been reduced to a shadow of what it once was, and history would remember him as nothing more than a consort—the lapdog of a whore queen .

He closed his eyes, awaiting death’s cold embrace, and in that final instant, he wished—if only for a moment—that he could do it all over again.

But death did not come.

Instead, he felt the searing heat of flames.

Daemon opened his eyes.

The sky of the Riverlands was gone. There was no trace of the waters of the God's Eye, nor of Harrenhal. He now stood in a vast hall of black stone. The architecture resembled Dragonstone—clawed sconces clutched torches on the walls, and dragons carved into the columns curled their tails into arches overhead. The hall had no visible doors, no entrance nor exit, only shadows where the firelight dared not reach. It was an empty chamber—or nearly so.

Before him stood a great stone brazier, blazing with white fire.

Across the chamber, fourteen pedestals formed a semicircle. Atop each, a strange flame burned in unnatural colors, moving in ways no ordinary fire ever had.

Curious, the Rogue Prince stepped forward. His scowl softened into surprise.

They weren’t flames.

They were people—fourteen humanoid figures of fire and smoke. Daemon could not see their faces, but he felt their eyes upon him. A chill ran down his spine.

One stepped forward. Its voice was not words, but the crackling of fire. Yet somehow, he understood .

“ Daemon Targaryen. Prince of the City. Lord of Flea Bottom. The Rogue Prince ,” the voice said, echoing within his mind, searing like wildfire. “ What a fascinating figure you were… What a greater one you might becom e.”

“Who are you?” he demanded, his tone sharp.

“ I believe you already know ,” the voice replied, amusement curling around its words like smoke.

A contemptuous smile touched Daemon’s lips.

“Ah. I’m here to be judged, is that it? I’m afraid I won’t be asking for forgiveness.”

“ You’re here because you already repented. You’re here because you asked for a second chance .”

“I didn’t—”

“ We require no words, child. Intent is enough. You regret what you’ve done. And you wish to do it all again .”

“You’re giving me a second chance?” Daemon narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“ We chose the Targaryens long ago ,” said another voice—softer, almost maternal. For a moment, Daemon felt an overwhelming urge to lie at her feet and rest. “ We spared them from the Doom. We gave Daenys the dream. We ensured your passage to Westeros, allowed dragons to take flight again. For generations, we intervened. But your House disappointed us. Senseless war brought about the extinction of dragons—and soon, of your blood. So we will send you back, Daemon Targaryen. You must stop the Dance. You must redeem your family. ”

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. So many questions, yet he asked only one:

“Why me?”

“You wonder why we chose you? You, who placed your House above all else? You, who honored your heritage to the very end? You, who saw your family’s flaws and named them for what they were? Then tell us, Daemon—why not you?”

“I won’t fail.”

“ You’d best not, Daemon Targaryen. Should you falter, the consequences will be grave .”

“I hate to disappoint you,” he said with a smirk, “but no hell—real or imagined—frightens me.”

“ The terrors of the afterlife will be the least of your worries, Rogue Prince ,” said a third voice—this one colder, crueler. “ It is the terrors of the soul you must fear. ”

Daemon flinched, involuntarily.

“ Now listen well. We will speak only once .”

“I’m listening.”

“ You will return to the moment things began to unrave l,” said the gentle voice once more. “ The day your fragile brother lost the only person keeping him from falling completely under the sway of his whispering advisors. You cannot save her. Some tragedies are fate. But the war can be stopped. Take hold of House Targaryen before your brother loses it. Choose the right allies. Choose the right wife .”

“And how the hell am I supposed to know who that is?” Daemon snapped.

“ You know ,” the voice said. “ You saw her. In Harrenhal. We already showed you what could have been. ”

Daemon’s jaw clenched. He had dreamed of many things at Harrenhal—but none more frequently than Alicent Hightower. In those dreams, she wasn’t Viserys’s queen. She was his. They ruled together, respected and strong, with many dragonriding children who carried the Targaryen legacy forward.

“Mixing the blood of my House with hers?” he muttered. “That doesn’t feel right.”

“ But it is. Valyrian blood is sickened. Its magic wanes. It must be strengthened before it can be purified. Her blood is ancient and holds a power of its own. It will restore fertility to House Targaryen . This is your chance to redeem yourself, Daemon. Don’t squander it out of pride .”

“My pride—my pride in my blood—is what brought me here!”

“ You are in no position to bargain ,” the harsh voice cut in again. “ Enough. We’ve said more than we should.”

“You’ve explained nothing!” Daemon snapped, rage flaring in his voice.

“ Be vigilant, Rogue Prince. We will leave you signs .”

“Wait! No, wait—!”

“ Remember—this is your last chance .”

Chapter Text

Daemon opened his eyes in a familiar place.  Still feeling somewhat groggy, he sat up on the brothel bed.  The recent events seemed to replay in his head: the battle over the God's Eye, the sensation of plummeting from the skies, Aemond's blood staining the blade of Dark Sister, the strange conversation with the Fourteen Flames .  Lying among the sheets, he could almost pretend the war had been just a dream, but his soul remembered everything, even if his mind wished to forget. 

"Is something troubling you, my Prince?" Mysaria asked as she approached him from behind, embracing him and resting her chin on his shoulder.

He stood up without even looking at her and began searching for his clothes.  Miserable viper.   In his past life, Daemon had trusted her, and that had been one of the many things that cost him the throne.  He should have known she would betray him, for gold is the only thing a whore like her values. 

"My Prince?"

Daemon crossed the streets to the Red Keep.  The expression on his face must not have been very pleasant, as people hurried to get out of his way as soon as they laid eyes on him. 

The closer he got to the castle, the more crowded the streets became.  They were filled with merchants, artists, bards, and free knights.  Banners of various Houses clustered together, vying for a place among the crowd.  Even the prostitutes had moved closer than usual, seeking an opportunity to drag some deep-pocketed man to Flea Bottom. 

He had returned to the Day of the Tournament, the day his sister-in-law, Aemma Arryn, had died, sacrificed to give birth to the Heir for a Day.  You will return to the moment things began to unravel , the day he lost his position as Prince of Dragonstone, the day the lords began their race to put their blood on the Iron Throne. 

Dodging the crowd, Daemon circled the Red Keep, sneaking through the houses, feeling along the walls until he found a little-used passage that led into the castle.  The tunnels started narrow, making it almost impossible to walk forward, forcing him to turn sideways, but they widened as he moved out of the walls and approached the Keep. 

He wandered through the walls until he found a less frequented spot to exit, emerging from behind a tapestry.  Daemon hesitated for a moment in the corridor, unsure of his next step.  He wanted to visit Aemma, to say goodbye to her.  They were never particularly close, but he always thought she was an admirable woman who, even amid so many losses, remained kind and gentle.  Aemma might have had fragile health, but her soul possessed a resounding strength.  It was a pity she was destined to depart so soon. 

As he approached the room, Daemon smelled the strong scent of incense and ointments.  A guard knocked on the door to announce his presence, but he entered without waiting to be properly invited.  The Queen was seated on a chaise lounge; her blue eyes widened upon seeing him.  The Rogue Prince clenched his jaw.  Aemma looked pale and sickly, her feet were swollen, and she was breathing with difficulty.  Even so, she smiled. 

"Daemon, it's been so long," she said, her voice sounding tired and as breathless as she appeared.

"Your Grace," he greeted her with a simple nod.

"Don't call me that; call me Aemma. Just Aemma is fine. I already have enough people pampering me; I don't need another."

A small smile appeared on his face. 

"Very well, 'just Aemma,' how are you feeling?" he asked as he sat in a chair near her.

"Round," she replied, laughing. "I've been through many pregnancies, but each one feels different. Baelon is a calm child, barely moves, but causes me many cramps and nausea."

Daemon opened his mouth but closed it again.  He wanted to tell her but couldn't.  He detested the feeling of helplessness, but the gods had warned him that he couldn't save her. 

"Baelon?" he asked, feigning surprise.

She rolled her eyes. 

"Viserys is sure it's a boy."

"Ah, that was already quite clear; after all, he promoted a tournament to announce it."

Her smile faltered; for a second, a glimpse of sadness and concern appeared on her face. 

"I pray to the gods that all this is not in vain," she lamented, making the Rogue Prince swallow hard. "Ah, Daemon, I couldn't bear to lose another child. I've already failed with the realm, with Viserys, so many times," her eyes filled with tears. "Whenever I lose a child, he comforts me, says it's okay, that we can try again, but I know he resents it. So many years of marriage, and I haven't been able to give him a living heir."

Daemon stood from where he was seated and knelt beside her.  Somewhat awkwardly, he took her hands in his.  Her hands were cold and felt so fragile that he feared he might break them if he squeezed too hard. 

"Aemma," he said softly, "it's not your fault. You've fulfilled your duty as Queen gracefully. Few women would be so courageous in your place; even fewer would remain good and pious after all this."

The Queen smiled amid her tears. 

"Thank you, good-brother. I didn't know you thought so highly of me."

"You're my family, Aemma," he said in a reproachful tone. "I love you, just as I love my brother and the same way I love... my niece."

If Aemma noticed his hesitation, she said nothing.  She released one of her hands and brought it to her face to wipe away the tears. 

"Thank you for everything. I know you and your brother have your differences," Aemma said softly, her voice tinged with weariness, "but it’s comforting to know someone will be there to protect them—Viserys and Rhaenyra—should anything happen to me."

Daemon longed to contradict her, to offer her some comfort. He wanted to say all would be well, that her labor would be safe, and that soon she would hold her child in her arms. But the lie stuck in his throat. How could he deceive her, when he knew precisely how his brother would allow her to be sacrificed for a child who would not live to see the dawn?

"Don’t dwell on such thoughts, good-sister," he said, gently. "Worry is no good for you."

She laughed, a small sound that echoed with a trace of defiance.

"You speak as if you know anything about pregnant women."

"I’m not entirely ignorant," he replied with a faint smirk.

A knock at the door broke the moment. Daemon reluctantly let go of Aemma’s hand and rose.

"Princess Rhaenyra, Your Grace," the guard announced, poking his head through the half-open door.

Daemon’s jaw tensed.

"Let her in," Aemma said with regal calm.

The door opened wider, and Rhaenyra entered, clad in her riding leathers. She was followed closely by Alicent Hightower. The girl wore a modest gown of pale blue, her auburn hair neatly pinned back—a picture of virtue, just as the Faith would have it.

Daemon’s gaze drifted over her, cold and analytical. There was nothing striking about her in that modest dress. How could he, Lord of Flea Bottom , be drawn to such a dull creature? The gods, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.

"Your Grace. My Prince," Alicent greeted with a graceful curtsy.

"Uncle!" Rhaenyra’s face lit up. "What are you doing here?"

He tore his gaze away from Alicent and met his niece’s eyes. Her cheeks colored beneath his stare. Once, he would have found delight in it—the way a true Valyrian beauty, born of dragonseed, could become so shy and flustered in his presence. But now, knowing what he knew, it stirred little in him.

"I came to visit before preparing for the tournament," he said flatly. "But I was just leaving."

He turned back to Aemma.

"I’ll leave you in the pleasant company of these young ladies."

"Please," Aemma said, reaching for his hand once more, "do visit me again after I give birth to your nephew."

He swallowed hard. He could not save her. But he could, at the very least, offer her peace in these final hours.

"Of course," he said quietly. "I’ll come as soon as I can."

He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers, then turned to leave. Alicent stood by the door, offering another curtsy as he passed—ever the proper lady. Daemon acknowledged her with the barest nod.

He stepped into the corridor, a strange heaviness settling over him. His heart was both lightened and burdened. Perhaps he had done the right thing—but the secret he carried gnawed at him from within.

He had thought returning to the past with foresight would make the path easier to walk. But he had underestimated the weight of knowledge. He had never known how merciful ignorance could be, how it dulled the pain of the world.

He had believed foresight would give him control. But now he saw it for what it was—a curse that made every step heavier, every silence louder, every decision costlier.

He let out a long breath, raking a hand through his hair. If he allowed himself to spiral any further, madness would find him before the year’s end.

One step at a time.

The gods had told him he could not stop his brother from becoming a widower. But they had said nothing about stopping him from marrying again. Daemon would marry Alicent, as they had urged. And he would ensure that Viserys never claimed another child bride.

Perhaps—just perhaps—that would be enough to keep the war from ever beginning.

Chapter Text

Daemon had briefly considered speaking to his brother, but neither time nor nerve favored him at the moment. No, it was better to avoid any conversation with Viserys until he had a clearer picture of his next steps. Things were still far too vague. He knew he would need allies to claim the Iron Throne with as little resistance as possible — the question was how to gain them. He had never been particularly sociable, never cared to learn the ways of a courtier. Daemon was a prince. It was the lords of Westeros who should curry his favor, not the other way around.

Choosing to leave that concern for later, he descended to join the others. The tournament would begin shortly, and it was a perfect opportunity to approach Alicent. He knew she wouldn’t refuse him in front of the crowd — even if she wanted to. She was always so concerned with appearances, with what others thought. That was something he would need to correct once they were wed: her excessive need to please. It was maddening.

The closer Daemon got to the King's Gate, the louder the roar of the crowd became. The Tourney Grounds were overflowing. Hundreds jostled in the stands for a better view, placing bets on their favored knights, shouting and cheering them on. Drums rolled, signaling that the festivities were about to begin. Soon the king would give his opening speech. And soon after, Aemma would be dead — at the tender age of twenty-seven.

A strange feeling washed over him as he donned his armor. There was something exhilarating about being back in his twenty-eight-year-old body — stronger, faster than his near-fifty-year-old self. Until now, he hadn’t taken a moment to contemplate the difference, too focused on his divine mission . He let out a breath of laughter. The idea still struck him as absurd — he, the Rogue Prince, chosen by the gods for a higher purpose? Perhaps the gods were mad. Or perhaps he simply didn’t share their cruel sense of humor.

“Be welcome! “Viserys’s voice rang across the Tourney Grounds, pulling Daemon from his thoughts “I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise, you will not be disappointed. When I look upon the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious, by the news that I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labors!”

Daemon’s heart sank in his chest. This was it. The game of thrones was about to begin.

The crowd erupted in applause, blissfully unaware of the tragedy soon to unfold.

“ May the luck of the Seven shine upon all our combatants!”declared the king, signaling the start of the first joust.

Daemon's gaze drifted to Alicent and Rhaenyra, seated side by side in the royal box, whispering and laughing like sisters. There they were: the wife the gods had chosen for him — and the wife he had chosen for himself.

As before, Criston defeated a knight of House Tarly, then Ser Borros Baratheon and his father, Lord Boremund. The stands exploded with cheers. Daemon mounted his horse. The drums beat. Thirteen knights lined up before the royal box. The Master of Revels announced that the Prince of the City would choose his first opponent — and the crowd grew even louder.

Daemon entered the arena at a leisurely pace. His eyes met Alicent Hightower’s as he passed the box. Her brow furrowed in visible confusion at the attention he gave her.

He surveyed the knights. Perhaps he should choose someone different this time?

No... let the gods blame him for wanting a bit of fun. Once again, he chose Gwayne Hightower. He didn’t bother glancing at Otto — he could already picture the sour expression on the man’s face.

With both knights in position, the joust began. Daemon remembered this day vividly and had no trouble dodging Gwayne’s blow and striking him in the shoulder. The young man faltered, but stayed on his horse. Daemon couldn’t see his face beneath the helm, but he’d wager those eyes were wide with surprise — just like the faces of many in the stands.

For a moment, he considered toppling the horse just as he had the first time. But that would unsettle Alicent, and he needed her receptive. Two more passes were needed before Gwayne Hightower was defeated.

Daemon approached the royal box. Rhaenyra was the first to greet him, with Alicent following more cautiously than before.

“Nicely done, Uncle” the princess called, eager for his attention.

Daemon ignored her, his gaze fixed on the Hand’s daughter.

“I'm fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent” he said, raising his lance toward the railing “Having your favor would all but assure it”

A small smile curved her lips. Alicent stepped away to retrieve the flower crown. Daemon met Rhaenyra’s eyes — violet and burning with anger… and curiosity.

“Good luck, my Prince” said Alicent, placing the crown on his lance and letting it slide down to him. Daemon gave her a playful wink, which brought a faint blush to her cheeks.

As he turned to ride off, he caught sight of the maester whispering something into Otto Hightower’s ear. It wouldn’t be long now . Time itself seemed to slow. He watched Viserys rise and leave in haste. It was like watching grains of sand fall in an hourglass — each moment slipping through his fingers. He looked at Rhaenyra, blissfully unaware that her mother was soon to leave this world forever. In the life he’d left behind, when he and Rhaenyra had been husband and wife, she had confessed that she regretted not being able to say goodbye — that she blamed herself for enjoying the tourney while her mother was dying. For a heartbeat, he considered warning her. But he didn’t. The pain of guilt was still easier to bear than the torment of reliving a loved one’s final moments.

Guilt, he reasoned, was easier to carry than memory.

Once the king departed, the tournament descended into bloodshed. At least four knights were killed — a grim omen of what the day would become. The Master of Revels called out again, his voice high and clear, announcing the final match. He and Criston took their positions on the field. The crowd fell silent with anticipation. Daemon could hear his own heartbeat. He could feel the blood racing through his veins.

Lances splintered. Criston held firm, even as Daemon anticipated his every move. He had hoped to avoid a melee, but it seemed inevitable now.

In one final move, the Rogue Prince repeated the tactic that had won him victory over Gwayne Hightower in his first life — rather than aiming at his opponent, he aimed for the horse. Caught off guard, the Dornish knight couldn’t evade. The mount collapsed, and Criston was hurled nearly ten feet forward, slamming into the ground face-first.

From atop his steed, Daemon watched Ser Criston Cole try to rise. Wounded and dazed, all he could manage was a brief stagger before being carried off the field.

The crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers and applause. Hundreds of voices chanted his name. But Daemon’s attention was fixed on the royal box. Otto Hightower had returned. He approached the members of the Small Council, whispering hurriedly. A ripple of unrest passed through them. Daemon felt a weight settle in his gut.

The heir had been born .
 

His eyes sought out his niece.
 

Aemma was dead .

Chapter Text

A heavy silence fell over the Red Keep the moment the Queen’s death was announced.
No sooner had the tourney concluded than the news was delivered to the guests by the Hand of the King, for Viserys refused to leave the side of his newborn son.
By nightfall, the child too had passed.

Daemon was no stranger to grief. Since his birth, he had watched at least a hundred souls depart this world—some more dear to him than others. And yet, even the most detestable seemed to leave someone behind to mourn them.

But the absence of Aemma was deafening. Few queens had been as beloved as she, and fewer still would be so deeply mourned.

In his hands, Daemon held the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty. He had intended to present it to Alicent, but she had vanished from the royal box before the final bout, following Rhaenyra back to the Red Keep. Were they together when the princess learned of her mother’s death? He didn’t know. In truth, he wasn’t even certain why he had brought the crown with him—it was unlikely he’d find Alicent wandering the halls during such a sorrowful hour.

Daemon recalled many things from the tourney, and he remembered the funeral, too. The hours between were a haze, but it mattered little. He had no need to remember; the past no longer held meaning.

Everywhere he looked, there were tears. Even the very stones of the castle seemed to weep for their fallen queen.

Seeking distance from condolences and grief, Daemon made his way to his chambers, still clad in black armor, the crown of the tourney yet in hand.
“Rhaenyra, please, open the door,” came Alicent’s voice, echoing through the corridor. Daemon altered his course, turning toward his niece’s rooms.

Young Lady Hightower stood before the princess’s door, her hair slightly disheveled, unshed tears shimmering in her eyes.
“Nyra, please—hear me,” she said softly. “I know what you're going through. I lost my mother too. I know how much it hurts…”
“Go away!” came the anguished cry from within.

Alicent leaned against the door and slid down to the floor. A guard stood nearby, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled curiosity.

The clink of Daemon’s armor announced his approach. Alicent’s eyes found his, and she leapt to her feet, smoothing her skirts with hurried hands.
“My Prince,” she greeted with a graceful curtsy. “I’m afraid the Princess is not receiving visitors at the moment.”
“I thank you for the warning, Lady Alicent, but it is not the Princess I seek.”

She frowned slightly, confused.

Daemon stepped closer. Her brown eyes widened, and up close he could see the glimmer of honey and chestnut mingled in her irises—eyes startling in their expressiveness, full of emotions struggling to break free. For a moment, he found himself caught in their depths and in the small flame flickering at their center.

“My Prince,” she murmured, lowering her gaze. “This… closeness might be ill-advised.”
“Does my presence disturb you, Lady Alicent?” he asked, his smile serpentine.

Her face paled.
“No—no, not at all, my Prince. I didn’t mean… I never intended—”
Daemon laughed.

“It’s all right. You’ve not offended me,” said the Rogue Prince. He reached out, lifting her delicate chin with his fingers, compelling her to look at him. “You see, I’ve only come to offer you a gift.”

“A—gift?”

Daemon didn’t reply at once. He simply raised the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty between them. A strangled gasp escaped her lips. He placed it upon her auburn hair, his fingers curling into the soft, silken strands that tumbled over her shoulders.

“Your favor helped me win the tourney,” he said casually. “This is merely my way of returning the courtesy.”

Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

“I doubt I can take credit for such a feat, my Prince,” she murmured shyly. “It was your skill that earned you victory, not my favor.”

Alicent Hightower, always the modest and proper lady.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But wear it nonetheless, my lady. The crown suits you.”

From the corner of his eye, Daemon caught sight of handmaidens observing from the shadows—soon, this brief exchange would be known throughout the Red Keep.

“Good evening, Lady Alicent,” he said, and turned away as if nothing had happened.

Viserys’s face was a mask of guilt when Daemon saw him the following morning, and the deeper the funerary rites wore on, the more the king seemed to crumple beneath the weight of his remorse. By the final farewell, he looked on the verge of shattering.  

It was pathetic.

Daemon could sympathize with his brother’s pain. He, too, had felt lost after Laena’s death. But unlike Viserys, he had not chosen to kill his wife. And if he had, he would not be hiding like a frightened child. No—Daemon would face the consequences of his choices with his head held high, as he always had.

When Syrax landed atop the cliffside, her roar sounded like mourning incarnate. Daemon’s gaze drifted to Rhaenyra, standing straight-backed before the pyre. He noticed the slight tremble in her shoulders. Alicent stood a little apart, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

The wind howled over the hills, broken only by sniffles and choked sobs. This was the second time Daemon had attended Aemma Arryn’s funeral, but it had not grown any easier.

Long minutes passed in stillness. No one moved. No one spoke. Daemon remained where he was, wondering if Rhaenyra would act without prompting.
When it became clear she would not, he stepped forward.

“They’re waiting for you,” he said indifferently.

She took a moment to respond. When she did, it was in High Valyrian.

“ I wonde if, during those few hours my brother lived, my father finally found happiness .” Her voice shook.

“ Your father needs you more now than he ever has ,” Daemon replied, firm but not unkind.

“ I will never be a son ,” she answered bitterly.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, hesitant. At the cliff’s edge, Syrax stirred, awaiting her command. The princess’s lips trembled, the word caught behind them. Her eyes turned to her father, full of hope—for something he could not give her now.

“ Dracarys ,” she commanded.

The dragon obeyed, flames blooming from her jaws to engulf the pyre where Aemma and Baelon lay. Daemon watched the fire consume them both, knowing that if he failed in what was to come, he would be attending many more funerals before the end.

Alicent moved to stand beside the princess. Daemon’s eyes fell on them, unbidden. Their hands found one another, and Rhaenyra laid her head on her friend’s shoulder. They stood that way for a long time—bound by shared sorrow, a quiet understanding between them.

Daemon turned from the pyre and made his way back to the Red Keep.
There was no time to weep for Aemma—not when there were moves to be made before others seized the board.

The Hightowers , he thought, might prove more useful than he had once believed .

The Rogue Prince had never taken much interest in the politics of Westeros, but even he could see that, though the Hand was a fucking leech of a man, his ability to bend the court to his will was impressive. Always making alliances. Always collecting favors. Always scheming.

Otto Hightower was an ambitious man—one who would do anything to see his blood on the Iron Throne. He had not hesitated to offer his only daughter to the king. And if Daemon played his cards right, he could turn that ambition to his own advantage.

Upon reaching the Red Keep, he slipped into its secret passages, navigating the hidden tunnels until he emerged in the Tower of the Hand.

The sun still shone when he slid aside a stone panel and entered Otto Hightower’s private chambers. The room was meticulously organized—no dust upon the shelves, no clutter on the desk. Cold. Impersonal . Only the scattered Hightower banners marked the space as his.

Daemon seated himself at the desk with little ceremony, boots resting atop the wood. All he had to do now was wait—and hope Otto’s ambition outweighed his hatred.

Nearly an hour passed before voices approached from the corridor. The door creaked open. Otto and Lyman Beesbury paused in the doorway, both visibly surprised.

The Hand cleared his throat, regaining composure.

“If you’ll excuse us, Lord Beesbury, we shall continue this discussion later,” Otto said.

The Master of Coin gave Daemon a curt nod and departed swiftly.

“My Prince,” Otto said, voice laced with venom. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

Daemon lowered his feet and leaned forward, forearms resting on the desk.

“I have a proposition for you, Ser Otto. Think of it as… a peace offering.”

Otto stepped into the room, his face unreadable. But Daemon had spent years provoking the man, and he could see the flicker of curiosity behind those pale eyes.

“I’m listening, my Prince.”

Daemon gestured to the chair across from him. Otto’s eyes flashed with irritation, but he sat nonetheless.

“You want your blood on the Iron Throne,” Daemon said flatly.

A flicker of nervousness crossed the Hand’s eyes—gone in a blink, replaced by a thin chuckle.

“Oh, my Prince, I would never presume—”

“Like me, you’re a second son, Ser Otto. We inherit nothing. Everything we achieve is won through wit and will. You want your blood on the throne—fine. So do I. Surely, we can come to an understanding.”

“I fear I don’t follow,” Otto said slowly.

“Don’t play the fool. You’re far too clever for that.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed, evaluating.

“And what exactly do you propose, my Prince?”

“You intend to support Rhaenyra’s claim at the next council meeting. Don’t.”

“And why, pray tell, should I not?”

“You chose Rhaenyra because you think she’ll be easier to remove once your daughter bears Viserys a son,” Daemon said. Otto opened his mouth, but Daemon cut him off. “But believe me, Ser Otto—she won’t be. Viserys will never love the children of another woman. Rhaenyra will always be his favorite, no matter how many sons Alicent gives him. And my niece… she is far too spoiled to relinquish any gift once it’s been placed in her hands.”

“You suggest I support your claim instead?” Otto asked, voice heavy with disdain.

A wicked smile curled Daemon’s lips.

“Wait a little while, Ser Otto. A proposal will come your way soon. I suggest you consider it— carefully .”

Daemon rose and left, leaving Otto Hightower alone, curious and simmering.
The Rogue Prince had made his first move. Now he would wait to see how the other pieces responded.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the very first thing Daemon did was visit Caraxes.
The sun had barely crested the horizon when he mounted his horse and rode to the Dragonpit. He wasn’t surprised to find a carriage already there. Alicent stood a few paces ahead, scanning the sky with nervous eyes, picking at the raw skin around her fingernails. There was no sign of Rhaenyra.

“Lady Alicent,” he called out, making her startle. “What brings you here so early?”

“Good morning, my Prince,” she replied with a curtsy. “Princess Rhaenyra was not in her chambers when I went to find her. The servants said she left before dawn, dressed in her riding leathers. She took to the skies just before I arrived.”

“She’s upset,” Daemon said with a shrug. “A ride will clear her head.”

Alicent shook her head, visibly distressed.

“You don’t understand, my Prince. She seemed… disturbed. She wasn’t in any condition to fly. She left without even fastening her saddle properly. I fear she may be hurt.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes, studying her face. She seemed genuinely worried. Her eyes were wet, her lower lip bloodied, likely from her anxious fingers.

He turned to the Dragonkeepers.

“Ready Caraxes. I must depart at once,” he commanded. Then, more softly, to Alicent, “Don’t worry. I’ll go after her.”

More tears welled in her eyes, though none fell.

“Thank you, Prince Daemon,” she said, her voice thick with gratitude. It surprised him. He had long thought the friendship between Rhaenyra and Alicent was little more than courtly convenience. Yet here stood Alicent Hightower, truly afraid for his niece’s safety.

The morning quiet was broken by Caraxes’s roar. A grin tugged at Daemon’s lips as the gates opened and the dragon’s long, sinuous head emerged, smoke curling from his nostrils. From the corner of his eye, Daemon watched Alicent, half-expecting her to flee at the sight of the Blood Wyrm. But she held her ground. Tense, yes—but more anxious than afraid.

Caraxes’s yellow eyes found her and let out a sharp huff before lowering his body to the ground.

“She flew north,” Alicent said softly.

Daemon nodded and approached the dragon, mounting with practiced ease. But Caraxes did not rise. He lay still, eyes locked on Alicent, as if expecting her to climb aboard as well. Strange, thought Daemon, tugging the reins. The dragon moved at last, though the low rumble in his throat sounded almost disappointed. The prince shook his head, banishing the odd thought, and took to the sky.

He drew a long breath, relishing the flight—no war, no death, just the wind and the sky. He had almost forgotten what it was to fly freely, without the weight of blood on his shoulders.

From above, Rhaenyra was easy to spot. She flew recklessly, forcing Syrax into tight turns and sudden dives, pushing the dragon to its limits. Perhaps he ought to let her crash, he mused grimly. Turn back, tell Alicent he found nothing.

He pulled Caraxes into a sharp turn. A flock of birds rose up before them, scattering chaotically. They blocked his retreat. Wherever he tried to go, they followed, forcing him back on course. With a sigh, Daemon turned again toward his niece.

“Come, buddy. After them,” he muttered. Caraxes dove, wind howling past them as they closed the distance.

Syrax roared and veered away, but speed was not enough. Caraxes, older and more experienced, was swifter through the air. It did not take long to catch up. They surged past Rhaenyra and her dragon just as they flew above the hills, then circled back, driving them downward until Syrax was forced to land.

A cloud of dust rose as the dragons touched earth. Rhaenyra leapt down, face flushed with fury. She stormed toward him, but the Blood Wyrm growled, halting her. Her eyes widened in surprise at the beast’s warning.

Daemon dismounted calmly.

“Everyone’s asking after you,” he said, stopping near Caraxes’s great head.

“Liar,” Rhaenyra snapped. “No one cares! They're all too busy mourning. No one gives a damn about me.”

“Your friend cares,” Daemon replied evenly. “She’s worried for you.”

Her expression softened.
“Alicent?”

“She told me where to find you.”

Rhaenyra sank to the ground. Her violet eyes brimmed with tears, and Daemon silently begged her not to cry—he was hopeless with grief.

“My mother and brother are gone, and all anyone cares about is who’ll inherit the cursed throne. Not even my father came to see how I am.”

“Your father lost them too, Rhaenyra. He’s grieving as well. But he is the king. He has duties, just as you have yours.”

She snorted like an indignant dragon.

“Flying about, risking your life, won’t bring them back,” Daemon chided.

“No, but maybe it will let me join them,” she replied.

“Viserys would be shattered if he lost you, Rhaenyra. You know that.”

“He still has you, doesn’t he?”

“I might be his heir,” Daemon said gently, “but I’ll never be a daughter, his daughter.”

A heavy sigh escaped her.

“Let’s go home,” she said, voice choked.

She rose and went to Syrax, who crooned softly and nuzzled her head against her rider, as if to comfort her. Daemon mounted first, waiting until Rhaenyra climbed into her saddle. They took to the skies shortly after, Daemon allowing her to lead so he could keep watch.

As they neared the Dragonpit, Daemon spotted a familiar flash of pale blue and auburn curls darting anxiously across the yard. Caraxes roared, announcing their arrival. The small figure froze and turned toward the sky.

Alicent did not approach when they landed. She stood her ground, wary of the dragons, but her brown eyes locked on Rhaenyra with clear relief.

“Nyra…” she breathed as they dismounted.

“I’m fine, Ali,” the princess said, brushing past her toward the carriage.

Alicent’s face crumpled in silent sorrow. Daemon stepped beside her.

“She’s upset. Give her time,” he said. Alicent nodded.

She walked toward the carriage but paused.

“Will you join us, my Prince?” she asked, glancing back.

Daemon looked at the horse he’d ridden.

“Of course,” he said. “In a moment.”

He turned back to Caraxes, placing a hand on the dragon’s snout.

“You know something, don’t you, old friend?” he whispered.

Caraxes rumbled in reply, swinging his head toward the carriage, then back to him.

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry—I know what I’m doing.”

The dragon snorted and slithered back toward the pit. Daemon chuckled, then followed Alicent.

The girls sat side by side, as they had at the funeral. They held hands, and Rhaenyra rested her head on Alicent’s shoulder. Their hair spilled together—red and silver-blonde—blood on snow, ice and fire.

An intriguing sight, Daemon had to admit.

The ride back to the castle was silent. No words passed between them, each lost in their own thoughts.

When the carriage halted in the courtyard, Rhaenyra shot out like a fleeing bird. Alicent made to follow, but Daemon was quicker, stepping out first. Alicent, like the virtuous lady she was, did not protest.

He turned and offered her his hand. She hesitated but accepted.

“How kind of you, my Prince,” she said politely, though Daemon caught the flicker of suspicion in her voice.

He shrugged.

“I have my moments.”

She tried to pull away, but he held her hand a second longer. Her fingers were raw and torn—an imperfection on an otherwise flawless lady.

“If you’ll excuse me, Prince Daemon, I must go to the Princess,” she said.

“So soon? I thought you might keep me company.”

Her lips parted, a startled stammer escaping them, but no answer followed. Daemon chuckled. Teasing Alicent, it seemed, was even more entertaining than baiting her father.

He raised her hand and kissed her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. Her cheeks flushed a charming shade of crimson. Around them, dozens of eyes watched. Perfect.

“I do hope we meet again soon, Lady Alicent,” the Rogue Prince said, releasing her hand.

She turned even redder, offered a hasty curtsy, and vanished into the Red Keep.

***

Daemon slipped back into the shadows the moment he spotted the Lords of the Small Council approaching. One by one, they entered. As always, Otto was among the first. From his hiding place, Daemon could not see their faces clearly, but he could feel the tension in Hightower’s shoulders.

He’s hesitating, Daemon thought. Good. The whispers are reaching him.

The silence within the chamber was broken only when the doors opened and King Viserys entered. His face was drawn, eyes heavy with guilt.

“Where’s Rhaenyra?” he asked as he sat.

“Your Grace,” Otto began. Daemon crept closer to listen. “This is the last thing any of us wish to discuss at this dark hour, but I consider the matter urgent.”

“What matter?”

“That of your succession,” the Hand said. “The recent tragedies have left you without an obvious heir.”

“The King has an heir, my Lord Hand,” said Corlys.

“Despite how difficult this time is, Your Grace, I feel it important the succession be firmly in place for the stability of the realm,” Otto insisted.

“The succession is already set, by precedent and by law.”

“Shall we say his name?” asked Corlys. “Daemon Targaryen.”

Archmaester Mellos’s face soured.

“If Daemon were to remain the uncontested heir, it could destabilize the realm,” he muttered.

“The realm? Or this Council?” Corlys shot back.

“No one here can know what Daemon would do were he king,” said Otto. “But no one can doubt his ambition. Look at what he did with the gold cloaks. The City Watch is fiercely loyal to him. An army two thousand strong.”

“An army you gave him, Otto!” Viserys shouted. “I named Daemon Master of Laws, but you said he was a tyrant. As Master of Coin, you said he was a spendthrift that would beggar the realm. Putting Daemon in command of the City Watch was your solution!”

“A half-measure, Your Grace. The truth is…” Otto faltered. Daemon leaned closer. “Daemon must be appeased.”

Viserys leaned back, eyes narrowed. The Council was still, caught between disbelief and curiosity.

Mellos recovered first, his face twisted in anger.

“Daemon should be far away from this court!”

“Daemon is my brother!” Viserys roared. “My blood! And he will have his place at my court!”

“Let him keep his place at court, Your Grace,” the maester said. “But if the gods should visit some further tragedy on you, either by design or by accident…”

“Design?,” the king snapped. “What are you saying? My brother would murder me, take my crown?Are you?”

Mellos said nothing.

“Please.Daemon has ambition, yes, but not for the throne. He lacks the patience for it.”

From the shadows, Daemon smiled.

Ah, dear brother… if only you knew.

Viserys locked eyes with Otto, but the Hand remained silent.

“Under such circumstances,” Mellos said at last, “it would not be an aberration for the King to name a successor.”

“Well, who else would have a claim?” asked Lord Strong.

Again, silence. Otto opened his mouth but closed it.

“My wife, Rhaenys, was once considered,” Corlys said. “And she has a male heir.”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you, Lord Corlys?”

“I speak only for the good of the realm.”

“You mean for your own good.”

“Moments ago, you spoke in favor of Daemon,” Otto accused.

“If we cannot agree, perhaps—”

“MY WIFE AND SON ARE DEAD!” Viserys thundered. “I will not sit here and suffer crows that come to feast on their corpses!”

He rose, his chair screeching across the floor. Daemon turned away too, slipping from the chamber unnoticed.

Otto still opposed his claim, as he had expected he would—the Hand would never agree to anything unless their gains were clear—but he had not nominated Rhaenyra either, so the prince would consider this meeting a small victory.

Reaching a less crowded corridor he slipped back into the halls of the Red Keep and headed towards Maegor's Holdfast; he needed to reach his brother's chambers before Alicent did.

He had to ensure there would not be any chance that Viserys would choose her as queen.

Chapter Text

His vigil near the king’s chambers had lasted longer than expected. Daemon was nearly ready to abandon his post when he heard hesitant footsteps echoing through the corridor. Slipping from the alcove where he had been hiding in the shadows, he followed the sound until he turned a corner—and collided with Alicent Hightower.

“Lady Alicent,” he greeted, his tone neutral “What are you doing here at this hour? Rhaenyra is not with you?”

“I… well, she… ahm…” she stammered, her cheeks flushing red despite the dim corridor light.

“Not even the King can make Rhaenyra open her door when she chooses to keep it shut,” Daemon said, unable to suppress the amusement in his voice.

Her shoulders visibly relaxed at that.

“I’m sorry, my Prince,” she replied. “I know I shouldn’t bother the King with trivial matters.” A faint, ironic smile curved Daemon’s lips. Lying little fox. Just like your father. “But I’m worried about her. It’s unlike the Princess to stay locked away for so long.”

His gaze wandered down her form. She wore a dark gown, sheer in places, woven with intricate patterns—far more revealing than her usual attire. Not that it said much, given her typically modest tastes. It was a beautiful dress, though too somber, too severe for a girl so young.

“She’s going through a difficult time. I’m sure you can understand that,” Daemon said.

“I can, my Prince,” she replied softly.

Her eyes met his then—eyes steeped in a sorrow that felt etched into the very core of her.

“It’s late,” Daemon said. “You should be asleep. May I walk you to your chambers?”

“I appreciate your kindness, Prince Daemon, but I wouldn’t want to impose,” she said, hurrying a few steps to place herself in front of him.

His lips curled into another sly smile.

“Oh, but it would be no trouble at all, my lady.”

He stepped forward, intent on accompanying her regardless, but again she barred his path.

“Truly, I thank you for your kindness,” she said, already backing away. “But I’d rather not trouble you with such a dull task. I can find my own way… ahm… good night.”

He watched her scurry off with evident amusement. All that nervousness made him wonder what stories her father had spun about him.

Well, he thought, I suppose I can delay this no longer.

With a resigned sigh, Daemon turned and made his way to the king’s chambers. As he neared the doors, one of the guards stepped forward.

“His Grace does not wish to be disturbed, my Prince.”

Daemon gave no reply, only rested his hands on Dark Sister and cast the man a long, quiet stare. The knight paled and stepped back. The other guard rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Prince Daemon, Your Grace.”

Daemon didn’t wait for permission. He pushed the door open and entered without ceremony.

Viserys sat hunched over the great model of Old Valyria, the golden ring that had once belonged to Aemma turning between his fingers. Upon noticing Daemon, he wrapped the ring gently in a cloth and slipped it into his pocket.

“Brother,” the king said, his voice heavy. “I fear I am in no state to resolve any matters tonight.”

Daemon clenched his jaw.

“I bring no matters for resolution,” he said, stepping closer.

“No?”

“No,” he repeated, softer this time. “I came to see how you fare.”

Viserys lifted his head, startled. A silence lingered between them. Then the king sighed. Daemon pulled out a chair and sat across from him.

His feelings for Viserys were complicated—so too was their bond. He loved his brother, even if they agreed on almost nothing. He respected Viserys’ dedication to peace, even if he often saw it as weakness. He admired him—just as any younger brother might—though he found him pitiful more often than not.

Where Daemon had always been fire and chaos—unpredictable, impulsive—Viserys had been gentle, avoiding conflict even at his own expense. From their boyhood, Daemon had felt it was his duty to protect him, to take the blows Viserys would never dare strike. Often, it felt like he was the older one. And now, he truly was older than his brother had ever been—and soon he would surpass him by many more years.

“I feel so lost without her,” Viserys whispered. “Aemma was my anchor. The burden of the crown was lighter with her beside me. Now… everything feels as if it’s falling apart.”

“Aemma was a good queen. An extraordinary woman. We’ll all mourn her. Take your time, brother—but don’t drown in self-pity.”

“Self-pity?” Viserys' voice cracked. “You judge me for grieving after losing everything?”

“You haven’t lost everything, Viserys. You still have a daughter. One who needs you now more than ever.”

Viserys looked up, his pale eyes meeting Daemon’s darker gaze. Emotions shimmered there—grief, regret, and… curiosity.

“What is it?” Daemon asked.

“Nothing,” said the king after a pause. “You just… seem different, brother.”

Daemon let out a short laugh.

“Different bad?”

“No,” said Viserys, a faint smile touching his lips. “Just… different.”

***

The next morning, Daemon arrived at the Small Council on time , to the obvious delight of the king. The lords at the table eyed him as though a second head might sprout from his shoulders. Well— most of them. Otto Hightower remained impassive, but after years of making the man’s life difficult, Daemon could read the slightest twitch of displeasure in those sharp eyes. He didn’t want him here.

Rhaenyra, on the other hand, looked at him as though he held the sun in his hands. Daemon glanced at his brother, but Viserys seemed far too engrossed in the Master of Coin’s report to notice the way his daughter lingered by Daemon’s side, refilling his cup with an unnecessary intimacy.

Daemon fought back a smirk. It was just like Viserys not to notice his daughter’s behavior even when it was paraded before him.

That indulgence was what had turned Rhaenyra reckless, incapable of accepting denial. In another life, Daemon had watched Alicent give Viserys not one but three healthy sons, yet still, he refused to displace his little girl as heir.

Blinded by guilt over Aemma’s death, Viserys had neglected his duties as king and as head of House Targaryen, forever chasing a redemption he’d never earn. And now, the gods had seen fit to leave Daemon cleaning up the mess his brother had made—again.

It was his fate to protect his family.

“Well,” Viserys said, rising. Daemon realized he hadn’t paid attention to a word of the meeting. “If that is all, my lords—”

“Actually, Your Grace,” Otto began, “there is one matter we feel requires your attention.”

The king sank back into his seat with a sigh.

“If this is about the succession again, Otto, the matter is settled.”

Every eye at the table turned to Daemon, awaiting an outburst. He merely reached for his cup and sipped his wine. Otto cleared his throat.

“Recent events have exposed just how vulnerable your House has become, Your Grace.”

“Vulnerable?” Viserys furrowed his brow.

“The death of the Queen has left the realm unsettled…”

“We are few, brother,” Daemon cut in. “One bad year could see our House extinguished.”

Otto’s eyes flicked toward him, intrigued.

“The Hand and… the Prince,” said Lord Strong hesitantly, as if placing them in the same sentence offended the gods, “raise a critical point. House Targaryen’s numbers dwindle at an alarming pace. Something must be done.”

“I understand,” said Viserys wearily. “But what exactly do you propose?”

“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Otto said carefully, “it is time to consider a new royal marriage.”

Daemon glanced sideways at Rhaenyra. She was refilling Lord Beesbury’s cup, feigning disinterest, but he saw the tension in her jaw.

“Rhaenyra is still very young,” Viserys murmured. “I won’t force her into a match now.”

The princess exhaled in quiet relief.

“With respect, Your Grace,” said Otto, meeting his gaze, “we were not speaking of the Princess.”

“The ashes of Aemma haven’t even cooled,” Daemon’s voice was low and venomous, “and already you seek to push another woman into my brother’s bed.”

Viserys looked at him, surprised—and grateful. Daemon clenched his teeth. That surprise stung more than it should have. Had he not always defended them? Yet still, they looked at him as if he cared for nothing but his own pleasures.

“We understand the timing is painful, my Prince,” said Lord Strong. “But the King must consider the realm’s future.”

“I will not take another wife,” Viserys thundered.

“Your reluctance is more than understandable, Your Grace,” said Mellos. “But with only four living members, your House teeters on the edge.”

“If my brother will not marry,” Daemon said calmly, silencing the room, “and not give Rhaenyra's hand either, then don't do it.”

The Hand turned to him, eyes sharp.

“The numbers are worrying, Prince Daemon. You seem to agree.”

Daemon’s grin was all teeth.

“I do. That’s why, if my brother won’t wed, I will.”

“Daemon,” said Viserys, “you’re already married.”

“A minor inconvenience,” Daemon replied with a shrug. “Surely, you can resolve it for me, brother.”

“If you truly wish to strengthen your House,” Otto interjected, “perhaps you should start by spending time with your wife.”

Daemon groaned. Not this argument again. He had forgotten how annoying it was to discuss this same thing constantly.

“My Bronze Bitch despises me nearly as much as I despise her. That marriage will never bear fruit.”

“How can you say that?” Viserys asked. “It was Queen Alysanne herself who chose her for you.”

“Even the Good Queen was not above mistakes.”

“I’m sorry, my Prince,” said the Grand Maester, “but if the marriage was consummated—”

“It wasn’t. I never bedded her,” Daemon snapped. “If you won’t take my word, write to my unfortunate wife. She’ll confirm it.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Rhaenyra inch closer to the table, drawn by the escalating conversation.

“Even so,” Viserys said, “what assurance do we have that your second marriage would be any better than the first?”

“Let me choose this one,” Daemon replied. “That would make all the difference.”

“You speak as though you already have someone in mind, Prince Daemon,” Otto said warily.

Rhaenyra looked to her uncle, eyes full of silent hope—but he did not meet her gaze. Instead, his eyes fixed on the Hand of the King, heavy with meaning.

“As a matter of fact, Lord Hand,” Daemon said, “I do.”

Otto Hightower’s eyes lit with anger and understanding.

***

For Daemon, few pleasures rivaled the thrill of a brothel after a night spent cleansing the city. Seated at a shadowed table in the corner, he watched—detached and silent—as his men drank, laughed, and coupled with reckless abandon, as though the world might end with the rising sun. Deep down, he felt a flicker of envy. In his first life, the Rogue Prince would have led the revels with unchallenged fervor. But now, with his mind ever tethered to purpose, surrendering to such indulgences no longer came easily.

Wine and whores had lost their luster. Perhaps the gods had dimmed those delights on purpose, blunting the edge of temptation to keep him true to the path they had laid before him.

His violet gaze wandered. Daemon observed the debauchery around him with a quiet, almost amused satisfaction—half-naked women swaying to music, men brawling and shouting between gulps of sour wine, the room thick with heat and sin.

Then he saw it—something all too familiar.

Atop the round bed in the center of the room, a whore straddled a knight for all to see. Behind them, from across the chamber, came Mysaria, approaching with a pitcher of wine in her hands, just as she had on that distant day so many years ago—when he’d been accused of calling his nephew the Heir for a Day. Just as she should have done yesterday. A chill crept up his spine.

And for the second time, Daemon rose and left the brothel in haste, abandoning behind him a deeply bewildered Mysaria.

He took to the streets of King’s Landing, weaving through the throng of common folk under cover of night. Blood pounded in his ears. Nothing had changed. The gossip about the Heir for a Day would still reach Otto’s ears. He would still be cast aside—robbed of his inheritance.

No.

Not this time.

Daemon quickened his pace.

Chapter Text

Daemon could no longer count on the favor of the gods; he was waging war against fate itself. He could not afford a moment’s respite, could not lower his guard—not when a single misstep might imperil the future of his House.

He had been reckless, foolishly venturing out to drink and revel with his Goldcloaks, treating his triumph as a foregone conclusion. Idiot. The lords of the council were not men who yielded easily; they were patient, serpentine, always lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. If Daemon were to defeat them, his eyes could never stray from the throne.

The corridors of the Red Keep lay nearly deserted, haunted only by those still bound to duty—guards patrolling the night, handmaids hurrying to and from the chambers of their mistresses, tending to late meals, warm baths, or clandestine notes from secret lovers. But Daemon paid no heed to any of it. He moved with purpose through the dimly lit halls, his eyes sweeping each doorway in search of a familiar shade of auburn hair.

He spotted her at last, heading toward Maegor’s Holdfast—surely in another attempt to reach the king. Daemon quickened his pace, and before Alicent could even register his presence, he had seized her by the waist and drawn her into a shadowed alcove. He pressed her against the cold stone wall, one hand covering her mouth to stifle her cry.

Her wide brown eyes bulged in shock, so much so that for a moment, he feared they might leap from her face. The heavy tome she had been carrying lay forgotten on the flagstones. Slowly, he lifted his hand from her lips.

“Good evening, Lady Alicent,” Daemon said with a sly, dangerous smile. “Might I ask where you’re headed at this hour?”

“I… You frightened me, my prince,” she whispered.

“Don’t change the subject.”

Alicent swallowed hard. The smile on Daemon’s face grew.

“Visiting the king, are you? Planning to be our next queen?” Her cheeks flushed a vivid red.

“I didn’t want to—” she began, her voice cracking with emotion. “I swear… my father told me… told me I should go to him, offer comfort. I never— I didn’t mean to offend. Please, my prince…”

She trembled beneath his grasp, seemingly on the verge of collapse. And though Daemon knew he should soothe her, a cruel satisfaction stirred within him at the sight.

“Oh, but you have offended me, Lady Alicent.” Her face turned pale. “You spurn my every approach, and yet offer yourself so freely to my brother.”

“I… what?”

“Tell me, my lady,” he murmured, winding a fiery lock of her hair around his fingers, “do you find my company so disagreeable?”

She said nothing. Her gaze searched his face, unsure of what answer he sought. Daemon’s expression remained unreadable as he leaned closer, until his breath ghosted over her lips.

“I do not know you well enough to say, my prince,” she replied softly but honestly, uncertain of his reaction yet resolved to speak the truth.

Daemon’s smile turned serpentine.

“Worry not, my lady. There will be time enough to grow acquainted—before the wedding.”

“What?” Alicent choked, her face aflame. “My Prince… you’re already married!”

“Ah, but not for long, dearest. My miserable union with the Bronze Bitch is nearing its end—one way or another. And then you,” he whispered, gripping the hair at the nape of her neck and tugging until she met his gaze, “will be mine.”

Even in the corridor’s faint light, he could see the flush that spread across her face, the way a gasp escaped her lips. Whether it was the pull of her hair or the words he had spoken, he couldn’t say—nor did he care. All that filled his senses now was her scent, citrus and clean, and the sight of her parted lips, red and glistening. He wondered how they might taste—and for a heartbeat, he was tempted to find out.

Footsteps echoed in the distance, drawing nearer. Daemon stilled, listening. Alicent seemed oblivious, her eyes wide with expectation. He tightened his hold on her and pressed his mouth to hers.

She stiffened at once, her hands rising to his chest as if to push him away—but she didn’t. The longer he kissed her, the more her resistance faded. Soon, she was kissing him back, shy and awkward at first, her hands trembling as they slid up to his neck. Daemon let out a low, approving sound, and she melted further in his grasp. He deepened the kiss, pushing her harder against the wall, lifting her to the tips of her toes.

A loud sigh broke the moment. Alicent flinched. Daemon pulled back, his eyes never leaving her face—her curls mussed, her lips swollen, her breath shallow and rapid. The image of a girl undone stirred a dark satisfaction within him.

He turned toward the handmaid who had caught them, her expression disapproving. She had taken longer than expected.

“Out,” he growled.

The poor girl curtsied hastily and fled, snatching up the fallen book as she went.

Alicent tried to slip free, but Daemon kept his hands firm at her waist, holding her in place. She looked mortified.

“Leaving so soon, Lady Alicent?” he asked, a wicked smile on his lips.

“Elinor saw us—she…” Horror dawned in her eyes. “Oh gods, we shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have kissed you. You're married—this is wrong, it's a sin. May the Seven forgive us, we are doomed.”

Daemon laughed and leaned in once more. Alicent turned her face away.

“Don’t fret, Lady Alicent,” he whispered, kissing the hollow beneath her ear. “Your soul remains safe and sound.”

“How can you be sure of that?” she asked, casting him a suspicious glance.

The Rogue Prince smiled smugly.

“The gods themselves chose you for me.”

Alicent frowned. “I didn’t know you were a religious man, my prince.”

“I’m not.”

He surged forward, catching her with a kiss—a mere brush of lips—before she darted away down the corridor.

Daemon stood watching her flaming curls vanish into the dark, and found himself wondering if this match, divinely ordained or not, might not be such a dreadful fate after all.

***

Sweat trickled down Daemon’s face, soaking his clothes and silver-gold hair. He had pushed himself harder than usual in training with the City Watch, driving them—and himself—to the limit. They had to be ready to fulfill their duty, ready to fight if war became inevitable.

It had been nearly three days since his visit to the pillow house and his encounter with the Hand’s daughter, but neither Viserys nor Otto had come to confront him. No mention had been made in Council, no visits to his chambers. Everything was… quiet. Unsettlingly quiet.

“Another half hour and you’re dismissed!” the prince called out. “We won’t be patrolling tonight. You’ve earned some rest.”

A chorus of cheers rose from hundreds of throats—a brief uproar before the blades were raised once more, their strength renewed.

“My lord,” someone called, prompting Daemon to turn. “Will you be joining us in the Street of Silk tonight?”

“The Lord Commander doesn’t need the Street of Silk anymore—he’s got a pretty little lady warming his bed in the Keep!”

Laughter rang through the training yard, and Daemon joined in.

“Tell us, my Prince,” one man asked, “is Lady Alicent red-haired everywhere?”

“Is it true? Did you take her maidenhead?” asked another, and soon they were all hurling questions and lewd jokes.

“Lady Alicent’s easily one of the prettiest women at court. I envy you, my Prince.”

“Word is, a maid caught you in the act.”

“Who would’ve thought? Even the prim and proper Lady Alicent can’t resist the Lord of Flea Bottom!”

Another volley of laughter rang out.

“She as proper in bed as she is at court, my Prince?”

“That’s a very good question,” Daemon replied, to the delight of all.

“Oh, so fair and pious—it must be a sight to see her ruined.”

“I’d give a fortune for a turn between her legs.”

Daemon left the yard, heading back into the Red Keep. Since that little performance a few nights ago, the rumors had only grown. He could hear the whispers among handmaids, ladies, even smallfolk. A few bold souls had approached him directly, asking if the tales were true. He’d only ever answered with a wry comment or a sardonic grin—never confirming, never denying.

Alicent’s own behavior only fueled the rumors. Whenever they shared a room, she became a flustered, blushing mess—something Daemon found greatly amusing.

He had tried to get closer to her these past few days. After all, his affection had to seem genuine—and he had to win her over before anyone else. If he could stage a few more “accidents,” even better. But as with all things in his life, nothing came easily. Alicent had been avoiding him as if he were the very embodiment of sin—sent to tempt and damn her.

She’d grown so skilled at evading him that Daemon now had to hunt her through the castle just to keep her from visiting Viserys’ chambers. And even then, he wasn’t always successful. It would probably be easier if he simply stood guard outside the king’s door as he had that first night—but there was something thrilling about this game of cat and mouse. And with no more pillow house diversions, it was one of the few entertainments court life had left to offer.

“My Prince,” a guard called the moment Daemon stepped inside the Red Keep, “the King requests your presence in his chambers.”

“I’ll go after a bath,” he replied.

“I’m sorry, my Prince, but the matter is urgent,” said the guard, avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing’s so urgent it can’t wait a few minutes,” Daemon muttered, turning away.

“My Prince,” the guard called again, making the Rogue Prince scowl, “I truly am sorry, but the King was explicit—he requires your presence immediately.”

Grinding his teeth, Daemon turned and made his way to his brother’s chambers. The doors creaked open, the room thick with the king’s scent. Viserys sat before the hearth, flipping through the same large book Daemon had seen with Alicent that night.

“Daemon,” the king greeted, setting the book aside. He didn’t look as furious as during their last quarrel over Prince Baelon, but irritation still colored his tone.

“Brother,” Daemon replied. “You wished to see me?”

Viserys nodded and gestured for him to come closer.

“Come. Sit, sit.”

Daemon hesitated—suspicious—but eventually sprawled into the chair across from Viserys, pretending interest in the book.

Silence stretched between them. Neither brother willing to begin what would no doubt be a difficult conversation.

“The Heir for a Day,” the king said bitterly. “Did you say it?”

“What?” Daemon wore his best mask of confusion. He was getting good at this—lying.

Viserys let out a frustrated grunt.

“I’ve received reports that you closed a brothel on the Street of Silk to celebrate your success with the City Watch. That you toasted my son’s death, calling him ‘The Heir for a Day.’ Did you say it?”

“I’m guilty of using Crown funds to close a brothel, yes. But I fear I joined no such toast.”

“Don’t lie to me, Daemon!” Viserys snapped. “There are witnesses who swear you were there!”

“Then surely they told you I returned to the Keep early,” Daemon countered.

“You never return early from your debauches.”

“Indeed. But I’ve had no appetite for wine or whores of late.” Daemon locked eyes with Viserys. He had never been so honest with his brother—and hoped he would see that.

The king sighed—weariness, or perhaps relief.

“I don’t know if I can trust you anymore, Daemon. You’ve kept yourself distant for years.”

“You’re the one who pushes me away,” the Rogue Prince thundered. “To the Vale, the City Watch—anywhere but at your side! You’ve been king for years and never once asked me to be your Hand.”

“Why would I?” Viserys shot back.

“Because I’m your brother. Because the Blood of the Dragon runs thick in our veins!”

“Then why did you wound me so deeply?”

“Gods, Viserys, how many times must I say it before you believe me? Yes, I went to that brothel—but I wasn’t there long, and I toasted no one.”

“And how am I to trust your word? You’ve given me naught but empty promises.”

Daemon’s blood ran hot.

“YOU ACCUSE ME WITH NOTHING BUT WORDS!”

Once more, silence took hold of the room. Two pairs of Valyrian eyes met—rage in one, wounded pride in the other.

“Where were you, then?” Viserys asked at last, his voice careful.

Daemon’s gaze shifted to the book his brother had set upon the table.

“Lady Alicent is a rare beauty, wouldn’t you agree, brother?” the prince said softly, almost idly.

Viserys went pale.

“Some whispers hold more truth than others,” Daemon continued, his eyes returning to the king, a wicked curl forming on his lips. “I cannot be in two places at once… can I?”

“You’re bluffing,” said Viserys.

Daemon laughed, low and sharp.

“Am I? Then ask her,” he said, tilting his chin toward the book.

Viserys’s eyes, pale as lilac flame, searched his brother’s face for any trace of falsehood.

“Brother,” he said at last, “I know you and Otto Hightower stand on opposite shores. But Lady Alicent is not your enemy. It is cruel to tarnish her name out of vengeance.”

A flicker of dark satisfaction crossed Daemon’s face. He had long believed that it was Otto’s venomous counsel that had turned the king against him and cost him the title of heir. To hear Viserys admit it, if only by omission, was a balm to old wounds.

“I do not lie, Viserys.”

The king opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, the muscles of his jaw tightening.

“Lady Alicent is dear to Rhaenyra and a gentle soul. She is not to be toyed with, brother,” Viserys said, his tone clipped. Daemon bit back a laugh.

You’d marry her yourself if given the chance .

“I am not toying with her,” the prince replied, and the king stared as though he had been struck. “I have spoken to you of this before.”

“You never—”

“I said I had another wife in mind. Did I not?”

“But I thought…” Viserys trailed off, shaking his head as though to dispel the image. “Very well… I shall write to Lady Rhea.”

The taste of triumph settled sweet and thick on Daemon’s tongue, and a knowing smile bloomed across his face.

“Thank you, brother.”

Chapter Text

Daemon sat at the Small Council table with a smug smile etched across his face. On the other side, Otto stared back with blood in his eyes. An almost suffocating tension had settled in the room, causing the other council members to behave cautiously. If he was angry just at the rumors, imagine how he would be when he found out that Viserys had practically already promised him Alicent. The thought amused the prince so much that he had to suppress a hysterical laugh trying to escape his throat.

Now that the prince’s presence had become a constant at the meetings, there was less room for the lords to conspire against him; after all, not even the boldest were capable of showing their discontent in his presence. But he could still see them sneaking up to the king in moments when he was not around, whispering poisonous words into Viserys’s pliable ears.

After so many decades, Daemon knew their kind well: well-born lords who filled their coffers with gold ripped from the Crown while offering false counsel and declaring that everything they did was for the good of the realm—puppeteers, made for the Court’s theater and not for the harshness of steel.

He had always detested the nest of vipers that was King’s Landing, so he kept his distance as much as possible. But Daemon was still a prince of that court, and he knew how to play that game—perhaps even better than Otto and his gang of sycophants, for he had something they lacked: experience in war.

“The matter is simple,” said Lord Beesbury, trying to sound impartial, but his eyes flickered nervously between Daemon and Otto as if expecting one of them to leap at the other’s throat at any moment. “If taxes are adjusted as Lord Strong proposes, we can cover the remaining expenses of the tournament without compromising the barns of the Reach.”

“And anger the great lords who finance the Wall’s guard?” Otto retorted, his voice icy. “Seems to me a reckless risk…”

Daemon leaned forward, a sharp smile on his face. The Dark Sister seemed to weigh heavily at his hip, just waiting for an excuse to be drawn.

“Ah, yes, the lords of the Reach—always so generous,” Daemon said, his sarcasm cutting. He knew he couldn’t keep opposing Otto if he wanted him as an ally, but it seemed the man took care to make that task almost impossible. “Curious how concern for the people only appears when it threatens the pockets of your allies, Lord Hand.”

Otto’s eyes fixed on the prince, piercing like daggers. Sitting between them, Viserys seemed to shrink with every word spoken, becoming smaller and smaller before the opposing forces pressing on him—the brother who stirred storms, and the counselor who planted deep roots beneath his feet. The king cleared his throat, annoyed but silent. It was always like this, Daemon thought with disdain. When a king was most needed, Viserys became a shadow.

“With all due respect, my prince,” Otto began, clenching his fists on the table, “I believe it’s a terrible idea to underestimate the political ties the Reach has with the North. The realm’s stability cannot rest on brute force alone… though perhaps that is the only language Your Grace speaks fluently.”

A murmur ran through those present, muffled like thunder beneath stone. Daemon laughed—not a light laugh, but a hoarse sound, heavy with scorn. He laid his hands on the table, fingers drumming as if marking the rhythm of an imminent execution.

“The only language that matters, my dear Hand, is the one enemies understand when they kneel on the battlefield,” he said, his eyes burning with a feverish light, shining with the knowledge that war hung over their heads. “Words, promises, alliances… all evaporate like mist before a blade drawn at the right moment.”

Otto did not respond immediately, and a heavy silence spread through the chamber. He narrowed his cold, gray eyes, jaw clenched. Daemon smiled, waiting for the attack. Otto was like a scorpion: when he didn’t strike immediately, he prepared to strike.

“Still, we are rulers, not butchers.” Otto’s voice was soft but hard as stone. “And ruling demands more than killing. It demands balance. Consistency. Restraint.”

“Restraint is not cowardice,” the prince retorted. “A king must know when to show mercy and when to be ruthless. Passivity weakens us. If we tolerate all insults, soon we’ll become a joke.”

The silence that followed was sepulchral; the prince’s statement seemed to hang in the room like thick smoke. Everyone looked at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Otto appeared intrigued and irritated, recognizing the truth in Daemon’s words but refusing to admit it.

Daemon kept his eyes fixed on Otto, awaiting his reaction, the bitter admission he would be forced to make, savoring the exact moment when the old man’s mask would slip to reveal the fury simmering beneath the decorum.

Lord Beesbury cleared his throat, desperate to restore some semblance of order.

“Gentlemen, perhaps we should postpone this discussion until tomorrow, when we’re all more… disposed.”

The Hand of the King rose coldly, smoothing his green cloak with deliberate movements.

“You’re right, Lord Beesbury,” he said indifferently. “It would be better to discuss this at a more appropriate time.” He turned to Viserys, who remained seated, utterly silent. “Your Grace, if you please.”

The king blinked, surprised as if he hadn’t expected to be noticed.

“Of course, you are all dismissed.”

Daemon watched Otto leave the room with stiff steps, then finally allowed himself a true smile—not the smug smile from before, but something deeper, darker: a promise of violence. If he couldn’t avoid the dance, he would at least make sure he won it.

***

The late afternoon sun bathed the corridors of the Red Keep in golden light as Daemon made his way toward the Godswood. His boots struck dry against the stone as he climbed along the alleyway.

The leaves of the trees trembled in the soft breeze, seeming to whisper among themselves, sharing secrets no one else could hear. At the center of the grove, the nook where the water lily rested was shrouded in an almost reverent stillness—one of the few places in King’s Landing where silence did not feel like a threat.

He found them there.

Alicent sat on a moss-covered stone, the book closed in her lap, her eyes fixed on the young princess before her, too distracted to notice his presence. Rhaenyra knelt on the grass, weaving white flowers into a garland, her hands deft like a child’s, but her expression heavy with a sorrow that had clung to her of late.

The tall branches of the heart tree stretched overhead like a living vault, bathing the scene in reddish light. There was something captivating about it—the peace and silent intimacy hanging between them—a feeling that unsettled him slightly.

Daemon stopped a few steps away, his long shadow cutting across the ground strewn with dead leaves; the cracking of them betrayed his arrival to the two young women. Noticing him, Alicent made to rise, but was stopped by Rhaenyra, who gently placed a hand on her friend’s leg, wholly unaware that Alicent did not intend to greet him, but rather to flee.

“A scene Viserys would love to immortalize,” he said, voice hovering between sarcasm and charm. “The two jewels of the court, far from the eyes of the old men and Lords, surrounded only by the gods... and by me now, I suppose.”

A light laugh escaped Rhaenyra’s lips, slipping through the sadness.

“I’m surprised you found your way here, uncle. I thought you preferred the halls where you can wield words like swords or the fields where you can brandish the blades of steel you so cherish.”

Daemon smiled amusedly.

“Swords and words are useless if they cannot cut, but even I have moments when the mind demands silence. What is this place if not exactly that?” he said.

“I didn’t know you could appreciate trees that couldn’t be cut,” Rhaenyra said, her voice thick with irony.

Daemon cast her a venomous smile, bowing slightly with mock courtesy. “There are things even a dragon dares not burn.”

Alicent watched him silently, the book still on her lap, her fingers clenched on the edges of the cover. The light filtered through the grove, making her hair shine like Caraxes’ fire. Daemon felt a strange heat course through him.

“Not all silence is peace, my prince,” Hightower said, her voice calm despite the tension in her shoulders. “Sometimes, it’s only what comes before the storm.”

And it was silence that spread between them—a strangely light silence, considering the clear discomfort of the Hand’s daughter. Daemon stepped closer and dropped onto a root exposed by the tree, crossing his long legs at the ankles, his feet almost touching Alicent’s skirts.

“And what do you do here, so far from the whispers of the castle?”

“We flee from them,” Rhaenyra answered, lifting the flower crown she had just finished weaving. She held it out to Alicent, who accepted it with an almost involuntary smile. “Today the Council felt more like an arena.”

Daemon gave a lazy smile.

“Otto likes to make it seem as if the kingdom is about to collapse,” he said, then cast a brief glance at Alicent. “I imagine he doesn’t appreciate you spending so much time with Rhaenyra.”

Alicent kept her eyes on the flower crown; Daemon watched as she lightly traced her bruised fingers over the petals.

“My father has many opinions. Not all concern me,” her voice was soft but firm.

Rhaenyra smiled with complicity and mischief.

“And some she knows how to ignore gracefully.”

Daemon kept his gaze on the two—not just their gestures, but the pauses between them, the veiled intentions, the diverted glances. It was fascinating, he thought, how their bond endured. He knew better than anyone that affection could be a weapon; it represented alliances and could be a dangerous game. Caring and trust demanded vulnerability—and vulnerability brought consequences. And there, in that subtle exchange between the king’s daughter and the Hand’s daughter, there was more than delicacy. There was calculation. There was choice.

There was also… something slightly off. A faint discord. Rhaenyra no longer laughed with the same freedom, nor touched her friend’s arm as often, causing Alicent to act with greater caution.

The same abyss he had once seen open in another life now reemerged, though for the moment it was but a crack—but it would grow, quickly and exponentially. He could recognize the fractures.

"Viserys grows more weary by the day," he said suddenly, as if casting a stone into a still lake just to see what might rise to the surface. "He is surrounded by men who pull him in opposite directions. And there are days when not even he knows where he’s headed."

Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, staring at him with irritation.
"And how should he find rest? By handing you the throne?" she shot back, bitterness lacing her voice. "That’s all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it?"

"All I want, Rhaenyra," Daemon replied coldly, "is to restore our House’s glory. I’m not condemning your father—only naming what others choose to ignore."

"As harsh as the Prince's words may be, Rhaenyra," said Alicent, lifting her eyes from the book resting in her lap and fixing them on the princess, "he speaks the truth. His Grace has seemed truly exhausted of late. My father believes it’s because he’s been grieving alone. Perhaps… you should go to him."

"And what would your father know?" Rhaenyra snapped, angry. ""If my father desires my company, he can come find me himself!"

She rose abruptly and stormed toward the brook, heavy-footed, leaving Alicent and Daemon alone beneath the heart-tree. The crimson canopy rustled gently overhead, shadows trembling across the moss and leaves.

Daemon leaned back against the weirwood's broad trunk, his head tilted toward Alicent, watching her with that bored predator’s gaze—head slightly cocked, eyes narrowed, parsing every gesture.

"No escape this time?"

Alicent didn’t answer. Her eyes remained fixed on Rhaenyra.

"Ah, I see," Daemon said, venom curling through his voice. "You can't leave because of Rhaenyra, so you’ll just ignore me?"

"I would never dare ignore you, my prince."

"Of course not. You’re more the running type, aren’t you?"

"I don’t know what you’re referring to, Prince Daemon." Her voice was cool, but he heard the subtle irritation behind it.

"Is this your usual hiding place when you cry, Lady Alicent?"

She turned to him slowly, startled.

"And do you always pretend you ask out of curiosity, when in truth you’re hunting for a confession?" Her words were far too sharp for such a soft voice.

He smiled and leaned forward, whispering as if sharing a secret.
"Sadly, I lack your talents. I’m better at cutting off heads than comforting hearts."

"Good thing none of us needs comforting tonight," she murmured, though her fingers tightened around the book.

"No? A shame. I was hoping you might offer me your delightful company this evening," he said with a wicked smile.

Alicent’s expression remained composed, but Daemon saw the fury flash in her eyes—burning, alive. So she does have fire, after all .

"I’m sorry, my prince," she said, her voice as sharp as a blade, "but given your behavior at our last meeting, I’m afraid I must deprive you of my presence."

Daemon placed a hand over his chest in a mock-solemn gesture.
"My behavior? My lady, have I offended you somehow?"

Her eyes widened in disbelief.
"You—" she cleared her throat and lowered her voice to a near whisper. "Your lack of regard for others offends me."

Daemon tilted his head like a dragon deciding whether to strike or let the prey go. She looked away, a mischievous smile appeared on his lips.

"Lady Alicent, I never imagined you shared your father’s hatred for me."

"You give us plenty of reasons to hate you—for him to hate you especially," she said, voice flat, her eyes on Rhaenyra, who still sat by the water. "You seem determined to draw the Council’s attention, even if it’s the wrong kind." She paused, measuring his reaction. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, so she went on. "Perhaps because you despise being ignored."

"And you, Lady Alicent? Do you ignore me… or do you watch me?"

She turned toward him slowly. Her gaze locked with his—sharp as silk-wrapped blades.

"Observation is prudent. Especially when you’re facing a creature that might bite at any moment."

Daemon leaned in. Even with her sitting on the stone, she was barely taller than him.

"Not every beast strikes from anger… sometimes it’s just instinct."

His violet eyes dropped to her lips, then rose again to meet her brown ones. A flush rose to Alicent’s cheeks, but she didn’t move.

"Most ladies flinch when I draw near. They retreat… or lean in," he purred, a half-taunt, half-compliment.

"Perhaps some ladies have learned that dangerous men often hide their weaknesses behind sharp smiles and poisonous words."

Daemon’s gaze darkened. He let out a low, quiet laugh—a warning.

"And what weakness do you imagine I’m hiding?"

"The need to be noticed." Her answer was swift, precise. "You crave to be seen, to be feared… but more than that, I believe what you truly long for is to be… loved."

Silence fell. Not the peaceful kind that filled the godswood—but something heavier, taut, like the pause before thunder. There was a tenderness in her voice, barely audible, as if part of her had meant to comfort him. Daemon chose to ignore that.

He felt exposed. Few dared to speak to the Rogue Prince this way—and fewer still had survived it.

"You are more like your father than you care to admit," Daemon said at last, voice low, cutting. "Such a cunning little thing. Charming everyone with soft words and modest gowns—but I see through you. Too clever to be innocent. Too beautiful not to be dangerous."

"And you, my prince, are a dragon in every fiber of your being," Alicent tilted her head slightly. "Fascinating to watch from afar. Far too dangerous to approach."

Daemon’s grin widened, wicked and amused.

"Was that meant to be an insult?"

"Take it as you will," she replied with a careless shrug.

"Perhaps," he said, the gleam of genuine delight flickering in his eyes, "that’s why we’re so good at reading one another. We know exactly what we’re made of."

The soft rustle of crushed leaves made them turn. Rhaenyra was returning, still wearing a sulky expression, but looking calmer. Her violet eyes flicked between Alicent and Daemon, as if sensing the tension that lingered between the two.

“Did I miss something?” the princess asked suspiciously.

“Nothing worth your attention,” Alicent replied, her face composed to perfection.

A faint smile played on Daemon’s lips, his eyes still fixed on Alicent.

In his former life, he had never bothered to speak to the Green Queen; when forced to share a room with her, the Rogue Prince merely ignored her presence. Now, he regretted that—just a little. Alicent was as clever as Otto, perhaps even more so. Her Green Council had been a worthy challenge in the war, he always attributed it to the old Lords. But now he saw clearly: the true mind behind the usurper had been her, the Dowager Queen.

Daemon rose with a grunt.

“Alas, ladies, I must deprive you of my company.”

Alicent visibly relaxed.

“So soon, uncle? I barely had the chance to speak to you,” Rhaenyra said, disappointment lacing her voice.

“There are other matters that demand my attention, so…”

Leaves crackled under the boots of the Rogue Prince as he walked away from the godswood, leaving behind its warmth and quiet for the cold stone of the Red Keep. The scent of wildflowers and resin still lingered in the air—or perhaps it was only her memory, clinging to his skin like the sun’s fading warmth at the end of the day.

Fucking Alicent Hightower.

He let out a humorless chuckle, eyes narrowing against the golden light of dusk. How had she disarmed him so easily? He could make her blush—beautifully so—but never bow, never tremble with fear. No, she met him head-on, eyes steady. He could push her back, but never more than a step. She never yielded fully, never flattered him like the old, simpering lords.

Daemon knew the kind of men who surrounded him: flatterers, bootlickers, hypocrites. And now he could see that Alicent was not one of them. He had always viewed her as predictable, insipid. But now… now he saw with clarity. There was something in her he could not read. And that made her a risk. A glint in her eyes that might be pity… or contempt. Or both.

She provoked him with words sharp as daggers, but spoke with the control of someone who knew exactly where she stood. She had her father’s venom—yes—but laced with a quiet cunning Otto would never possess. She was no puppet. Not entirely. And that, in some ways, made her more dangerous than Hightower himself.

Daemon exhaled slowly, tasting the metallic edge of anger mixed with something sweeter. And far more perilous.

If there was a war to be fought—and there always was—he would not underestimate Alicent.

Not as an enemy.
Not as an ally.
And above all, never as a woman.

Chapter Text

Daemon rose from the bed, frustrated. The Red Keep had fallen into a deep silence; the hour of the owl had come and gone, and still sleep would not claim him. The cold stones of the room seemed to absorb his doubts, and Alicent’s shadow loomed in every corner. Daemon ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth like a caged beast.

In war, I wished her dead.

How many times had he imagined Alicent burning beneath the fury of a dragon? How many times had he plotted to kill her with his own hands? How often had he fed the fantasy that she would fall alongside the Greens, alongside Aegon, alongside that worm Criston Cole? How often had he cursed her name, blaming her for every step of his ruin?

And now here he was, planning to take her as wife at the gods’ command.

He stopped at the window. The night outside was dense, starless. The walls of the Keep rose like the bars of a cell. Within, everyone conspired, loved, and hated with equal intensity.

I hated her for everything .

For every time Viserys chose her and Otto. For every time he ignored me. For every time she looked at me as though I were nothing but a threat.

But in this life, she looked at him… differently.

Tense. Afraid. Curious.

When he drew close, he could see the hesitation in her eyes—but also something else. Something that looked like… expectation.

Daemon scowled.

No. Don’t dwell on that. She’s only a means to an end, a well-dressed piece ready to be moved, isn’t she?

Alicent could have fled. She could have run from him, as she had so many times before. But she stayed. Swallowed her fear. Faced him. Tried to hold her ground.

Maybe she’s not so fragile, after all.

He hated himself for admitting that. Hated even more the way he remembered how her hair fell over her shoulders. The way she blushed so easily. That damn soft, polished voice of hers, as though sculpted to please the court and enchant fools.

In Harrenhal, he had dreamed of her more times than he could count—not the Green Whore, mother of a usurper, but a Scarlet Queen, forged of fire and blood, a fierce mother to a brood of dragons, a devoted wife who trusted blindly in her husband— in him . In his darkest delusions, she was his wife.

Even after he left that cursed place, even after returning to Rhaenyra, he was still haunted by the visions. Sometimes he awoke in the middle of the night feeling the texture of her curls in his fingers, the heat of her body on his.

He still remembered the anger and shame he felt when he woke up from these dreams, the desperation with which he sought Rhaenyra’s touch, eager to rid himself of the memory of her skin, desperate to drown out the echo of her moans that rang in his head—but it never worked. She haunted him like a ghost, and he was reduced to a heap of frustration and resentment.

Daemon growled, angry at himself. He wanted to drive Dark Sister through someone and let her remind him of who he was.

She is still a Hightower. Still a threat. But maybe… maybe she is the only alliance that could save this cursed House .

He slammed the window shut.

If I must take her, it will be a practical choice. Not out of desire. Never out of desire .

But the echo of that last lie reverberated in his chest, and he knew himself too well—knew, with the clarity of one who had lived and died once already—that desire always speaks first.

And now, he no longer seemed to know the difference between lust and hatred.

Frustrated, he threw himself into an armchair. Before him, the flames danced—red and treacherous, like the memories he tried to forget. The gods’ choice. Their poisoned gift.

They chose her.They looked upon that demure girl, shaped by lies and veils, and said: This is your chance, Daemon Targaryen .

He laughed—dryly. A sound with no humor. No joy

The bitter taste of bile still clung to his throat.

Daemon could not understand—why her? Why not a warrior, a dragonrider with fire in her eyes and steel in her will? Why not a woman who knew the weight of bearing the Targaryen name with honor?

She was not made to carry fire. She was made to extinguish it. Polished, silent, devout. A trinket in the hands of her father, the king, the Seven. And now, mine?

He clenched his fists.

He could still see her, draped in green silks, marked by the seven-pointed stars of the Faith, reeking of incense and guilt. He still heard the sweet voice whispering obedience while planting seeds of war. Alicent—the low-eyed traitor. Alicent—the mother of those who took everything from him.

And they expected him to accept her? To love her? To lie beside her like a grateful man?

The gods were laughing at him. They had to be.

They chose a Hightower to redeem House Targaryen. A fucking Hightower.

He shot to his feet as if the chair had burned him. He began to pace— A dragon trapped in a room of stone and memories.

She is not my salvation.She is my punishment.

A cruel reminder of everything I’ve lost.

Daemon stopped in front of the mirror. His own reflection felt like an affront— Older on the inside than out, more marked by memory than by time.

He spat on the floor.

I hate her.

There was truth in it—but there was doubt, too. And that was the worst part. Because doubt was the beginning of acceptance.

He closed his eyes and for an instant. Just one.And she appeared— A shadow too sweet to ignore: auburn hair lit by torchlight, a hesitant gaze, a trembling voice that he knew veiled a ruthless strength.

Fuck you, Alicent Hightower. Fuck the gods for giving you to me.

Daemon knelt before the hearth. The fire crackled as the Rogue Prince stared into the flames as if he could bend them with his gaze. His face was taut, jaw locked. Outside, the night spilled silently over King’s Landing, but inside the chamber, the sound of the fire filled the air—like muffled laughter from some hidden force.

“You think it’s amusing, don’t you?” His voice was low, grave. “You send me back, fill my ears with prophecy and command... and hand me a Hightower.”

He stepped closer to the flames. His eyes, hard as steel, fixed on the fire.

“You tell me to redeem my House... and bind me to that girl as if she were both key and shackle.”

The heat struck his face, but he did not flinch. He wanted more. He wanted an answer.

“She was my brother’s queen. The mother of the bastards who stole everything from me. Why her?”

A sharp crack burst from the hearth—flames flaring like an angry dragon.The fire surged, twisting, rising— Until it took shape.A figure forged of heat and shadow emerged from the blaze, with eyes like white embers and a voice that did not come as sound, but as thought—

Iron-forged and carved directly into Daemon’s mind.Words spoken without a mouth, yet heavy with a thousand judgments.

"Because she is the mirror of your ruin... and the fire that may cleanse it.

She is all you fear—and all you crave, Daemon Targaryen."

The voice burned his ears, pierced his chest.A living echo— Resonating within him and across the stone walls of the Red Keep, as though the castle itself whispered it.

Daemon took a step back. His fists clenched. His heart thundered like a war drum. The figure in the fire did not move— It swayed, danced, waiting.Its presence crushed him, reminding him of his smallness— Greater than any man, older than time itself.

Something ancient.

" She is your opposite—and your equal. The sword and the balm. The lie that may become truth, if you have the courage to claim it. "

“She’s a Hightower!” Daemon spat the words like a curse, a final insult. “Cold, controlled, shaped by the Seven! How could she be any part of my fate?”

The flames shimmered—laughing.

" And you are a Targaryen, born to destroy, to breathe fire, to bend others to your will. What do you think you are, if not another mold from another temple? " The voice grew unbearably sharp, flaying him from within. " Alicent was not made to snuff out the fire, but to be consumed by it— to temper it, to turn destruction into light ."

Daemon felt laid bare—stripped before that presence that saw beyond time, beyond pride.

The vision of Alicent as wife, as queen, as companion—not the woman she had been, but the woman she could become— haunted him more than any battlefield.

" She has marked you, whether you admit it or not. You dreamed with her, and soon you will burn for her. Even now, in hating her, you ache to understand why—and what may follow."

He fell to his knees before the hearth. Pride wounded—but not broken.

A bitter laugh slipped from his lips.

“You’ve made me a monster... and now you want me to find redemption in the arms of the woman who should be my enemy?”

"Redemption is not enough," the shadow answered, with a coldness that froze his blood. "We want new fire. A new bloodline. A new House. And only she can give it to you."

Daemon could not see the god’s face—But he knew it was smiling.

" Arrogant child. You always believed yourself greater than fate. You always thought you mastered chaos. But she is your equal. Forged in slow fire, in silence, in sacrifice. Just like you ."

Daemon gritted his teeth. Pride rose beneath his skin like thorns.

The figure began to dissolve, form undone by flame.One final whisper echoed in his chest, like the lash of a whip:

"Do not fight what is already yours."

And then, in one last flare, the figure vanished—swallowed by the fire. The blaze became just fire again.No shadows. No voices. Only the crackle of embers and the scent of smoke.

Daemon stood motionless for a long moment, his gaze locked on the flames, his face damp with sweat and shadow. His breath heavy. The certainty that he had crossed some threshold— and there was no return.

He rose slowly, like a man older than his years, and walked to the door. He laid a hand on the handle.

Thought of knocking on her door.

Thought of fleeing the Red Keep.

Thought of burning it all to ash.

But he didn’t move.

She is my mirror... my punishment... or my chance to rewrite everything .

***

Daemon was in no mood that morning.

To say he had slept little would be an understatement—he hadn’t closed his eyes for a single minute. The voices from the Flames had echoed in his skull until dawn, relentless, and to worsen his temper, the sun had barely climbed over the rooftops of the Red Keep before people were already meddling in his affairs—apprentices hauling coal, chatty maids in the corridors, even an old knight who came seeking trivial counsel about guarding a minor gate. He dismissed them all with harsh words and a dark scowl.

The Rogue Prince was pacing the upper galleries when one of Viserys’s guards found him.

“My prince, the king wishes to see you in his chambers. At once,” the young man said, his voice muffled by fear.

Daemon raised a single eyebrow and turned wordlessly toward his brother’s chambers.

The knight stumbled after him, struggling to keep up. Their footsteps echoed on the stone like drums before a battle. Something was coming—Daemon felt it in his blood, the same way he could feel the heat before the fire.

When he entered his brother’s rooms, he found Viserys alone, seated beside the unfinished model of Valyria, an open letter in his hands. The king’s face was more composed than it had been in recent mornings, though dark circles still clung beneath his eyes. The ring of Aemma, Daemon noticed, was no longer with him.

“Brother,” said the king without looking up. “Sit.”

Daemon obeyed in silence, taking the seat with the ease of someone who had always believed it was his by right.

“A raven came from the Vale. From Ser Yorwyck Royce.” Viserys raised the letter. “He writes with the coldness of a magistrate, as though our blood ties meant nothing. But the words… the words will interest you.”

Daemon only stared at him, unreadable.

“He says your marriage to his niece, Lady Rhea, was never consummated. And that, by the judgment of House Royce and the testimony of the septons, the union should be considered null. ‘No flesh shared, no vows fulfilled. The bond is void.’ Along with his letter came another—from Lady Rhea herself—confirming her uncle’s claims.”

The king handed him both letters, and Daemon saw that they were painfully formal, rigid, and rehearsed.

“No carnal union.” “The marriage was never consummated.” “No promise exchanged beyond that imposed by convenience.”

Daemon did not reply at once. He merely leaned back, the words swirling in his mind like strong wine.

Viserys was watching him closely, as if trying to guess his thoughts.

“Rhea herself has written to the High Septon,” the king said slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “You are free, Daemon. Free to choose a new wife—this time, with the blessing of both Faith and Realm.”

There was no way his brother could know about Laena or Rhaenyra—he had never married either of them here—but still, something in Viserys’s tone made it feel as though he was speaking of them, too.

Bitterness burned in Daemon’s throat.

He had never regretted marrying Laena—his sweet Laena—but he could never forgive himself for failing to save her, for letting her fall pregnant again when the twins had already taken so much from her.

He resented Rhaenyra more than he hated her. Even after everything he had done for her, she did not trust him. And the more time he spent at her side, the more he saw how alike she was to her father—always ready with criticism and sermons about his behavior. He would never be good enough for her. She had not only humiliated him as a prince, ignoring his counsel and acting as if he knew nothing of courtly games—she had humiliated him as a husband, slipping into the beds of other men.

A forced smile slowly curved his lips.

“I told you, brother. There was never any reason to bind me to that wretched marriage, was there? As you said yourself, Rhea took it upon herself to secure the annulment.”

The Rogue Prince was certain the Fourteen Flames had a hand in this. He had begged for an annulment hundreds of times in his previous life, and it had never been granted. But now, it was handed to him freely, without effort or cost.

“Indeed. Forgive me, Daemon—I shouldn’t have doubted you,” said Viserys, giving his shoulder a light pat. “It’s time for a new beginning. The court will be watching you, and so will the lords. You need a name to stand beside yours. A loyal house. And children—trueborn children to secure the future of our House. You need heirs, Daemon.

Inheritance. Legitimacy. Alliances. All of it was but smoke compared to what burned within him.

Daemon knew what he had to do. The Fourteen Flames had been clear: the young Hightower — the one who still smiled with innocence at Rhaenyra’s side — was the key. Alicent, the Hand’s daughter, the surest way to secure what he wanted, the only chance to prevent what was coming — the war, the fire, the dragons dying one by one upon broken stone.

But to accept her wounded his pride. Every part of him recoiled at the thought of lying beside a name that, in a future no longer his, had spelled doom for House Targaryen.

Alicent Hightower — sweet, virtuous, devout. A perfectly molded piece, shaped to please, to fit the court, to follow the Faith's teachings to the letter. She was the opposite of everything he’d ever sought. But the Flames had demanded a sacrifice for the sake of his House, and marrying Alicent was the price he had to pay to restore honor and glory to the Targaryen name. So he would take her.

“I've already told you who my bride shall be, Viserys,” Daemon said, his voice so controlled it might have been carved from ice.

The king frowned with unease.

“Lady Alicent,” Viserys said cautiously.

“Yes.”

Daemon watched as his brother rose slowly, walking to the window. His eyes drifted across the rooftops of the Red Keep, bathed in morning light.

“She is quite young.”

He had to suppress the bitter smile that tugged at his lips.

“She is old enough to wed.”

A hesitant silence followed. Viserys glanced at him sideways, as if he wished to ask something, but held his tongue.

“Brother, I know you and Otto have your differences, but to use Alicent—”

Daemon rolled his eyes.

“I’m not marrying Alicent just to vex Otto. Haven’t we already had this talk?”

“But you don’t love her either,” Viserys said, ignoring his question.

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Why do you care?” Daemon snapped, his irritation rising.

Viserys didn’t answer. He lowered his head and began to fidget with the rings on his fingers. Daemon's mouth curled into a knowing smile.

“You’re interested in her,” the prince said.

“I’m still mourning Aemma. I will never love another woman as I loved her.”

“I didn't say you weren't.”

A strange silence stretched between them. Daemon almost laughed. Not even in his wildest dreams would he have imagined one day vying with his brother for the attention of Alicent Hightower.

“Why her, Daemon?”

The Rogue Prince fixed his gaze on the king. The words Viserys wanted to hear were lies — but the truth, if spoken aloud, would brand him mad. Perhaps a half-truth would suffice?

“I had a dream,” he said. Viserys looked at him with surprise and growing curiosity. “I saw myself in a hall of black stone, carved from endless darkness. In it, I met fourteen beings made of fire and smoke. Their voices echoed inside my skull. They gave me a warning: dark times are coming. When they arrive, I must be wed to the maiden of fire and veil, for only then will I have a chance to prevent the tragedy from becoming irreversible.”

Viserys stared at him, caught between awe and disbelief.

“What were their exact words?” he asked, his eyes gleaming in a way Daemon had not seen in years.

The prince hesitated, unsure what to say. But then the crackle of flames echoed in his ears, and the words were whispered in the back of his mind. He spoke them aloud.

“ Fire shall calleth unto fire’s breath,

And blood shall answer blood with death.

The Dance shall cometh — a waltz of woe,

Of steel, of flame, of tears that flow.

The heavens shall burn, the stones turn gray,

Yet truth in shadow still doth stay.

From the High Womb shall riseth the Tower,

From Valyria’s bones, the Blood of power.

Unite them, lest the world be torn;

Divide, and death shall be reborn.

Take thee the maid of hazel eye,

Ere her gaze be blade, and thou dost die.

Claim her whilst she dreameth ‘neath the tree,

Ere she awaken — and ruin thee.

Wed the lady crown’d in flame,

Forged of faith and holy name.

Bind her fast with vow and prayer,

Give her thy name ere thrones beware.

For if thou be not her wedded lord,

Thou shalt falleth ‘neath her sword.

Wed — or be unmade in fire.

Choose, O son of dragon’s ire —

Or burn within thy heart’s desire”

Daemon felt the hairs on his arms rise as the words left his mouth — spoken in a voice that was and was not his. For a heartbeat, he wondered if it was all in his head, but then he saw Viserys, eyes wide, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

A storm-heavy silence fell between them, the weight of prophecy pressing in.

The king cleared his throat.

“We’ll speak of this again tomorrow. I need time to think.”

Daemon nodded and rose to leave.

“Brother,” Viserys called after him. “Tell the Council there will be no meeting today.”

Without a word, the Rogue Prince departed.

As he walked the king’s corridors, Daemon felt as if the very walls of the Red Keep were watching him. Every tapestry seemed to stir with the weight of his choices. Every shadow whispered secrets he could barely hear.

He knew his fate — but to hear those words aloud, "wed or be consumed," spoken in his own voice, was like being branded. The gods’ voices echoed within him like an oath, etched into his very flesh.

He hated it.

Hated feeling like a pawn to forces he could not understand. Daemon was steel, not mist. A warrior, not a courtier. And yet... the memories came each night, searing his mind, devouring his sleep. The black stone hall. The eyes of fire. The acrid scent of blood and burning flesh — as real as the steps beneath his boots.

Alicent.

Her name tangled with his destiny like golden thread in an ancient tapestry.

The maid of hazel eyes.

The lady crown’d in flame.

He forced himself to remember the Alicent he’d known in other days — the Green Bitch who stole everything from him — and not the girl he now saw walking beside Rhaenyra, books clutched to her chest, eyes filled with curiosity instead of scorn.

So different from what he had known. This Alicent seemed so proper. So pure.

Ere she awaken — and ruin thee.

Daemon knew exactly what it meant. He knew the taste of destruction — he had caused it, embraced it. And yet it still unsettled him. Alicent, in his visions, was no delicate flower. She was a blade hidden beneath veils, a quiet flame growing into a blaze.

What frightened him wasn't what she was now — it was what she could become.

No.

It was what he could make of her.

The Alicent he had seen in Harrenhal — the Scarlet Queen, his sons in her arms, the tower risen against the storm — that was his doing.

That was her nature: obedient, devout, malleable.

She would become whatever he needed her to be — and she would do it gladly.

The Green Queen had been shaped by Otto Hightower.

The Scarlet Queen would be shaped by him.

Daemon had always preferred chains to vows, screams to murmured prayers.

But he would do what was needed.

Even if it meant lying.

Even if he had to bleed out every last drop of pride.

Chapter Text

The day had barely begun, and it already reeked of intrigue.

Daemon arrived early to the meeting of the Small Council. Old Lyman Beesbury seemed to sense the coming storm; he fumbled with his doublet so anxiously that a button came loose.

When Viserys entered last, all conversation ceased—snuffed out like a candle. Without a word of greeting, the king moved to the head of the table. His eyes were shadowed, his fingers restless. In one hand, he held a scroll bearing the seal of House Royce.

He did not sit. Instead, he ran his thumb over the broken wax.

“I received a letter from the Vale yesterday morning,” the king began hoarsely. “A response from Lord Yorwyck Royce to my formal inquiry regarding the union between Prince Daemon and his niece, Lady Rhea.”

Otto Hightower’s gaze hardened before the sentence was finished. Rhaenyra stepped forward at once, her curiosity poorly concealed.

“The letter states that the marriage between Prince Daemon and Lady Rhea Royce,” the king continued, “was never consummated. Confirmed by septons and servants alike—there was no true conjugal bond, and thus, the union is to be considered null. As of today, in the eyes of both Faith and law, Prince Daemon is no longer bound by matrimony.”

A silence as sharp as a headsman’s blade fell upon the room. Rhaenyra straightened, a strange light blooming in her eyes—as if something long desired, yet never dared to be named, had suddenly become possible.

“So… my uncle is free?” she asked before anyone else could speak.

Daemon, reclining in his chair with one leg crossed over the other, felt her gaze pierce him like a knife. There was too much hope in that question.

Corlys muttered something to Mellos. Otto remained motionless, eyes locked on Daemon with the focus of a hound scenting a trap.

“Does the Council acknowledge this annulment?” Otto asked, his voice devoid of tone.

“The Council acknowledges the documents,” said Viserys. “And the word of a Great House.”

“Then, my lords,” Daemon interjected, “House Targaryen has just regained one of its most valuable sons for dynastic purposes. It seems to me the time is ripe to consider new alliances. Now that I am unwed—and our House in desperate need of growth—perhaps it is time I sought a wife who can serve that purpose. Young. Fertile. Loyal. And understanding of the duties her position entails.”

Viserys said nothing, his silence introspective. He knew what approached. Corlys crossed his arms, intrigued. Mellos cleared his throat.

“A prudent course,” Lord Strong said carefully.

Rhaenyra was still watching Daemon, gripping the wine jug tightly in both hands.

Daemon raised a goblet to his lips and spoke casually, meeting Otto’s gaze—tense as a drawn bow.

“There are many noble maidens of fine stock here in King’s Landing. Well-bred, discreet, virtuous… some of them even reside within the Red Keep.”

Otto rose from his seat before the name could be spoken. A cruel smile tugged at Daemon’s lips.

“I believe Lady Alicent has not yet been promised to anyone. Isn’t that so, Lord Hand?”

The effect was immediate. Rhaenyra turned pale; her light dimmed like shattered glass. Mellos choked on his breath. Beesbury dropped his quill.

“Alicent?” Her voice was low but razor-sharp.

Otto’s face twisted with fury.

“This is a provocation, Your Grace,” he said, not even looking at the king. His eyes were fixed on Daemon, as though he might reduce him to ash through will alone. “My daughter serves the princess. She was raised at this court as though of royal blood…”

“And would it not be an honor,” Daemon cut in, brows arched with ironic amusement, “to see her joined to the blood of the dragon? What I propose is a beneficial alliance.”

“Perhaps not so much,” Lord Strong interjected. “With all respect to the Hand—Lady Alicent is the daughter of a second son. What gain does she offer the Crown?”

“She is Oldtown’s only daughter,” said Viserys quietly. “A lovely girl, well-mannered and devout. The Hightowers have power, gold, ships. Such a marriage would secure their loyalty. Lord Hobert would not withhold his support once our blood is bound together.”

“House Hightower already serves the Crown faithfully,” Otto said sharply. “I have served as Hand of the King since Jaehaerys. Tell me, Your Grace—have I ever failed you?”

The king shrank back in his seat, unable to respond. The sight stirred Daemon’s indignation.

“Then serve the Crown once more, Lord Hand,” Daemon snapped. “Give me Alicent freely—before I take her by force.”

The chamber went deathly still, as if the very stone and heraldry held their breath.

Otto did not reply at once. He stood rigid, hands braced against the table, jaw clenched, every bone resisting public humiliation. His eyes—cold as jade in a winter night—were fixed on Daemon.

“My daughter,” he said at last, “is not a pawn for personal ambition. Nor a prize for bored provocateurs.”

“As much as it pains you to admit it, Lord Hand, the prince speaks wisely,” Corlys murmured. “This would be a powerful alliance—dragonblood joined to the tower of Oldtown. Gold, ships, and above all, stability. It is a proposal worthy of serious consideration.”

“Or perhaps a union with House Targaryen does not please you, Lord Otto?” Daemon goaded.

“You seek no wife, no alliance. Only submission. You want to tear this council down stone by stone!” Otto nearly shouted. “I won’t let you drag her into this! She’s just a girl!”

“A girl you pushed into the king’s bed not a month after the queen’s death,” Daemon replied coldly. “Don’t you dare accuse me of using her—you did it first.”

Otto blanched. Viserys pressed his lips together.

The sound of shattering glass cut through the air. All eyes turned to Rhaenyra, wide-eyed, pale as parchment.

“ Kepa? ” Her gaze snapped to the king, searching for denial. Viserys looked away.

She scoffed and threw him a look Daemon recognized. His brother would have a big headache later.

The princess stepped forward suddenly, planting both hands on the table, eyes locked on her uncle.

“So that’s what you want? To take Alicent as your wife?” she demanded, voice sharp.

Daemon looked at her with cool detachment.

“I want what is necessary, Nyra. I want what must be done to keep our House alive.”

“I won’t let you use her,” Otto growled, teeth clenched. “I won’t let you ruin her!”

A cruel smile touched the Rogue Prince’s lips.

“Oh, but haven’t I already?” he said. “Marriage would simply formalize what the Red Keep already whispers. And if all speak of it… perhaps it’s time the truth became law, not rumor.”

Otto went white. Viserys shrank further, as if wishing to vanish. Beesbury’s shocked sputter was swallowed by the stunned silence of the princess.

“What… do you mean?” Rhaenyra asked, breathless.

“Nothing at all, princess,” Daemon replied, voice feigning innocence. “Only that some rumors are persistent, and sometimes it is wiser to embrace them than fight them.”

“You touched her.” Otto’s voice was a deadly whisper now, teeth bared. “You dared…”

Viserys raised a hand. His eyes stayed on the floor. There was shame there. And perhaps, deep down, a flicker of envy.

“Enough, Otto,” said the king. “Whether this is true or false… it matters little now. The damage is done.”

But the Hand did not relent.

“Alicent may not be a princess, but she is a lady of a noble house. She has served Princess Rhaenyra loyally for years. She is devout. I will not let you stain her. She is good… innocent.”

“Innocence is a fleeting state, Lord Hand,” Daemon said, lazily swirling the wine in his goblet. “Is her innocence more valuable than what I offer you? A crown?”

“A crown?” Rhaenyra echoed, voice breaking. “And where does that leave me in your new design, uncle? The lady-in-waiting becomes a princess… and the princess becomes what?”

Daemon turned slowly to her. His eyes held something ancient—not contempt, nor pity. Something older.

“What is built is not shaped by whim, Rhaenyra. But by necessity.”

The girl narrowed her eyes.

Viserys finally rose, the crumpled scroll still in hand. The Royce seal shattered, like the end of an age.

“Enough,” he said, his voice weary. “The proposal has been made before the Council. It will be considered. No further decisions will be made this morning.”

“Considered?” Otto scoffed, incredulous. “Your Grace, with all respect… my daughter isn’t even present. And this man invokes her name as if she were already his.”

“I did not invoke her,” Daemon said softly, almost a whisper. “I chose her.”

Mellos cleared his throat nervously. Beesbury dropped his quill again. Lord Strong muttered something to Corlys, but no one was listening.

Only Viserys understood the true weight of those words.

I chose her. Not out of desire. Not out of affection. But for something that could not be spoken aloud—not here, not among old blood and sharpened ears.

“The final decision is mine,” the king repeated. “And it will be made in due time.”

Rhaenyra stepped back slowly, something fractured in her face. A dimmed glow, like cracked gold.

Otto, still standing, held the king’s gaze with effort.

Viserys closed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at Daemon with something between resentment and resignation.

“Nothing has been decided,” he said. “And no one will be forced. The proposal has been made. It is now up to Lady Alicent… and her father… to consider it.”

“‘Consider,’ he says,” Otto muttered darkly.

Daemon stood.

“The proposal has been made, as promised , Lord Hand. I await your answer—before another provides it for you.”

And without waiting to be dismissed, the Rogue Prince strode from the chamber, leaving behind a table fractured by rage, fear, and suspicion.

In the shadows of half-spoken truths, fate had begun to take form.

And somewhere in the Red Keep, unaware, Alicent Hightower was already betrothed to a war.

***

By late afternoon, Daemon had decided to pay a little visit to his future good-father, to refresh his memory and perhaps knock some sense into his head.

He walked the corridors of the Tower of the Hand like a man invading enemy territory—though he made no effort to hide. The ladies sewing on stone benches fell silent. Two squires from the Dragonpit, upon seeing him, averted their eyes and stepped aside. Everyone knew the news had already swept through the Red Keep like a storm: the marriage to Rhea Royce had been annulled, the Rogue Prince was willing to wed again, but to the dismay of every unmarried lady in the realm, his eye had already fallen on a certain young woman.

That was why Daemon could not understand Otto’s resistance. The first time the prince had spoken to him, the Hand had seemed inclined to consider the proposal—seven hells, he had even hesitated in supporting Rhaenyra’s claim—and now the prince had him cornered. Otto could not reject the marriage without indirectly admitting he intended to wed Alicent to the king… or risk his daughter’s reputation. The rumors had begun even before Alicent had left Maegor’s Holdfast that night, and by dawn they had overtaken the castle.

They drifted like smoke through tapestries, mingled with the scent of incense and the chime of silver goblets. Whispered by rouged lips of noble ladies and echoed between the rotten teeth of ancient courtiers, the tales grew like weeds in the stale corridors of the Red Keep.

Daemon Targaryen had dishonored Alicent Hightower.

He had taken her even before his marriage to Lady Rhea Royce was formally dissolved. He had kissed her in the narrow halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, lain with her in the Tower of the Hand—or perhaps in the Painted Table room, or even on the Iron Throne itself, in a gesture of defiance and desecration. The details varied, but the core was always the same: she was no longer a maiden, and he was to blame.

Daemon himself had ensured the story spread, and now no great house would marry their son to Lady Alicent Hightower. Those who did not scorn her for her perceived fall from grace feared retaliation from the Rogue Prince. Otto was trapped and could ill afford to be obstinate.

Daemon did not ask for permission to enter. He simply pushed the doors open and stepped into the Hand’s chambers, where Otto was seated at his desk, writing by the light of a lit oil lamp, though the sun still shone outside. He did not look up.

“Entering without knocking. Typical. The house isn’t yours, yet you behave as if it were.”

“Not yet,” Daemon replied with a crooked smile. “But I’m working on it.”

Otto sighed. He laid his raven-feather quill into the inkwell with slow, deliberate grace. Only then did he raise his eyes—washed-out grey, filled with… no, not just disdain. Wariness.

“If you came here to mock me…”

“No, I came to talk,” Daemon said, pulling out a chair without asking and sitting down.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Otto answered, his voice hard and cold.

“Oh, come now, Ser Otto… don’t be like that. I want precisely what you want: stability, prominence, a secure throne, a realm under control, and a bloodline to uphold it all.”

The Hand narrowed his eyes.

“You’ve always been a disaster waiting to happen. A knight without reins. A prince with more arrogance than aim. And now you speak of stability?”

“Perhaps the gods have changed me,” Daemon said with a mocking whisper. “Or perhaps I’ve simply learned from my mistakes.”

The Rogue Prince’s gaze drifted to the open window behind the Hand. That was the most honest he had been since he’d returned to the past.

Otto remained silent for a moment. Then he spoke—each word weighed, deliberate.

“Do not think I don’t see what you’re doing. Alicent has worth—more than you’d ever dare admit. She is devout, sensible, a calming presence at court. If I give her to you, I know what that entails.”

“It means your blood will be tied to mine. That your grandchildren will ride dragons in the skies. And that your influence won’t die with Viserys—whose illness is only a matter of time.”

Otto clenched his jaw, as if swallowing something bitter.

“Alicent is my daughter.”

“And I am the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms,” Daemon retorted, now cold. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Otto. You were more than willing to hand her to Viserys on a silver platter. Why hesitate now? Sooner or later, the throne will be mine. You can fight it—or pave the road that leads there.”

The Hand said nothing. He only looked at him—hatred brimming just beneath the surface of his eyes. But beneath that… calculation. Possibilities.

“If—and only if—I consider this, it will be out of pragmatism, not favor.”

Daemon rose from his chair, a victorious smile playing on his lips.

“I never asked you to like me, Ser Otto. Only that you not be stupid enough to waste an opportunity when it knocks on your door.”

Before leaving, he turned once more.

“Think on it, Lord Hightower. Alicent can be the bride of a Prince and the wife of a King… or the nursemaid of a grieving man. The choice is yours.”

And with that, he left Otto alone in the silence—thick with difficult decisions. Exactly where Daemon wanted him.

***

The Godswood was the only place where she could still breathe. The dampness of the stones, the soft rustling of the leaves, the sound of droplets falling into the marble fountain — everything there seemed untouched by the poisons and games of court.

Since that night in Maegor’s Holdfast, when Prince Daemon had kissed her, whispers followed her wherever she went. They had started discreetly, but spread like wildfire through dry straw — soon, everyone looked at her as if she were a mistress. Even Rhaenyra had begun to act strangely around her.

Alicent wanted to scream, to tell them all she had done nothing. But she had kissed him. Did that make her a mistress?

My miserable union with the Bronze Bitch…

She wanted to cry, to throw herself at Rhaenyra’s feet and beg for forgiveness — to say the prince had caught her by surprise, that she had never meant to hurt her. But how could she? Now that word of the prince’s annulled marriage had reached the ears of the court, the rumors had grown stronger by the hour.

... is nearing its end...

By the Seven, how had she ended up in this mess? She didn’t even like the prince.

Once again, she found herself seated beneath the heart tree, the prayer book open in her lap, though she didn’t read a single word. Her eyes drifted over the letters like mist upon the ground. She couldn’t pray. Not after that.

Daemon’s words still haunted her.

The gods themselves chose you for me.

There was a strange weight to that sentence. His voice had held a mocking tone, but his violet eyes brimmed with sincerity.

She’d replied with something foolish, not knowing how else to react, frozen like a wax figurine, every word of his searing into her skin like a branding iron. She had felt exposed — as if hundreds of eyes were watching, as if someone had thrown open the curtains of her soul.

She feared Daemon. She had always feared him. From the first moment he had smiled at her in the courtyard, with that bored wolf’s gaze, calculating how many breaths she took per minute.

And yet, something in him made her burn inside — and that awareness made her stomach twist, with revulsion and anticipation.

It was wrong.

Daemon was the opposite of everything she had been taught to value: he was volatile, reckless, untamed. He dirtied his hands, laughed at the Faith, mocked order. He lay with whores, ignored his marriage vows. And yet, when he turned his attention to her, it was as though reality itself receded.

Alicent pressed the book to her chest, as if it could shield her from herself.

Footsteps approached behind her. Light. Determined. Familiar. She recognized them before Rhaenyra spoke a single word.

"You knew?"

Rhaenyra’s voice was a thin blade, slicing the back of her neck. Alicent closed the book slowly, as if the gesture could delay the inevitable.

"Knew what?" she asked, striving for calm, thankful the princess couldn’t see the apprehension on her face.

…and then you…

"Daemon. The marriage proposal. The offer."

Ah, yes. That.

To her, it had been the most absurd of all the rumors. The mutual attraction between Rhaenyra and Daemon had always been undeniable — it was obvious he would run to her the moment he was free.

Alicent rose to her feet. Straightened her spine. She was not made for confrontations — she had always been the peacemaker, the one who bowed her head. But there was something in Rhaenyra that wounded her differently: that mixture of pain, wounded pride, and jealousy.

"I heard the rumors," she said, almost playfully. "The servants can be quite creative."

The Hand’s daughter searched the princess’s eyes, hoping to see them soften, reassured by her words — but that was not what she found. Rhaenyra still stared at her in anger.

"Rhaenyra," Alicent began, gently. "You don’t actually believe that nonsense, do you?"

"I was there," the princess hissed. "I heard him ask for your hand with my own ears."

…will be mine.

Alicent said nothing. For a moment, she felt the air leave her lungs.

No, it can’t be true.

“You’re kidding, right?” she asked, her voice uncertain and shaky, expecting the princess to burst out laughing at any moment, but that didn’t happen."Why are you angry with me? I did nothing!" 

"Nothing?" Rhaenyra shouted. " You betrayed me! You seduced him! And you tried to seduce my father too! Wasn't the attention of one of them enough for you?"

Brown eyes brimmed with tears. 

"I did nothing! Rhaenyra—"

"Don’t call me Rhaenyra. You lost that right when you crawled into my uncle’s bed."

Alicent gasped.

"How can you say such a thing?" she shouted back. "That’s a vile accusation, Rhaenyra. You know I would never do that!"

"No, I don’t know that," the princess spat, a bitter laugh slipping from her lips. "Isn’t it funny? I always thought I knew you — but now I see the truth. You’re just a viper, slithering closer to whoever can bring you more power."

Alicent swallowed her pain.

"I don’t understand. Are you truly this angry because he chose me over you?"

"You don’t know what it is to love a man like Daemon!"

Alicent knew. She knew that what she felt was not love. What she felt was heavier. Darker.

It was fear. And a pull, like a river’s undertow.

"I can learn."

Rhaenyra’s face twisted into a mask of hatred.

"He’ll tire of you in a month," she said bitterly.

Alicent shrugged.

"Perhaps."

The princess scowled.

"You’re just going to accept it?"

Alicent didn’t know how to answer. She knew what she was supposed to say — what her father would expect, what the Faith taught, what a daughter of Oldtown would do — but she also knew what she had felt when Daemon had asked her favor at the tourney, when he crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty, and when he kissed her.

A chill down her spine. A heat behind her ribs. A kind of vertigo.

As if she were about to fall — or fly.

"He doesn’t want you, Alicent. He wants what you represent. Oldtown. Its tower. Its gold. And your womb." The Hand’s daughter couldn’t tell if Rhaenyra was trying to convince her — or herself.

"Just as you don’t want Daemon. You want to be him."

Alicent felt the precise moment when everything shattered.

Rhaenyra turned and walked away, the scent of flowers and iron lingering where she had passed. Alicent remained there, alone, the book in her hands like an unanswered prayer.

That morning had taken everything from her: her friend, her certainty, her peace.

And now, perhaps, her soul as well.

She lingered a while longer in the Godswood, unsure which path to take. More than the princess’s favor, it was the friendship that bound them since childhood that now bled. The whispered confidences, the laughter beneath sheets, the knowing glances between the columns of court — she would never find that again.

With a sigh, she turned and went back inside.

She walked quickly, but did not run. She never ran. Daughters of great Houses do not run in public — it was one of the first lessons her septa had taught her, but as her footsteps echoed through the halls of the Red Keep like funeral bells, Alicent did her best to ignore the voice ringing in her head, scolding her for her behavior.

 Her heart was louder than her shoes.

 She needed to get away, needed to go inside, to find the peace and silence of her chambers — but what she found was him.

 Daemon appeared ahead like a shadow emerging from stone. He was leaving one of the side chambers — the Hand’s private council room. The smell in there was always the same: warm wax, old parchment, and tension. His eyes were dark and satisfied, like a dragon that had just licked the blood of its prey. He looked like a man who had won.

 He saw her and stopped, smiling with one corner of his mouth

. “Lady Alicent.”

 She stopped too. She didn’t want to, but she did. Her feet hesitated without her consent, rooted to the floor even as the rest of her body leaned forward to go on. As if his voice were a rope tied around her ankle.

 The corridor was empty. The kind of silence that screams.

 Daemon walked toward her with that lazy grace that seemed to belong to no man but him. He was a predator with half-lidded eyes and ironic humor — as dangerous as a naked blade.

 A little unsteady, she curtsied.

 “I see you were with my father, my Prince” she said, with effort, trying to keep her voice from wavering. “I imagine it was… a productive conversation.”
“Oh, very. “ He smiled more broadly, stopping too close. “Your father is a sensible man, after all. Slow to yield, but he understands the value of a decisive move. As all true men do.”

 A shiver ran down Alicent’s spine.

 She lifted her chin, regaining her composure.

“I imagine you got what you wanted,” she said, in the polished tone of someone who learned early to hide thorns beneath silk.

Daemon raised an eyebrow, the smile still hanging on his lips like a lazy dagger.

 “Who said that’s what I wanted?”

 Alicent did not reply. She simply held his gaze for a moment that lasted too long. The truth was, she didn’t know what he wanted. No one did. Not even Viserys. And perhaps not even Daemon himself.

“Still following the counsel of the gods, my Prince?” she asked, secretly proud of herself for sounding as sharp as she intended.

Daemon tilted his head, like a wolf intrigued by the courage of a hare. His violet eyes gleamed with something unreadable.

 “It seems you’ve been paying close attention to my words, Lady Hightower.”
“When it comes to you, it’s always wise to pay attention.”

 Daemon laughed, but it was a joyless sound. A dry breath.

 “The Flames whisper, my Lady, and they burn stronger when your name is spoken ” he said, stepping forward. “ From the High Womb shall riseth the Tower,From Valyria’s bones, the Blood of power.Unite them, lest the world be torn;Divide, and death shall be reborn.Take thee the maid of hazel eye,Ere her gaze be blade, and thou dost die.Claim her whilst she dreameth ‘neath the tree,Ere she awaken — and ruin thee.Wed the lady crown’d in flame,Forged of faith and holy name.”

Alicent felt the hairs on her arms rise.

“Do you truly believe that?”

“The devout Alicent Hightower doubting the gods?”

“Those aren’t my gods you speak of. That is… superstition. Foreign bravado.”

 “No.” He leaned closer, his voice brushing hers like warm wind. “It is destiny.”

She stepped back, her heart pounding, though her face remained calm as polished marble.

She knew this was what he wanted: to see her falter, to watch the maiden flinch. But something in her was beginning to crack, and something else to take its place — something harder, less innocent.

“Then I ask you again, Prince Daemon” she said, curious, uncertain. “Do you believe in these prophecies?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he raised a hand, as if to touch her — but stopped a finger's breadth from her face, hovering, as though touching her might start a war.

“I believe… in power. And in all that drives it. Magic. Blood. Will. And you, my dear… are a perfect conduit.”

Alicent’s blood froze — then boiled — in a wave she was already learning to recognize whenever he was near. A mixture of fear and magnetism. The sense of standing before something too dangerous to surrender to fully, yet impossible to ignore.

“I am no tool. Nor a symbol.” Her voice came out low, but steady. “And if you choose me because of some whisper from the flames, then you are choosing your own ruin.”

Daemon smiled as if he’d heard a very old song. There was a taste of iron and defiance in the air.

“Ah, my dear, you have no idea. “He stepped back, like a dancer finishing a step. “You have no notion of your own potential, Alicent. Don’t let them fool you. You were made to bear the weight of a crown — not the veil of a septa.”

She wanted to say she didn’t care. That she wouldn’t be ensnared. But the words didn’t come. Because, somehow, he had already ensnared her. Not with touch, not with words — but with an idea. The idea that she could be more than someone’s wife. More than a piece in a man’s game. She could be the breaking point of a prophecy. The golden spark upon the powder.

And that idea, terrible and tempting, was already lit.

Daemon walked away with the same ease with which he had appeared — slow steps, hands behind his back, as if he had all the time in the world, as if he knew exactly what he had left behind: a woman in conflict with everything she had been taught to be.

Alicent remained in the corridor, like a candle trembling before a storm. She could still feel the warmth of his presence, left behind like a trail of smoke.

She didn’t want him. But something in her — something she’d been taught to repress — was already leaning toward danger like a flower growing crooked, seeking sunlight where it shouldn’t.

And even as she despised him, a part of her — the most secret part — wondered: what if it’s true?

She turned slowly and walked on, with steps light as prayers — and a mind full of fire.

Chapter Text

Alicent held her chin high and kept her hands together in front of her body, just as her mother had taught her. Every step measured, every gaze steady and forward, as though the halls were empty—and not filled with eyes disguised as tapestries and tongues hidden behind veils.

As she neared the embroidery gallery in the Tower of the Hand, the delicate sound of needles piercing linen was broken by restrained giggles and hurried whispers, like crows fluttering in a cage.

“He passed by again this morning,” murmured Lady Marra, not lifting her eyes from the intricate arrangement of flowers blooming beneath her slender fingers. “With that confident stride—almost like a challenge.”

“And didn’t even bother to hide the smile,” added a younger lady, her braids as tightly bound as her voice. “A man walks like that when he’s won a war… or a maiden.”

Instinctively, Alicent slipped behind a tapestry, her cheeks burning.

“Maiden? Oh, darling,” Lady Cynna replied with sugary venom. “At this point, not even a septa would dare call her that.”

The laughter was muffled behind lace-trimmed hands. A passing squire pretended not to hear and quickened his pace.

“They say he asked for her hand… but not before he touched other parts first,” came the voice of a wet nurse in the service of a lesser lady, feigning focus on a half-embroidered rose while her eyes gleamed with malice.

“Strange, isn’t it, that Lord Otto hasn’t accepted the offer?” Lady Catelyn asked, her voice thick with indignation. “Why hesitate if the girl’s already ruined?”

Lady Cynna leaned in and declared in a conspiratorial tone, “My maid says the servants whisper she lies with both brothers—the king and the rogue—and her father pretends not to see. I think he’s waiting for the king to make his move.”

Alicent’s blood rose again—this time with fury.

The longer it went on, the filthier and crueler the gossip became. She’d first heard the whispers from a kitchen girl who hadn’t realized she was within earshot.

But Alicent knew. She knew every whisper.

She knew the stable girls muttered when she passed, and the squires—once so quick to bow—now looked away as if she were something unseemly.

And above all, she knew denial would never be enough. Lies, when told with pleasure, had longer legs than tired truths. But that didn’t mean she had to bear them in silence.

She stepped from behind the tapestry and entered the gallery with poise. A few ladies tried to stifle their mocking smiles. Others made no effort to hide their discomfort. Lady Cynna barely glanced up from her embroidery.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Alicent said, her voice as soft as a prayer.

“Good afternoon, Lady Hightower,” came the reply, a beat too late. The chorus sounded strained.

She walked to the embroidery table and rested her hand lightly on an unfinished rose. She examined the work closely, her fingers brushing reverently across the threads.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” she said softly. “How one crooked stitch can ruin an entire flower.”

The wet nurse hesitated. Alicent smiled sweetly.

“But sometimes, if the mistake is repeated carefully enough… it becomes a new pattern.”

The ladies exchanged glances. Her words could mean anything—or everything. Alicent looked up and leaned casually against the table, as if she were in her own chambers.

“You know,” she continued, “I’ve been hearing quite a few whispers about me lately.”

The murmurs halted at once, plunging the room into a silence that felt imposed from without, like a veil drawn over the air.

“I suppose it’s only natural. The Rogue Prince’s marriage annulled— only for a new proposal to be made hours later. It’s not the sort of thing one sees every day. And of course… jealousy wears many masks.”

Lady Marra wrinkled her nose but said nothing.

“But since I’ve known you all for so long, and I trust your regard for me matches my own for you,” Alicent went on, her voice smooth as folded silk, “allow me to ease your minds—Daemon doesn’t belong to me. Not yet.”

The words lingered like thick smoke. Some ladies shifted in their seats. One dropped her needle. The Hand’s daughter paused, resisting the urge to pinch her own fingers.

“I know it’s a little hard to believe,” she said, lowering her eyes as though she’d said too much, “but he’s been quite attentive. Very protective, actually. Just yesterday, he mentioned he wouldn’t tolerate disrespect toward those he holds… dear.”

A subtle shiver passed along the table. No one dared ask what, precisely, the Rogue Prince would do.

Alicent smiled.

“He is impetuous, of course—like a dragon. And dragons are… temperamental, wouldn’t you say?”

Her tone was almost kind, but there was steel beneath the velvet.

“What comforts me,” she added, gazing once more at the embroidery, “is knowing that none of you would ever give him reason for anger.”

Silence. Total. Not a single lady laughed now. The scent of fear wasn’t obvious, but it hung in the air like poisonous pollen.

Alicent turned with elegance.

“Have a pleasant evening, my ladies.”

And she left—unhurried, but with her heart pounding like a war drum—leaving behind a room that, for many long minutes, dared not whisper.

The door to her chamber clicked shut behind her. Alicent leaned against it for a moment, eyes fixed on the stone floor where the window’s light cast long, wavering shadows.

There, alone, she finally breathed—a true breath, deep and almost trembling, as though she had been holding it for hours behind a faultless smile.

She walked to her dressing table, loosening her hair with careful hands, letting the pins fall beside a golden-threaded Seven-pointed Star necklace. She knelt before the small altar, but didn’t pray. Instead, she ran her fingers over the cold prayer beads—one, two, three—then stopped.

Lies.

Words that were not hers. Or perhaps too much for her.

“Daemon.”

She whispered his name without meaning to, and heat immediately rose to her cheeks.

She had spoken his name aloud in front of the ladies. Without title. Without distance. As if he belonged to her. As if they were close—intimate.

Shame rose in a hot wave, not just for the audacity of the lie, but for how strong it had made her feel. For the thrill of control, however brief, over those who had once laughed behind their fans.

She didn’t know why she had done it.

Or perhaps she did—and simply refused to admit it.

Her feelings for the prince were conflicted.

He irritated her. That insolent manner, those smiles that mocked everything. He infuriated her with the way he spoke, as though he knew more than he should, as though he could see through her. But at the same time, she feared him.

Daemon was a Targaryen. The king’s brother. A warrior. A man who had killed—and felt no remorse. A man who took what he wanted without asking. And now, they said, he wanted her.

She didn’t want to be wanted by him.

Or did she?

Alicent closed her eyes. She felt the heat rising up her neck, furious at herself.

I did it because I had to. Not because I am what they think I am.

Then a terrible thought struck her: What if he heard what she said?

She rose abruptly and walked to the window. Night had begun to fall over King’s Landing, and the windows of Maegor’s Holdfast were lighting up, one by one. Somewhere in there… he would be.

The Rogue Prince.

The man whose name now burned on her tongue.

A shiver ran down her spine.

***

The sun was already setting behind the scarlet walls of the Red Keep when Daemon Targaryen crossed the courtyards, soaked with sweat and dust, the golden cloak of the City Watch still thrown over his shoulders. His armor was dented at the shoulders, his helm hanging from his belt, and his boots left firm prints on the worn stone floor. His mood had hardened under the heat, the mud, and the sluggishness of men who would never learn to wield a blade with dignity.

The castle was full of eyes, and the corridors, as always, were more alive than any council chamber. The mere creak of the door behind him, as he passed through the gallery of columns on the upper floor, was enough for him to know that the steps following him belonged neither to a knight nor to a maid.

"Are you really going to do this to me?" Her voice cut through the silence like a naked dagger.

Daemon stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t turn. He only contemplated the stained glass windows that painted the floor with golden and blue dragons.

"You should be more clear, princess."

She appeared at his side, her violet eyes blazing. Her lilac silk dress swayed with her movements, and her silver-gold hair hung loose down her back like a curtain of pale fire.

"Alicent." She spat the name as if it were poison. "You're really going to marry her?"

Daemon sighed. Slowly.

"I asked for her hand, didn’t I?"

The silence between them weighed like stones in a tomb.

She bit her lower lip with barely contained fury.

"I always thought that… if you were ever free, you'd turn your eyes to me," she said at last. Low. Almost a whisper. "I waited for that. I always waited."

Daemon closed his eyes for a moment. Ah, of course she waited. He himself had planted that illusion, in another time, in another life—when he allowed smiles and teasing to fill the void between them like sweet wine.

"Rhaenyra," he said, his tone surprisingly restrained, "you know your father would never allow it. Besides, you're very young."

"And she isn't? Alicent isn’t much older than I am," she shot back, her voice full of indignation.

"Three years can feel like an eternity in some circumstances."

"But why did it have to be her?" The question came low, measured, but each syllable cut like a blade.

Daemon shrugged, feigning indifference. Indifference was his favorite armor.

"Are you going to tell me it was for love?" she asked, toying with the rings on her fingers, staring at them as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world.

He arched an eyebrow.

"Do you want me to fill your ears with pretty lies, just to make you feel better about it?"

"I prefer the truth," she said at last, lifting her gaze.

And there was fury there. But not explosive fury—it was the kind that simmers in silence, like dragonblood before fire.

"The truth, then," he said, leaning back casually against the cold stone wall. "I asked for her hand because it was the right thing to do, because I needed to protect our House, because I needed to keep Otto’s ambitions in check" he smirked, "irritating him is just a bonus. It’s not a choice made out of passion, it’s a choice made out of purpose."

She laughed—a low, humorless sound.

"Was that why you kissed her, too? Because it was the right thing to do?"

"I didn’t know you were interested in rumors, niece."

"So you're denying you kissed her?"

A mischievous smile curved his lips.

"No."

"You delight in other people's suffering, don’t you?" Her brows were furrowed in anger, but her voice sounded like a lament.

"Life doesn’t go the way we want, niece. The sooner you learn that, the better."

"Doesn’t it?" she thundered. "We’re Targaryens—we take what we want! Isn’t that what you always say?"

"There are some things even we cannot fight against. You’ll understand when you’re older."

"And Alicent? Does she understand that?" Her eyes gleamed with realization. "That’s why you chose her. You think Alicent will never oppose you, that she’ll be a quiet, obedient wife, harmless. You think you can bend her to your will, but you forget whose daughter she is."

Daemon laughed, a genuine laugh.

"You think me naive, Nyra? Me?" he said, voice thick with malice. "Do you really think I would choose a meek and dull wife? No, I chose Alicent precisely because she’s smarter than most believe. There’s power in her subtlety, you know?"

I learned that the hard way.

For a moment, there was no reply. The wind rustled through the windows, whispering secrets that both of them pretended not to hear.

"You’re jealous," he said.

"I loved you," she confessed. "I still do. And you know it. You used that."

Daemon remained silent for a moment. Even during the years of marriage, neither he nor Rhaenyra were ones for declarations of love; their feelings were almost always shown in subtler ways. Hearing her say it so plainly struck him as strange.

"Love isn’t everything, Rhaenyra. Often, it’s not even enough," he said quietly.

"Do you think love can be learned?" she asked, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"What?"

"When you asked for Alicent’s hand in council, I didn’t know what to do… I… I went to speak to her. We argued. I told her she could never love someone like you."

Daemon clenched his jaw.

“Someone like you”?

He kept his gaze locked on hers, unwavering.

"And what did she say?"

"She thinks she can learn," Rhaenyra said, each syllable laced with disdain.

"You think she can’t? That she’s incapable?"

The princess looked away.

"You’re not an easy man, Daemon."

The Rogue Prince tilted his head, studying her like a predator eyes its prey before the kill.

"You think I don’t deserve it?"

Rhaenyra didn’t answer. He gave a bitter laugh.

"How noble of you, princess. Only you are capable of loving a monster like me, is that it?" he said through gritted teeth. "You can't trust the Rogue Prince, can you? Oh, Daemon Targaryen, what a despicable creature you are."

She flinched, startled by his outburst.

"I didn’t say that! You’re putting words in my mouth!" she shot back, voice choked.

Daemon stepped forward, his eyes burning as if he already carried fire enough inside to scorch the world.

"I don’t need to put anything in your mouth, Rhaenyra. You say enough with your silence. Gods, you can’t even look me in the eye and admit what you think! And you expect me to crawl back to you the moment I’m free? I’m not surprised—you’ve always had this childish idea that the world should bend to your will."

By then, he no longer even knew who he was talking about—the girl before him, or the woman he had left behind in another life.

"You think you’re so superior, don’t you? What do you think you are? A martyr? A tragic hero?" she lashed out, fury on the surface. "You’re nothing but a coward hiding behind anger and empty talk of 'purpose' when the truth is you’ve always cared more about being feared than being loved!"

He laughed. A dry, cruel laugh.

"You only ever see what you want to see, don’t you?"

"Go to hell, Daemon."

"I’ve just returned from it," he said in an acid whisper. "And perhaps we’ll all be trapped there soon enough."

For a moment, silence reigned—tense as the sight of a sword raised in the air, seconds before the blow.

"Marrying her will be the greatest mistake of your life," Rhaenyra said, her voice low, trembling, but full of conviction. "And when you realize that... don’t you dare come looking for me."

His eyes sparkled—Daemon could feel the blood boiling in rage. They were the same, Viserys and her—thinking they could treat him however they pleased, that he would always crawl back no matter what they said or did. At the same time, doubt weighed in his gut like a stone.

What if she was right?

What if listening to the gods had been a mistake?

"Don’t worry, princess," he murmured. "I'm not the type to backtrack."

With that, he turned, leaving her behind.

"I hope it’s worth it, Daemon. I hope this rotten alliance brings you the throne you covet so much."

He didn’t answer, didn’t even turn. He just kept walking as if his victory were assured—even as uncertainty gnawed at his mind.

Chapter Text

The sky was overcast that morning, and the light filtering through the tall windows of the Council chamber was a dull, lifeless gray. The air was heavy, thick, as though the storm brewing over King’s Landing had already seeped into the stone walls of the Red Keep.

Daemon arrived last, dressed in his riding leathers and smelling like a dragon. His footsteps echoed across the flagstones with deliberate slowness, and he made no apologies as he sank into the chair to Viserys’s left, stretching one leg beneath the carved oak table. His eyes swept across the faces gathered at the table, one by one.

Otto Hightower sat with his hands clasped tightly before him, fingers so tense the knuckles had gone white. Mellos wheezed quietly, as always. Lyonel Strong watched in silence, his keen gaze shadowed beneath thick brows. Beesbury, the aging treasurer, darted glances between Daemon and the king, visibly ill at ease.

“Now that my brother has been kind enough to join us,” Viserys said carefully, as if stepping onto thin ice, “perhaps it is time we address the... most recent matter.”

Daemon noted how Otto did not raise his eyes right away. There was something rehearsed in his hesitation, as though he had repeated his lines a thousand times already. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, dull—but steady.

“I have given the proposal much thought, Your Grace.”

Silence. Only the creak of Mellos shifting in his chair.

“Daemon is... volatile, Your Grace. His temper must be tempered,” said the Hand. “Alicent has a steady disposition. She is pious, calm, and prudent.” He paused, then looked straight at Daemon. “Perhaps those qualities might soften... the prince’s more combustible nature.”

Daemon smiled—or as close to a smile as he ever managed without showing teeth like a wolf. Those words were no blessing. They were a surrender, carefully disguised as caution. Otto had yielded, even if the venom still clung to his tongue.

The entire council seemed to waver for a moment, disbelief flickering across their faces. Even the Hand himself looked as though he could scarcely believe the words he had spoken. Lyonel Strong cleared his throat, leaning forward, his broad hands resting on the table.

“A union between the Prince and the Hand’s daughter may indeed bring stability. Though I admit”—he arched a brow—“I am surprised by his sudden interest in balance.” His tone carried a note of irony, though not without respect. “Still, if there is mutual consent, and the king approves, I see no cause for objection.”

“A good marriage can transform a man,” said Mellos, voice thick with age. “Or at least... smooth his edges. There is precedent.” He coughed into a handkerchief, muffling the sound.

“I can’t say I understand the romance—if there is any to speak of,” muttered Beesbury, frowning. “But from the treasury’s point of view... fewer scandals mean fewer expenses. And fewer duels.” He cast a wary glance toward Daemon, who gave no reply.

At last, Viserys smiled—poorly disguising his relief.

“Then we are agreed. The union will be formalized. Wedding preparations shall begin at once.”

There were murmurs of assent, some more reserved than others.

“Perhaps,” Otto ventured, “given the queen’s recent passing, it would be prudent to wait until the mourning period concludes before making arrangements.”

“No,” Daemon replied, his voice firm, cutting through the chamber before anyone else could speak. “House Targaryen has no time to waste. The wedding must happen as soon as possible.” He turned to Viserys, his voice gentler now. “Aemma was kind. She would have understood the urgency.”

The king’s gaze shifted between his brother and his Hand before he gave his verdict.

“Very well. Three months. That is the soonest we can arrange a royal wedding without dishonoring Aemma’s memory.”

A satisfied smile crept across the Rogue Prince’s face. His violet eyes found Otto’s, searching for objection. But Otto said nothing. He merely gave a small nod, as if sealing a sentence already passed.

In the end, things had unfolded exactly as Daemon had intended. And yet, what rose in his throat was not quite relief. He had made this happen—had spun the web that unraveled one marriage and birthed another. The victory, which had always tasted sweet, now carried a trace of bitterness.

As the councillors dispersed with murmured farewells and shuffling steps, Daemon remained seated, fingers drumming lightly on the carved wood. The background hum of voices faded like flies buzzing over fresh carrion.

He had won.

So why did it feel like something had been lost in the process?

He had pursued this with almost cruel precision—moved the pieces, planted doubts in corridors, forced inevitability with smiles that concealed knives. It had been a long, solitary, meticulous dance. Every word to Viserys, every barb to Otto, every carefully measured exchange with Alicent... all of it had served the same end. And now that fate was assuming the shape he had carved with such care, Daemon realized the chains he wrapped around others were tightening around him as well.

Alicent.

He did not desire her—not in the way that made poets bleed ink. He would take her for what she represented. Alicent was the key, the symbol, the catalyst. The Hand’s daughter. The pious girl whose unblemished image made lords bow their heads and ladies hide their smiles. Binding himself to her was more than a political affront—it was a declaration of dominance. Over Otto. Over the throne itself. Over the course of years to come.

But the memory of the girl—the downcast brown eyes, the voice always measured, the quiet strength cloaked in silk and modest words—lingered, haunting.

He would have to forge her into a queen of fire and iron. But how?

Daemon exhaled sharply and leaned back, letting his head rest against the high back of the chair. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. An old kind of exhaustion, as though the victories drained him more than the wars ever had.

Perhaps that was what Viserys would never understand: that ruling was more than smiling at crowds and kissing infants. It was bleeding without letting the blood show. It was sacrificing not just others—but pieces of oneself.

Alicent, now, was part of that sacrifice. And soon, she would come to know it.

In the empty chamber, the echo of his thoughts was the only sound left.

Daemon rose, his steps heavier now, and walked alone through the corridors of the Red Keep. It was there, among damp stone and cold tapestries, that he had first learned not to trust anyone—not even himself.

But the Rogue Prince was not a man given to regrets. The gods, who still watched over the Targaryen line, had already cast the dice.

And Daemon, as ever, was wagering everything.

***

Daemon walked the corridors of the Red Keep with a slowness that spoke not of fatigue, but of heavy deliberation. The murmurs of the council still echoed in his mind, the victory tasting bitter on his tongue. He knew where he would look for Alicent—almost always in the quieter corners of the castle, reading or tending to her needlework. He found her in a small gallery adjacent to the library, where the overcast morning light cast a pale sheen on the ancient tapestries and the book resting in her lap.

She looked up when he stopped in the doorway, his silhouette blocking what little light crept through. She closed the book with a soft click.

“My prince,” she greeted, voice composed, though Daemon could see the apprehension in her eyes.

He didn’t move. He only watched her. The scent of dragon clung to his clothes, thick and wild, and seemed to fill the narrow space between them.

“I hope I’m not interrupting some great revelation,” he said, voice low, almost languid.

“Only Septon Barth. Likely denser than your battle accounts, I’d imagine.”

He smiled, head slightly tilted.

“Depends on the battle. Some books can be quite... descriptive.”

She eyed him with cautious restraint.

“I doubt you came to discuss theology with me, my prince.”

Daemon took the seat across from her, a sly grin curling his lips. For a moment, he said nothing. He only watched her, drinking in the contrast between her apparent serenity and the invisible knot of tension thickening the air around them.

“I thought it only polite to bring you the news myself,” he said, with wry amusement. “The council was gracious enough to accept my proposal.”

Alicent held his gaze, her face unreadable.

“When?” she asked.

“In three months.”

She nodded once, then opened the book again.

“I was hoping for a more enthusiastic reaction,” he said.

“You expected me to thank you for the chance to become your wife?” she shot back, her voice edged with sarcasm.

Daemon leaned forward. Alicent leaned subtly back.

“No. But you might at least pretend to be pleased,” he replied with a curt smile. “You’ll have a prince. A crown. A dragon.”

“But not without a cost.”

A cruel smile tugged at the Rogue Prince’s mouth.

“Afraid not.”

“Like everything in this place,” she said bitterly. “Tell me, my prince—what is it you truly want? How much will this crown cost me?”

The silence that followed was heavy, like any false move might ignite the room.

Daemon studied her, eyes tracing every detail of her guarded posture, the hand clutching the book to her lap. He wanted to see the frustration, the fire he knew simmered beneath the surface.

“I want everything that’s rightfully mine,” he said at last, voice low and dangerous. “I want the support of the great Houses. I want the name, the bloodline, the legitimacy my brother refuses to grant me. And I want an heir. One that is mine—and who will have a rightful claim to the throne.”

Alicent held his gaze, her expression unreadable.

“And what of Rhaenyra?”

Daemon didn’t answer immediately.

The question lingered between them like incense smoke—sweet and suffocating.

There she was: the Hand’s daughter, dressed in soft blue calm, but with eyes that burned like a cornered wolf’s. Alicent Hightower. So sweet from afar, so sharp up close. There was something in her—in the well-placed silences, the questions that seemed simple but carried a hidden blade. He could glimpse it there, deep down: a flicker of the queen. Whether it was the one she had been or the one she would become, he couldn’t yet tell.

“What about Rhaenyra?”

“She always believed she’d marry you.”

“She’ll get over it.”

“Rhaenyra is not the sort who accepts disappointment quietly.”

He knew that. His niece would not go quietly—she had made that clear. But then again, it was no surprise. Viserys had coddled her as if she were spun from Valyrian gold. And she, in turn, looked at her uncle with that innocent adoration that blurred all lines. There had always been desire, of course—the kind that festers when blood and power, childhood and fantasy, intertwine.

Daemon laughed, a dry, humorless sound.

“Things don’t always go the way we want them to. It’s a lesson she’d do well to learn sooner rather than later.”

“Curious to hear you say that, my prince, considering how much you contributed to that belief.”

He smiled, but his eyes darkened.

“Perhaps I did,” he said, his tone colder now. “But it wasn’t my duty to raise her. That falls to Viserys.”

Alicent closed the book slowly, the motion heavier than the binding should allow. Her hands rested atop the cover, as if she could draw some measure of steadiness from it.

“You show little interest in your niece’s upbringing, and yet you speak of fatherhood,” she said, almost in a whisper, with no hint of mockery. “After all that’s happened. You want an heir, a wife... you want what was never given, even if you have to take it by force.”

“Of course I do. After all these years—after every exile, every slight—I was treated like dead weight by a king who saw me more as a threat than as blood.”

He leaned closer still, their faces now only inches apart, his gaze sharp and pressing like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

“I have fought for every shred of respect, every scrap of power. And now, finally, I have the chance to take what I’m owed.”

Alicent didn’t flinch, but her hand trembled slightly over the book.

“And you think I am that chance?” she asked, her voice a dangerous whisper.

“You’re a valuable tool. Sharp and well-forged. You have your father’s loyalty, your House’s untarnished reputation, and soon, the legitimacy of a royal heir. More importantly, you have the cunning to wield it all. This opportunity isn’t just mine, Lady Alicent.”

He pulled back slightly, that wicked smile curling once more.

“A prison is still a prison, my prince—whether made of gold, or of fire and steel.”

“I’m not giving you a cell. I’m offering you a key.”

The silence that followed was louder than any shout. Alicent looked at him with a blend of disbelief and reluctant fascination, as one might look at a beast they cannot decide whether to slay or set loose.

“You play a dangerous game, Prince Daemon. You are a dangerous man. Not because you ride Caraxes or wield Dark Sister—but because you truly believe you can bend the world to your will.”

“And you don’t?” he countered, tilting his head. “You hide behind silken dresses and polite words, but you look at everyone like you already know the secrets they’re trying to keep. And with that, you decide their fate.”

Alicent’s brow twitched faintly, but she showed no surprise at the accusation. Her eyes broke from his for only a moment—a silent confession.

“I’ve survived by watching,” she said. “And sometimes, watching too closely... you learn things you wish you hadn’t.”

Daemon stood slowly, unhurried, like a cat stretching in the sun. He walked to one of the windows and rested a hand on the cold stone sill. The morning remained gray, the courtyard below as silent as the space between two blades on the verge of clashing.

“In three months, we’ll be husband and wife,” he said, still facing the window. “And then the eyes of the realm will be upon us—all of them waiting, demanding…”

Alicent watched him from her chair, the book resting lifelessly in her lap. The pale light outlined the tension in her shoulders. She knew he wasn’t speaking of love or affection—but of power. And somewhere deep within her, buried beneath the veil of virtue and duty, she knew she wanted that power too.

“You speak as if you plan to build a new world,” she said softly. “I wonder whether you’ll lay that world at my feet as a gift... or crush me beneath it as punishment?”

Daemon turned slowly, eyes glinting—not just with anger, but something deeper. Bitterness. Recognition. Interest.

“That,” he said, “will depend on you, my lady.”

Alicent swallowed hard, her knuckles white against the book’s spine. Daemon knew she could feel it—his certainty. This was not a proposal. It was a decree. And deep down, she knew there was nowhere left to run. Otto Hightower had already stepped into the web—and now, so had she.

“And if I refuse?” she whispered, the question defiant, though she knew it was futile.

Daemon’s smile widened, though it carried no warmth. It was the smile of a predator who had finally cornered its prey.

“You won’t. Because you’re far too clever for that, Lady Alicent. You know there’s no other path to the power you secretly crave. And you know—deep down—you like the danger.”

He extended his hand, and for a moment she thought he might touch her. But he only let his fingertips rest atop the book she held, sliding them slowly across the leather cover.

“Think carefully, Alicent. The realm will come to me one way or another. But it is up to you to decide whether it comes the easy way... or the long, bloody one.”

Alicent nodded slowly, almost like a prisoner accepting her sentence.

He withdrew his hand and turned to leave, his silhouette filling the doorway once again.

“Prepare yourself, my future queen. The game has only just begun.”

Daemon vanished down the corridor, leaving Alicent alone in the dim gallery, where ancient tapestries bore witness to centuries of ambition and blood—and where, now, two wills had begun to entwine.

***

Daemon climbed the steps to the top of the White Sword Tower—not for the view, but for the silence. The Red Keep was a living thing, loud and treacherous, with eyes in every crack and ears in every stone. He needed air, isolation, distance from it all. But the further he went from Alicent, the more her presence followed him, like the faint scent of a poisonous flower.

He leaned against the stone parapet, the wind tugging at his clothes, his silver hair tousled, eyes fixed on the overcast sky. And there, beneath the burdened clouds, he thought of Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra Targaryen—the Realm’s Delight, Viserys’ cherished heir, the Black Queen.

The girl who had looked at him as if he were forged from iron and glory. Who wanted him with a devotion bordering on the divine, fed by promises he never made—but never denied. In another life, he had been her consort, her shield, her sword, her councilor. Everything she allowed him to be—everything, except the father of her children.

Daemon closed his eyes.

He had seen his niece bear five sons—three by Harwin Strong, two she claimed were his. But the Rogue Prince had never been certain.

They bore the right colors: the pale gold of Valyria, the violet eyes of Old Blood. Yet Daemon could not find his face reflected in theirs. Their features were too soft, noses too upturned, eyes too rounded. Traits that lacked the hard edge of Valyrian steel that ran through his veins. Deep down, some part of him had always known. And now, having returned—having seen the past with the eyes of one who had already lived through the end, through the smoke that choked Dragonstone, the charred bones, the madness of Alicent’s sons, and the scream of Syrax against a broken sky—the truth hissed through his blood like fire.

The boys were not his.

Daemon had defended them with tooth and claw. He had killed for them. Died for them. Carried their names on his lips until the bitter end. And yet… bones do not lie.

Rhaenyra had wanted him, yes—with fury and sweetness, with the passion of a princess who believed in fate. But she had used him, just as he used her. It was not love. It was not enough. And everything they built together turned to dust—betrayal and war.

He had suspected. Of course he had. But Rhaenyra always wrapped her lies in honeyed smiles and half-truths. In whispered promises of fidelity. In what felt like love.

He closed his eyes again, his fingers curling tightly against the cold stone.

Daemon had desired Rhaenyra for years, and when he finally had her—she burned him.

Rhaenyra’s sons were raised by him, trained by him. But no matter what he gave them, they never possessed his fire. Not his wrath, not his fury, not the ancestral spark. When the time came to burn, they withered. When the winds of war blew, they fell like dry leaves—and he watched them drop, one by one, on the battlefield and in memory.

Daemon drew a deep breath. The air smelled of damp stone and coming storms—but the thunder roared louder inside him.

Alicent was not yet queen, not yet a mother, but he had already seen her be both.

In another life—the life he lived to its bitter end—Alicent had been Viserys’ wife. Queen to a feeble king. Mother to four children who shaped the storm: Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron.

Daemon squeezed his eyes shut, as if he might erase the images etched into his mind. Aegon, drunk and disinterested, playing at kingship with his father’s crown. Aemond, proud atop Vhagar, harvesting enemies like weeds. Daeron, hidden in Oldtown like a dagger sheathed in velvet. And Helaena…

Helaena was different.

He remembered her voice—soft, hesitant, almost always ignored. A sweet girl, with eyes that saw more than they should. Her words came wrapped in riddles, fragments of a fate no one could understand… until it was far too late.

Daemon had never known whether Helaena was a dreamer or simply born broken. But one thing was certain: no one listened when they should have.

Rhaenyra bore bastards. Alicent, unstable heirs—raised among prayers, crowns, and poison.

He had scorned Alicent in his youth—beautiful, yes, but meek, silent, tangled in the duties others had chosen for her. But in her eyes, there was something that no one saw in time.. A coldness dressed as piety. A strength forged in denial. Alicent Hightower had no dragons of her own—but she raised some of the deadliest to ever live.

Her sons fought to the end. They killed, conquered, burned. And they died as kings.

Daemon knew—the fall hadn’t come merely because Aegon sat the throne. It came because none of them were shaped with the discipline they needed. Because they were raised in the shadow of a king too frightened to choose, by a mother who tried to save the realm with faith, and by a court that preferred whispers to action.

With proper guidance, they could have taken the realm.

And that is why this time would be different.

Now he had Alicent—and with her, a chance to remake the world.

Alicent’s children with Viserys brought ruin.

Alicent’s children with him could bring redemption.

This time, the throne would bear his blood.

Daemon Targaryen knew the weapons of power. He knew how a man could be used—and how a man could use. Rhaenyra wanted him for glory. Alicent might use him out of necessity—but at least she would never bleed him with lies.

The war would come again. But when it did, Daemon Targaryen would make sure it was waged by his sons. And that the dragons would answer only to the fire that burned in his bloodline—not the shadow of a past mistake.

This time, he would win.

This time, his blood would not be spilled in vain.

Chapter Text

The brothel was stifling and thick with smoke, heavy with the sweet, cloying scent of cheap wine mingled with sweat, hoarse laughter, and the sickly perfume of prostitutes. The men of the City Watch crowded the worn stone-and-wood hall like hungry dogs around a carcass. Their celebration of the latest city purge had stretched on for hours, and most had drunk far more than was wise.

Daemon sat at a table set slightly apart, more observer than participant in the revelry. Parts of his armor had been discarded for comfort, Dark Sister rested beside him, and tonight—at least in appearance—he was simply one of them. A commander among brothers.

Dice clattered, coins were wagered, and half-dressed women were pulled onto eager laps. Wine flowed freely, and as always happened when drink was in abundance and shame in short supply, loose tongues soon began to wag.

“So, my prince…” Rymmer began, in that tone of mock innocence that was anything but. “They say you’re betrothed now—to the Hightower girl. That you asked for her hand before the entire Council. True, is it? The sweet-voiced maiden with big eyes... and long prayers?”

Daemon smirked and didn’t answer right away, merely brought his cup to his lips and drank deep.

“Why the curiosity? Hoping for an invitation to the wedding?”

Rymmer burst into laughter, echoed by jeers and cackles from the surrounding tables. One man nearly toppled the girl on his lap as he leaned forward to catch more of the exchange.

“Harlon wagered five gold dragons you’d already had her before old Otto even knew about the betrothal,” added another, a big, sweaty man called Tarly, with crooked teeth and small piggish eyes.

More laughter. More cups raised.

Daemon said nothing.

“Heard it happened in the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast,” someone whispered with a smirk. “That she was shown the royal chambers… and ended up seeing much more than tapestries. They say she moans like a septa in prayer.”

Men squirmed in their chairs, laughter echoing off the walls. The whores, used to such talk, either smiled lazily or rolled their eyes. Daemon watched the scene, the smoke stinging his eyes. He felt the weight of every gaze on him, the unspoken dare behind each crude jest. A familiar game: testing the boundaries of the Rogue Prince.

“I bet she whispers her prayers as she undoes her corset,” said Terlan, his voice slurred with wine.

The laughter was louder now—vulgar, vivid, gleeful.

“I can hear her murmuring between the moans.”

More commotion. Cups raised again. The prostitutes exchanged languid glances.

Daemon smiled as well. It didn’t bother him. It shouldn’t have.

“I can picture it clearly,” said a man from the back. “The unsuspecting maiden heading to bed after a long day, only to find the prince himself taking the Hand’s daughter right there in the hallway.”

The image slipped into his mind uninvited: Alicent, pale and breathless, pressed against a cold stone wall, her auburn hair disheveled, her trembling hands running up his back… Daemon gripped his goblet tighter.

“There’s nothing like a maiden raised in the Faith,” Tarly said, eyes narrowing. “Modest on the outside, burning up inside.”

“She probably prays as she undresses and again after,” Terlan slurred, leaning over the table. “‘Forgive me, O Merciful Mother.’”

Daemon remained silent. For a moment, it was as if he existed in two places at once—here in the brothel… and above her.

Their words pressed deeper into his mind, conjuring images behind his eyes.

Her parted lips. Pale skin. Corset strings unraveling like serpents. Trembling hands and whispered prayers—not to a god, but to him.

Each vision struck with the force of a slap. Swift. Vivid. Hot.

He hated it—the ease with which they formed, the heat they stirred beneath his skin.

When Goren moaned theatrically—“Oh, my prince… be gentle…”—Daemon stood so fast it was like a whip had cracked.

“That’s enough,” he muttered, voice stripped of amusement. “You’ve spoken enough shit for one night.”

Silence dropped like a corpse. Even the wine seemed to sour in its cups.

“If you’re looking to place bets, wager on who lives through the end of the week.”

He drained the last of his wine and picked up Dark Sister in a fluid motion. With one final glance at his so-called brothers, he added, already turning away:

“If you insist on dreaming of my future wife… dream quietly.”

He left, the sound of his boots muffled by the filthy wood floor, leaving behind the wine, the smoke, and a roomful of men who suddenly seemed a little more sober.

With steady steps, the Rogue Prince returned to the Red Keep. In the solitude of its corridors, the image of Alicent flickered through his mind, persistent and unwelcome. The shadows cast by the torches wavered on the walls in a restless dance. The night now felt thick—heavy with too many thoughts—and the wine had done little to silence any of them.

A side door creaked open softly, and she appeared—as if conjured by Daemon’s own thoughts. Her embroidered robe hung open, revealing a white nightgown that swayed with her movements. Her hair was loose, cascading down her back like a fall of fire, and her eyes widened the moment she saw him.

It was late. Far too late for any decent maiden to be out of bed. The handmaids were gone, the septons asleep. The Keep, in theory, was at rest. And yet, there she was—emerging from the end of the corridor like a ghost draped in lace and cotton.

“Prince Daemon,” she said, her voice lower than usual, as if she’d just stepped out of a prayer—or a dream.

He held his breath. The air felt thinner, as though they’d climbed too high on dragonback. He didn’t know what to say—not yet. For a moment far too long, he only looked at her, and the world seemed to shrink until there was only the space between them.

“Lady Alicent?” he asked, in a dangerously soft whisper. “What are you doing out of bed at this hour?”

She straightened her spine, as if her very presence here were a mistake. Her hands clasped before her, anxious.

“I... couldn’t sleep,” she replied, her eyes darting away from his too quickly. “I went to the Godswood. I thought... a prayer might help.”

Daemon arched an eyebrow. His expression, somewhere between cynical and hungry, glided over her like a warm breeze over open flame.

“Prayers? At this hour? Or were you perhaps praying for me to arrive?” He stepped forward—slowly, with no threat in his gait, yet full of the quiet command of a man who was used to owning the space around him. Alicent instinctively stepped back, her robe whispering against the stone floor. The corridor’s shadows thickened as the torchlight danced.

Her scent—citrusy, fresh—now mingled with the lingering smoke and wine clinging to him from the brothel. It was a strange blend, almost profane, that both drew him in and repelled him.

“I’m sorry, my prince, but my prayers are for myself and the Seven,” she answered swiftly, as sharp and well-honed as any blade, though her voice remained soft and composed. “I doubt your ears—more used to tavern songs and vulgar jest—would care to hear them.”

He took another step closer, breaching her personal space. Alicent held his gaze without flinching. Daemon had to bite back an ironic smile. His young betrothed had more courage than many of his Gold Cloaks—not a surprise, not when he’d already seen her thorns.

“You don’t need to pretend modesty with me, Alicent,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. Slowly, he raised one hand, bracing it on the wall beside her. For a moment, her body stiffened, as though expecting him to touch her.

“I don’t pretend, my prince,” she whispered hoarsely, almost like a plea. “Decency is all I have left.”

Daemon laughed—a low, humorless sound that echoed down the hall.

“Decency? What use is decency in the face of court gossip?”

He tilted his head, violet eyes locked onto hers, searching for something beneath the surface. The silence between them was so dense he could almost hear her racing heartbeat.

“I suppose you’re right, Prince Daemon,” she said at last, her voice laced with bitter steel. “There’s no decency left in me. Not after what the rumors say. Not after what the princess thinks. Not after what you did to me.”

The accusation lingered between them. Daemon’s smile widened, a glint of triumph in his eyes.

“Ah. So it’s not the judgment of the gods you fear. It’s the judgment of men.”

He let his hand fall from the wall to a lock of auburn hair that had slipped over her shoulder, twisting it slowly around his fingers. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath the thin fabric. Alicent shivered—but didn’t pull away.

“I fear men who do not fear the gods,” she retorted, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. “Men who forget their vows even in broad daylight.”

Daemon smiled. A dangerous smile.

“Then you should fear me, Lady Alicent,” he said. “For I remember my vows—I simply choose to break them.”

“And you, my prince? Do you fear nothing?”

He leaned in until his lips nearly brushed her ear.

“No. I do not fear what I am, Alicent. And you shouldn’t fear what you’re meant to become. The gods didn’t choose you to pray, my lady. They chose you to rule.”

He pulled back, but only just. Their bodies remained close, too close. He watched her throat bob as she swallowed hard—but her voice, when it came, was steady and resigned.

“And what if I don’t want it? What if I only want to return to my chambers and forget this conversation—and you—ever happened?”

Daemon smiled again, predatory and cold.

“Then do so. But I assure you, my lady—I am not easily forgotten.”

He stepped back, slowly, giving her space to breathe but not to flee. Alicent remained pressed to the wall, watching him go. The air between them vibrated with the energy he left behind.

“Prince Daemon!” her voice, though still soft, sliced through the silence with unexpected clarity.

He stopped. His body angled toward the exit, but his head turned, violet eyes narrowing with feline curiosity.

“What is it, Lady Alicent? Forgotten a prayer?”

Her brown eyes were fixed on him with unwavering resolve.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” she accused in a whisper. “That night in Maegor’s Holdfast. Elinor didn’t find us by accident. You knew she was coming.”

A wide smile bloomed on his face, amusement and recognition glinting in his eyes. He took a step toward her. Then another. And another—closing the distance with the smooth grace of a dragon in flight. Alicent shivered.

“Clever, Lady Alicent,” he murmured, stopping mere inches from her. “I was wondering how long it would take you to accuse me.”

“Why did you do it?” she whispered, voice nearly lost to the silence. “To ruin me? To leave me no choice?”

Daemon tilted his head, his eyes drifting to her lips—parted in equal measure between question and defiance. The white nightgown, nearly translucent beneath the open robe, clung to her shape. The brothel’s whispered fantasies—once smoke and shadow—now took terrifyingly vivid form.

His body moved before his mind could stop it.

He kissed her.

Hard. Possessive. His hand found the back of her neck, pulling her into him, the other sliding to her waist, pressing her body to his. Her embroidered robe crumpled between them.

The kiss was hungry—claiming. Her lips were soft; his tasted of wine and smoke. She kissed him back with a gasp, a tremor escaping her mouth as the kiss deepened. It wasn’t all revulsion—there was fire in her that answered his. Terror and desire, tangled and fierce. His tongue traced the line of her mouth, seeking entrance. Alicent parted for him.

It was dizzying. Sweet and dangerous.

It lasted an eternity—and an instant.

And then, suddenly, Daemon pulled back, as if burned.

In a way, he had been. His body was untouched, but his pride felt scorched.

He stared at her. The violet in his eyes wasn’t cold or mocking anymore—it was disturbed. There was a war inside him, plain on his face. Reason and instinct battled in silence. His jaw clenched. His lips pressed into a hard line.

Alicent’s citrus-sweet scent still clung to him, winding through his thoughts like smoke—irritatingly persistent.

Daemon let out an irritable huff and turned sharply, retreating down the hall with a speed that betrayed his usual deliberate calm. Dark Sister thudded lightly at his hip, as if humming with tension. He disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind the sweet, bright perfume of Alicent Hightower—and the bitter taste of his own unrest.

Chapter Text

In the weeks leading up to the wedding, Daemon saw Alicent only a handful of times, yet her presence clung to him like a haunting. She was no gentle ghost, but a vivid figure—sharp as memory, with her citrus scent and those brown eyes that seemed to peer straight into his soul. Every time he thought he had mastered the situation, her image—that kiss in the corridor—rose again to torment him.

That morning, his chambers in the Red Keep were flooded with a pale, cold light. He dismissed the servants with a curt gesture, preferring solitude in that hour before full dawn. Seated by the window, he watched King’s Landing stir beneath a veil of mist. In a few short hours, his fate would be sealed. Alicent Hightower would become his lady wife.

In a few short hours, the whispers in court would shift. Once her maiden’s cloak was replaced by his, once the vows were spoken in the Sept, the shameless girl who dared lie with two brothers in her hunger for power would be recast as the innocent maiden, seduced by promises, drawn into the arms of the Rogue Prince by the folly of young love. A foolish girl. A youthful mistake.

Hypocrites.

The same mouths that had called her a whore now sighed with pity for her stained reputation. The same ladies who once whispered about her indecent gown at the tourney now wept over the tale of a marriage for love, over the story of two star-crossed lovers who had fought against all odds to be together.

Daemon pressed his fingers to his temples, as though touch alone could banish the storm of thoughts gnawing at him from within.

The more the tale of doomed lovers spread, the more Rhaenyra’s fury simmered.

In recent weeks she had grown increasingly volatile, like a volcano on the brink of eruption. The more sympathy Daemon and Alicent garnered, the more the princess felt the ground slipping beneath her feet.

He had noticed the cold glances, the rehearsed silences, the fresh rumors swirling with uncommon speed—he didn’t need to ask where they originated. Rhaenyra had always been adept at turning others’ sentimentality to bolster her claims.

The entire Red Keep seemed to hum with anticipation. Dozens of noble eyes would be watching them, hunting for answers—eager for confirmation of the rumors. Searching for signs of a reckless, consuming passion—or a swelling belly beneath the Hand’s daughter’s gowns.

He rose abruptly, crossing the room and pouring himself a cup of wine. He did not drink it. He only watched the dark liquid swirl at the bottom of the glass, as if it might offer answers.

Daemon inhaled deeply, feeling the invisible weight that had pressed on him since the day he asked for Alicent’s hand before the Small Council. A necessary sacrifice, a penance he had to bear for the sake of his house’s future. That was what he told himself as he tried to ignore the venomous thoughts stirred by a girl with eyes too wide, a smile too polished—who had now become the face of all his torment.

He hated what she did to him. Hated how she haunted him without lifting a finger, like a quiet illness lodged between his ribs.

Hated how her image invaded his mind at the most inopportune moments—memories of the Green Queen and the girl who intrigued him mingling with dreams of Harrenhal and the fancies planted by the men of the Watch.

He wanted her. And he hated that truth with every fiber of his being—but he could not deny it.

It wasn’t the easy, ravenous lust that had led him to countless brothels. It was something fouler. Something that throbbed beneath the skin.

Perhaps he ought to be grateful. At least it meant he’d be able to perform his marital duties without difficulty.

“May her Seven condemn her,” he muttered, then drained the cup in one long swallow.

This wasn’t part of the plan. Alicent wasn’t meant to matter to him beyond the role she would play—a symbol, an alliance, a shield against the decrepit fools of the council.

The white dress she would wear had been delicately embroidered by septa hands, but the sharp tongues of court had already stitched over it a tale far from sacred.

And he, of course, was the redeemed villain. The Rogue Prince who had forsaken debauchery for a virtuous young bride.

He turned again to the window. Outside, the bells of the Great Sept began to toll in the distance, muffled by fog.

Time was slipping away.

Soon, he would don the face of a husband and shed the skin of a warrior. He would become the protector of a girl who needed no protection—at least, not from him.

And the most maddening thing of all… was that part of him longed to see her.

He wanted to face her in the Sept. To see her tremble beneath the veil, to know if her eyes also harbored the same burning tension that scorched through him.

He wanted to know if she thought of him at night.

If the memory of that kiss haunted her too.

If she bore the same strange mix of revulsion and fascination.

If, for even a moment, she wanted him—half as much as he now feared he wanted her.

He let out a slow breath, swallowing another mouthful of wine.

Below, the city began to stir, a muted symphony of bells, cart wheels, and hurried steps. The sounds of a world moving forward, oblivious to the chaos churning inside him.

Hours and seconds passed as Daemon sat immersed in the gloom of his chamber, the pale morning light struggling to pierce the thick air.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Before he could answer, the hinges creaked and Viserys entered, a scroll in hand. His expression was calmer than usual, but his lilac eyes held a flicker of boyish curiosity.

“Daemon,” said the king, his voice surprisingly gentle. “May I intrude on your morning peace?”

Daemon offered a dry smile that never reached his eyes.

“Peace hasn’t found me in some time,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Come in.”

Viserys stepped into the room, his gaze surveying the space with familiar fondness. He sat across from Daemon, unrolling the scroll.

“What you told me that day… about the Fourteen Flames…” Viserys began, voice low, almost reverent. “Those words haven’t left my mind since. ‘Fire shall calleth unto fire’s breath,And blood shall answer blood with death..’ It’s… powerful. Truly. Have you had any more visions since then? Any further signs?”

Daemon suppressed a sigh. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t tell Viserys the truth—that he was no dreamer, that he hadn’t seen the war, but lived it, smelled death, tasted bitter defeat. Truth would have him labeled mad.

“The weight of prophecy, brother, doesn’t dissolve with a night’s rest,” Daemon replied, choosing his words carefully. “The Flames said what needed to be said. The rest is... uncertainty. As ever.”

Viserys nodded, eyes still fixed on the parchment, though he seemed to see something far beyond the ink.

“Yes, yes. Uncertain, no doubt—but still, a path. You said, ‘From the High Womb shall riseth the Tower, From Valyria’s bones, the Blood of power. Unite them, lest the world be torn’ It’s clear now that Alicent is the path. Otto and I spoke again. He believes her gentle, pious nature may temper yours, Daemon. And I… I agree. I think she can… calm your fire.”

Daemon felt a chill. Calm your fire. As if he were some beast in need of taming. The irony was cruel, for he was the one making a sacrifice to avert a far greater blaze.

“Otto seeks to place his blood on the throne,” Daemon said, voice laced with venom. “And I seek the glory of House Targaryen. If those paths meet in Lady Alicent’s bed, so be it.”

Viserys looked up, a faint crease between his brows.

“It’s more than that, brother. It’s the future. Longevity. Are you certain this is the way, Daemon? This marriage, this… partnership?”

Daemon leaned forward and took a sip of wine. The taste was bitter, like the fate awaiting him.

“I’m certain it is the way the Flames revealed, brother.”

Viserys studied him for a long moment, confusion mixed with a flicker of awe. He didn’t fully understand, but he accepted Daemon’s words with a faith Daemon himself found foolish. The king finally rose, smoothing the scroll.

“Very well. The Sept is being prepared. The guests will arrive soon. May the gods guide your steps, Daemon.”

Daemon simply nodded. When Viserys departed, the Rogue Prince reclined once more, the wine tasting even harsher than before.

The Sept awaited him—and with it, a promise of peace forged through sacrifice.

***

He fastened the final straps of his doublet, staring at his own reflection in the mirror — a face both familiar and strange. Daemon still hadn’t grown used to seeing his younger self stare back at him. It felt, at times, as though he might awaken in Harrenhal and realize it had all been nothing but a dream.

The ceremony would begin in less than an hour.

The bells tolled like a sentence being pronounced. The Rogue Prince stepped away from the mirror and left his chambers for the Sept, feeling like a prisoner being led to judgment.

The Sept glowed with gold and colored glass, stifling beneath the heat of too many bodies pressed together, muffled voices buzzing, and eyes watching from every corner. The stained glass filtered the light of late afternoon into shades of crimson and violet, painting the marble floor with blood. The procession of lords and ladies settled into place — every eye turned to him.

Daemon walked down the Sept toward the altar, each step deliberate, each breath like swallowing embers. High above, Caraxes’s unmistakable roars split the sky, making the crowd shudder beneath the sound.

He had asked that the ceremony be held in the Dragonpit — a place where House Targaryen could be witnessed in all its glory — but Otto had been firm in his refusal. Alicent hadn’t been fond of the idea either, but he knew she would have yielded if pressed just right. Unfortunately, her father had been determined to interfere. Allowing Caraxes to fly freely during the ceremony had been the most Daemon could wrestle from them.

When he reached the altar, he lifted his chin and turned to face the crowd.

Old Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was surrounded by sons and grandsons, clad in heavy furs despite the stifling heat. They stood distant from the games of King’s Landing, but with enough swords to change the tide of war should they choose to march.

Lord Jason Lannister, with that smug air and crooked smile, pretended indifference but watched like a wolf in the tall grass. The wealth of Casterly Rock could fuel war for years — and he knew it.

Ser Harwin Strong, among the Kingsguard, kept a sharp eye on all around him, a hound sniffing the wind. His house now thrived under the king’s favor, but Daemon knew the Strongs were cunning and voracious. They crept in like smoke before a fire.

Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, sat with the regal bearing of a sea king, his silver hair gleaming beside his wife, Rhaenys. Targaryen blood flowed in her veins, along with pride and old wounds. Corlys had not forgotten that his wife had been passed over in the line of succession — and that made his loyalties perilous.

Laena Velaryon stood among the young maidens of noble houses, her chin high, long hair cascading down, her dark eyes fixed on some distant point — refusing to look at him.

She was everything Alicent was not. Fire and spirit, loyalty and passion forged in battle and the freedom of dragonflight. He had loved Laena with a rare, unrelenting force — a love born of mutual respect, of a shared understanding of the Targaryen wildness that coursed through their blood.

A pang twisted in his gut.

Her memory was a blade lodged between his ribs. In another life, Laena had been his wife — not merely a companion, but an equal. She had laughed in the face of danger, defied the court, climbed atop Vhagar as though born to rule the skies. Laena had the soul of a storm and the fire of a dragon. She died as she chose to live: in flame, beneath the open sky, refusing to wither away in bloodstained sheets. He had loved her for that. And he had wept for her — though he never admitted it to anyone. Not even to himself.

The memory of Vhagar engulfed in flame, obeying her last proud “Dracarys,” still haunted him.

Now she stood there — alive, young, treating him like a stranger.

No.

He was a stranger to her now.

In her life, he was still just an ambitious prince tangled in rumors and dangerous alliances. She did not yet know the man shaped by loss. She had not yet learned that he had already lost her once.

Daemon looked away, uneasy. His gaze drifted to the front pews, where the Small Council had taken their seats — Lyonel Strong, sober-eyed, bearing the look of a man witnessing the birth of a new political web; Tyland Lannister, fidgeting; Grand Maester Mellos, already asleep.

They were all pieces on a board.

Every face — every lord, every lady, every bastard hiding behind a silver crest — could soon become an ally or a traitor. Some would choose out of loyalty, others for gold. Many out of fear. He didn’t see guests — he saw soldiers. Pawns. Threats. The masks of peace could not conceal the calculating smiles or the hungry eyes.

Daemon snapped his fingers, impatient.

The bells rang again — solemn, foreboding.

Alicent Hightower entered the Sept, escorted by her father and trailed by her ladies. Her white gown shimmered under the stained-glass light, and her maiden’s cloak seemed too heavy for her slender shoulders — yet she bore it with grace, walking unshaken beneath its weight. Her brown eyes met his — no tenderness, no fear. Only recognition. As if she too knew what this marriage truly was: an elegant farce, a seed sown into the barren soil of court, one that would grow fed by poison and blood.

Her steps echoed across the marble as she approached the altar. Murmurs died out as though a breeze had swept the Sept clean, and every gaze turned toward her. Candlelight lit the coppery-red in her hair, casting it in hues both vivid and regal. She looked older. More real. More queen than girl.

Daemon watched her in silence, his face unreadable. But inside, the same burning heat that always came before battle began to thrum in his veins. Alicent stopped before him — so close he could smell that citrus perfume that had stalked him for weeks. The scent he had hated for reminding him he was still a man of flesh and want.

The High Septon stepped forward, robes embroidered with the sigils of the Seven, his voice echoing across the pillars:

“We are gathered here beneath the eyes of the Gods to join this man and this woman in sacred union. May their vows be spoken before the Seven and the world, and may they be remembered until the end of their days.”

Daemon’s eyes dropped to her hands — small, pale, perfectly still. Not a tremor. She was trained for this, he thought. Like a novice before the altar. But her eyes were not the eyes of a girl. They were the eyes of a queen — cool and patient. Otto had taught her well.

“Lady Alicent Hightower,” said the Septon, as Otto removed her Hightower cloak, “do you swear to accept this man as your husband? To love and serve him as the Old Gods and the New command, and to bear him children for the good of the realm?”

Daemon watched her closely. He expected hesitation — found none. Only the same quiet steel she always carried beneath veils of sweetness. A mask as finely stitched as her gown.

“I swear,” she said, her voice clear and steady.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen,” the Septon continued, “do you kneel before the Seven and swear fidelity to this union? Do you vow to protect this woman, honor her as your lawful wife, and with her produce heirs for the glory and continuation of House Targaryen?”

Daemon hesitated for a single breath. An eternity fit within that pause.

Lies, for a greater good.

“I swear,” he said at last, voice as polished and hard as steel, and draped his cloak around her shoulders.

The royal seamstresses had done their work well — the three-headed dragon embroidered with such detail it seemed ready to fly. He had commanded it be done in the precise shade of Caraxes’s scales. Only now did he notice it was the same shade as her hair.

He extended his hand. Alicent placed hers in his, as though accepting a cup of poison.

Daemon’s fingers closed around hers — warm, soft, dangerous. The Septon wrapped their joined hands with a white ribbon threaded with gold, and began the final blessing:

“May the Father guide them in justice. May the Mother bless them with strong children. May the Maiden shield them from temptation. May the Smith strengthen their bond. May the Crone grant them wisdom. May the Warrior give them courage. And may the Stranger keep them humble in the face of death.”

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger — I am hers, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days.”

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger — I am his, and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days.”

They spoke in mismatched unison.

The Septon raised his arms.

“Let all bear witness: from this moment forth, Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Alicent Hightower are one flesh, one heart, one soul — now and forever.”

The ribbon was removed. Their hands remained joined, though freed.

The crowd applauded with restraint. Some claps were slow, dry, obligatory. The political tension of the ceremony made it feel more ritual than celebration. Yet the bells rang out once more — a joyous toll that sounded, to Daemon, like the announcement of war.

He released Alicent’s hand and turned slightly toward her. She lifted her face. For an instant, time stilled between them.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” he said softly.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers — not more than a whisper of contact. As one seals a pact of iron and blood.

The Rogue Prince turned to face the crowd, his violet eyes sweeping across the sea of faces watching him in return.

And then he found Rhaenyra.

She sat near the front, to her father’s right, among the highest-born of the realm. Her silver hair was braided with rubies, her face carved in cold marble — beautiful, proud, and furious.

Daemon knew that look well. He had seen it before, in another life. When the world seemed to revolve around the two of them. Now she looked at him like one looks at an enemy. And in truth, that was what he had become.

The memory of the insolent, radiant girl who once clung to his neck and demanded to ride Caraxes hit him like a blow to the chest. Now, she sat there like a fractured gemstone — dazzling and dangerous, ready to cut everything in her path.

***

The Great Hall had been transformed into a true tableau of splendor. Tapestries hung from the stone arches like war banners disguised beneath floral motifs, while the red and black standards of House Targaryen fluttered in the breeze from the high windows. The air was thick with the scent of spices and roasted meat. Heavy chandeliers spilled golden light over the tables, blinding the eyes and gilding every gesture in false gold.

The high table, set before the Iron Throne and raised a step above the rest, had the silence of an altar. It was there the figures who would decide the fate of the Seven Kingdoms sat side by side, feigning harmony.

At the center sat Viserys, the crown of the Old King resting upon his pale hair. To his right, the Rogue Prince lounged with a regal ease, and beside him, his new wife Alicent sat with impeccable posture, picking at her cuticles beneath the table. Next to her was Rhaenyra, wearing a rather sour expression. At the end of the table, Otto watched the hall with a look of quiet satisfaction.

To the king's left were the Velaryons. Corlys leaned toward Viserys, whispering constantly in his ear, while beside him, Rhaenys sat poised, every inch the queen that might have been, conversing calmly with her children, Laena and Laenor.

Daemon’s eyes swept over the tables before settling on the young women beside him, tense as a drawn bowstring and dressed in silver and blood. Rhaenyra had chosen a red gown, rather ornate for a guest, her silver hair braided with rubies, giving her an almost ethereal look.

The Realm’s Delight, without question.

Alicent wore white, with a neckline more daring than usual for her, though still modest by court standards. A red dragon, reminiscent of Caraxes, had been embroidered onto the fabric, coiling over her shoulders, its head and tail resting just below her collarbones. The sleeves were wide and flowed as long as the gown, lined in crimson, while the skirt moved like mist. Her auburn hair was pinned in an elaborate style adorned with pearls.

Daemon leaned forward slightly, raising his wine cup without looking at her. He could sense, even without seeing, the way Alicent held her chin high, her gaze fixed on a safe point—perhaps her folded hands, perhaps the flickering torchlight—anything but him or Rhaenyra. The tension between the two women was palpable, thick as the perfumed air of the hall.

Not a single word had been exchanged between them that evening. Nor was it necessary. The silence between them was sharp as fresh-cut glass, and their rare glances were fleeting and dangerous, like blades crossing mid-duel. Alicent seemed aware of Rhaenyra’s every movement, as if the princess’s mere breath might be construed as an insult.

Daemon wasn’t surprised. He knew what the evening was—a test of loyalties, a pageant of appearances, performed under the scrutiny of half the court and all the realm’s ravens.

"Enjoying yourself, wife?" he murmured, voice low enough not to reach beyond the embroidery of her bodice.

"As much as one can at a trial," she replied gently.

He smirked and leaned close to her ear.

"I find your honesty rather amusing, sweet wife."

Rhaenyra, beside them, clicked her tongue and raised her cup. She drank deeply, then turned.

"You look... radiant, Lady Alicent," she said, eyes narrowed, her tone overly sweet. "I almost didn’t recognize you beneath all that... red."

"Thank you, Princess. I did wish for something suitable to mark the occasion." She glanced down at her dress, running a delicate hand over the embroidery. "Red was suggested to me, and I thought it fitting. After all, it is my duty to honor my husband."

Daemon stifled a chuckle behind his cup. Viserys, oblivious to the skirmish beside him, continued murmuring to Corlys, unaware that the feast had turned into a battlefield.

At the far end of the table, Otto raised a brow and took a sip, his eyes trained on the scene but offering no intervention.

Music continued—a soft harp accompanied by flutes. Nobles raised their voices to outmatch the melody, the sound of laughter and clinking goblets echoing through the high stone walls.

Rhaenyra set her cup down with a sharp clink.

"Duty is a fine word, Alicent. As useful as a veil to conceal one’s true desires." Her eyes flicked to the dragon embroidered on Alicent’s shoulder, disdain glinting in them. "But the colors of another house on your back do little to hide your blood—or your ambitions. Some things are not so easily disguised, no matter how fine the dress."

Alicent smiled, calm and unruffled, inclining her head as if accepting a compliment in disguise.

"I suppose we all wear what disguises we can, Princess. Some with gowns too red, others with smiles that never quite reach the eyes."

Daemon covered another laugh. His new wife’s voice was honey sliding over steel.

Rhaenyra lifted her chin, the ruby in her braid catching the chandelier’s light.

"It’s easy to speak of disguises when you’ve trained your whole life to appear perfect. But what lies beneath the silk? Is the girl who once spied behind tapestries still there?"

"Perhaps," Alicent replied calmly. "But now... others spy for me."

For a moment, the air between them thinned.

Viserys missed it, still engrossed in Corlys’s whispers. Otto, however, lifted his eyes like a man scenting smoke. Rhaenys watched with measured interest, eyes gleaming.

Daemon observed them both, admiring the tension like a drawn bow and arrow.

Alicent folded her hands in her lap, face composed, posture unshaken.

"I strive only to serve the realm, Princess. And to honor the name I now carry." She turned to Daemon, her expression feigning innocence. "Isn’t that my duty, my lord?"

Witch.

Daemon tilted his head slightly, resting an arm on the back of her chair, eyes fixed on her composed fingers.

"It is, dear wife. And I must say... you fulfill it with admirable grace."

"I merely do what’s expected of me," she said in a tone so pure it nearly rang with mockery. "Nothing more."

Rhaenyra said nothing. She drained her cup, eyes locked on the dragon perched on Alicent’s shoulder as if she meant to rip it off with her bare hands. She turned to Daemon, her voice lower now—a dangerous whisper.

"You seem pleased, uncle. I hope it lasts, considering how quickly you’ve broken vows and severed ties. Let’s hope you don’t come to regret it."

Daemon gave her a predatory smile.

"Not every promise is made to be kept. Some sacrifices must be made when fate shifts. Don’t you agree, Lady Alicent?" he asked, eyes never leaving Rhaenyra.

A faint tremor ran through Alicent. She glanced at Rhaenyra, who stared back with loathing and defiance in those violet eyes.

"Some promises carry heavy burdens, my Prince. Consequences always follow. Fruits always grow, no matter how bitter the soil." She touched her stomach subtly beneath the table, a casual motion—yet clearly meant for Daemon and Rhaenyra alone. A silent, provocative declaration.

The air froze.

Daemon’s smile widened, triumph flashing in his eyes. Clever fox. Such a skilled liar. He leaned back, savoring his wine. Alicent was mastering the art of turning rumor into weapon.

Rhaenyra paled, her eyes widening as they bore into Alicent. Then they turned to Daemon—blazing, furious.

"I always knew you were reckless, uncle, but I never thought you’d stoop so low as to sell yourself for a... a cradle," she spat, each word venom.

Daemon tilted his head, violet eyes gleaming.

"The Council has voiced concern over House Targaryen’s dwindling numbers. I am simply doing my duty to the realm and our house."

"Since when do you care for duty?" Rhaenyra snapped.

"Every man knows his duty, Princess," Otto interjected, voice firm. "And we all must face it eventually. Some things... are larger than us."

With a harsh screech, Rhaenyra shoved her chair back and stood. Her face was pale—marble and fury.

"Excuse me, my King. I need air."

Viserys looked up, his pale eyes flitting across their faces before settling on Daemon’s arm, still resting on the back of Alicent’s chair. Something flickered in his gaze, but the Rogue Prince ignored it.

"Of course, daughter. Go."

Rhaenyra turned and strode from the hall, her red silk dress flaring like a banner of fire and wrath, courtly eyes following her like crows, silence trailing in her wake.

Daemon brushed his fingers against his wife’s collarbone before withdrawing and turning to his brother. His eyes found the Velaryons, who had observed everything with quiet curiosity.

He lifted his cup again, wine warming his throat. Corlys remained composed, but the way his gaze swept the hall—measuring alliances, weighing reactions—did not go unnoticed.

"Lord Corlys," Daemon said, reclining and letting his voice slice smoothly through the air. "Ever watchful of the court’s tides. Tell me... does the feast meet your expectations?"

Corlys gave a toothy, polished smile.

"Your Highness seems in a playful mood this evening. Yes, it is... satisfactory." His eyes sparkled. "And it’s always good to see Valyrian blood thriving."

Rhaenys sat silent, her gaze dark with ancient cunning. Laena kept her chin high but eyed Alicent askance, as if she’d rather be flying Vhagar than seated in this suffocating hall. Laenor spun his ring absently, but his attention was sharp.

"The blood thrives, indeed," Daemon said slowly. "Even if sea and fire do not always flow in the same current."

Corlys raised his cup in a subtle toast.

"But when they do, my Prince... they build empires."

The words hung in the air like bait cast into deep waters. Daemon held his gaze a moment longer than necessary.

"Empires, hmm? I sense you’re speaking of more than trade routes."

"I speak of legacy," Corlys replied, his tone calm as the sea before a storm. "And of endurance. Houses like mine invest dearly to remain in the shadow of a throne... Perhaps it’s fair we taste a little light too."

Rhaenys didn’t interrupt, but the way she placed her cup down said he had gone too far—or just far enough. There was tension in her gesture, and a silent warning in her eyes.

Daemon leaned back, one leg crossing over the other with lazy grace. His gaze flicked from Laenor to Laena—young, yes, but far from naïve. Not in this game. They knew they were being weighed.

"Interesting choice of words, Lord Corlys. Light... shadow. I suppose every man wishes for more than what he’s been given."

"Some more than others," Corlys said with a sly smile. "But few are willing to fight for it."

Daemon chuckled softly.

"And you are a man who knows how to fight."

"And when to wait."

Silence.

At last, Rhaenys leaned in, resting a graceful hand on her husband’s arm.

"My lord only seeks what’s best for House Targaryen," she said, with that soft, firm tone that always sounded like a veiled warning. "As do all at this table."

Daemon smiled at her. Rhaenys was far too clever to be overlooked.

"Of course, my lady. And that’s why we are all here, isn’t it? To seal unions. To strengthen the dynasty."

The tension dissolved into polite laughter, but the glances remained sharp as blades. Daemon placed his cup down and leaned forward slightly, as if about to confess something.

"Curious. When I envision the future, I see dragons soaring above calm seas, guarded harbors... and thrones occupied by heirs of true blood. A comforting vision, wouldn’t you say, Lord Corlys?"

Corlys held his gaze, then raised his cup in a nod.

"So long as that blood knows how to swim... and rule."

He drank.

Daemon raised his cup, but didn’t drink. His eyes, fixed on the Lord of the Tides, gleamed with sudden understanding.

Corlys Velaryon had not abandoned his claim to the throne.

He had simply changed course.

Chapter Text

The music swelled anew, driven by deep drums and lively harps, as the plates were cleared from the tables and replaced with trays of candied fruits, fine cheeses, and golden goblets brimming with blood-colored wine. The feast marched toward its ceremonial climax, and the smiles grew wider—more false. Nobles whispered between sips, their eyes devouring not only the food, but every gesture, every silence, every veiled move playing out at the high table like pieces on an ancient board.

Daemon watched it all with the calm of a warrior amid the battlefield. Every laugh was a sheathed blade. Every toast, a dagger waiting for its moment.

A new sound rose above the music—a ritualistic clinking of goblet against goblet, echoed by scattered voices rising in unison like a wave before breaking.

"The bed!" someone shouted before the ceremony was formally announced, drunken on wine. "Isn’t it time already?"

Other voices followed—some eager, others out of obligation. A few laughs. A smattering of applause. Complicit glances. The commotion spread through the hall like a sea stirred by sudden winds.

Daemon felt Alicent's body stiffen beside him, the tension surging like an electric current. Before he could react, he felt her hand clutch his arm—firmly, with restrained desperation, an instinctive gesture, as if reaching for balance amid an earthquake.

She looked at him.

A shiver climbed his spine.

Her eyes—brown, wide, pleading—were dangerously close to the images Daemon had been trying to suppress in recent nights. Heavy, raw fantasies fed by the whispers of Goldcloaks he pretended not to hear, by fevered dreams, by memories of a perfume he now associated with sin. And there she was, pale as white wine in the goblets, looking at him as though he were the only thing standing between her and public humiliation.

And for one cursed moment, he wanted to see her break.

But the desire turned to nausea. He inhaled sharply and brought the goblet to his lips, lingering in a lazy sip, cruel in its slowness. He wanted to torture her. Wanted her to feel what he'd been feeling since that damned kiss in the corridor—that forbidden taste that still burned his mouth on sleepless nights.

Alicent said nothing, but her grip on his arm grew more urgent.

Daemon set his cup down with a soft thud, the silver ring tapping against the crystal. He rose—elegant, predatory—a smile on his lips that wasn’t friendly, but a blade sheathed in courtesy. Silence fell almost instantly. He did not look at Alicent, not even as her fingers slid away from his arm. He looked to the court.

"There will be no bedding ceremony."

The words were thrown like a declaration of war.

A murmur swept the hall like ravens whispering. Corlys frowned discreetly. Otto pressed his lips into a thin line but said nothing. Viserys looked ready to intervene, but Daemon gave no space.

"My lords," he began, his voice clear and cutting across the hall like a banner being raised, "I thank you for the well-wishes, the blessings, and the toasts… but no lesser lord shall lay a hand on my wife." His gaze passed slowly over each noble face, until it found the brown eyes still fixed on him—half-relieved, half-bewildered.

Silence reigned, almost reverent. Some mouths parted, others clenched their jaws, but none dared contradict him.

"Lady Alicent, shall we call it a night?" His voice was velvet—almost gentle—but there was iron in every syllable.

Alicent hesitated. Just for a moment. Then she stood with the grace of a lady raised for such displays, her light gown swirling like pale smoke around her legs. Her eyes remained lowered, yet her movements were not submissive—only restrained. The kind of restraint that demanded more strength than boldness.

Daemon offered his arm. And she, as if still hearing the murmurs behind her, placed her hand upon it. Her fingers were cold, but steady.

The Great Hall watched them, silenced by a mix of expectation and intrigue. Nobles whispered between sips and sidelong glances. Some smiled. Others calculated. Rhaenyra was no longer there to pierce with her gaze, but Otto followed them with his eyes past the last column.

The doors closed behind them with the muffled sound of a seal being set.

The corridor stretched ahead—long, quiet. Daemon’s boots on marble echoed louder than they should have. The gentle rustle of Alicent’s gown trailing behind was the only sound accompanying him. No words passed between them.

Daemon did not look at her, but he felt every movement—every shift in weight, the way her hand on his arm flickered between tension and hesitation. Her scent—the usual citrus, now laced with some soft garden bloom—was an open invitation. And the silence between them crackled with all the things neither dared to say.

When they reached the door to the royal chambers prepared for them, Alicent paused. Just for a breath. Her body froze, as if she needed to summon every prayer she’d ever known just to take the final step.

Daemon turned slowly.

She did not meet his eyes. Her gaze fixed on the door.

There was tension in her jaw. And her fingers still rested on his arm—with a gentleness that did not match the fear etched into her posture.

He studied her for a long moment.

"There’s no need to fear, wife. You’re not walking to the guillotine," he murmured, a half-smile curling his lips, though he himself felt like he stood before an execution.

At last, she looked at him. Her eyes—wide, vulnerable—searched for something: mercy, kindness, a way out. But all Daemon saw was the same look she’d given earlier, when she grabbed his arm in the hall. A silent plea.

And by the Gods, that look burned in ways he did not wish to understand.

Desire and guilt tangled dangerously, making everything feel crueler.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, voice low now—almost a taunt.

Alicent raised her chin. Only a little.

"I am…" she whispered. "But not of you."

Daemon blinked, slowly.

“Then what is it you fear?”

She hesitated.

The Rogue Prince brought his hand to the doorknob, opening it with deliberate slowness—a silent invitation, an open challenge.

The room awaited them in silence, lit by dozens of tall candles whose flames flickered against tapestries embroidered with dragons and sigils. There was wine on the table, perfumed linen sheets on the canopy bed, white flowers in silver vases.

Alicent lingered by the doorway for a moment too long, as if she still considered fleeing. She drew a deep breath and stepped inside on hesitant feet.

Daemon watched her calmly.

He entered the chamber and closed the door behind them, the sound louder than it should have been. Alicent remained where she was, hands clasped over her abdomen, eyes wandering across the room as though searching for an exit that did not exist.

Daemon crossed the space slowly, like a wolf surveying its own domain. His black cloak slipped from his shoulders in one fluid movement, landing on a nearby armchair—his gaze never leaving her.

“You haven’t answered me, wife. If not me, then what is it that you fear?”

“What if…” —her voice was soft, cautious, as if confessing her sins— “What if I’m not able to do this? To be queen… to give you heirs. I do not fear you now, my prince. I fear what will happen if I… if I fail.”

He studied her with care.

“Do you think I would have chosen you if I believed you could fail?” he asked, crossing to the table and pouring two cups of wine. “No, Alicent. You’ve already proven yourself fit for the role. You play the game wisely”—a sly smile curved his lips—“that little lie in the hall was proof enough of that.”

She didn’t reply, but a flush rose along her neck, staining her pale skin with a delicacy that was almost infuriating.

Daemon approached slowly, measuring the weight of his presence with each step, then offered her the cup. Alicent hesitated. Then took it. Her hands still trembled.

At last, she stepped further into the room, nearing the bed. She ran her fingers along the dark wood of the frame, as if to gather courage.

“Do you think the wine will calm me?” she asked, her voice lined with fragile irony.

“I think it might make things easier,” he replied, taking a sip from his own cup.

Alicent drank deeply. He approached again, moving with the care of a man handling something wounded. She turned toward him, lifting her eyes—there was no resistance in them now, perhaps a flicker of unease, and a silent expectation, made of confusion and something unnamed.

Daemon stopped in front of her. He was close enough to feel her breath against the linen of his shirt. He lifted a hand and touched a few strands of her auburn hair, loosened by the strain of the day.

“I… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she confessed, her voice a thread of silk on the verge of snapping.

A brief laugh escaped him—not mocking, but the sound of a man tempted, disarmed by something he hadn’t expected.

The prince took the cup from her trembling hands and set it beside his own on the table, then returned to her, gently tilting her chin up with two fingers. He wanted to see her. To feel the vulnerability and fire she tried to hide beneath veils of obedience and reverence.

“Oh, my sweet wife…” he whispered, running a finger along the neckline of her dress, “you came to me like a lamb, hoping the wolf would teach you how to be devoured?”

She trembled, but said nothing. When he began to undo the ties of her dress, her fingers clenched into fists. Their breaths became audible. Heated. Intoxicated—by fear, and by something far older than fear.

The fabric slipped from her shoulders like melting snow. Daemon held his breath. The sight of her skin, of untouched flesh, made something inside him stir. It wasn’t love. It was power. It was lust. It was the certainty that, for this night, she would be his—body and soul.

Alicent gripped his wrist, with surprising strength for such small hands.

“Please…” she whispered—and the tone was dangerously close to the one that haunted his dreams. The tone of supplication.

Daemon closed his eyes for a moment. Desire tore through him. Part of him wanted to be cruel—to mark her, tame her, make her moan his name even if she didn’t understand what she asked for. The other part wanted to savor her slowly, like a rare wine, stretching the torment. She was too young. Too pure. Too fragile. And that excited him in ways he would rather not admit.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” he said, his voice hoarse to his own ears. “I won’t be cruel to you. I like my women… willing.”

Alicent nodded. A nearly imperceptible gesture

.

Daemon said nothing more—he simply stepped closer, unhurried, and let his fingers glide over the bare skin of her shoulder, exposed beneath the chemise that now hung loosely from her body, ready to slip and pool at her feet along with the dress. Her skin was cold, despite the candles, and he felt her muscles tense under his touch—but she didn’t pull away.

That was the problem.

She was nervous—but no longer afraid.

Daemon drew a deep breath.

He kissed her slowly, patiently. She sighed against his lips and leaned into his shoulders, and he deepened the kiss. One of his hands slid to the nape of her neck, threading through her hair, soft as silk. The other wandered, without thought, to the curve of her waist, gripping her with a possessiveness that surprised him.

His lips left hers and trailed down her neck, laying a path of kisses to her collarbone. Alicent gasped, and the sound made his blood pulse in dangerous places.

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gently guided her steps toward the bed with an unconscious care that unsettled him. It was as if something inside him—something nearly instinctive, almost tender—insisted on protecting her from what he himself was about to do.

He sat her on the edge of the mattress and stood before her, watching how her fingers clutched at the soft fabric of her chemise. Alicent kept her gaze lowered, as if she were kneeling at the altar of some sacred sacrifice.

He knelt. Slowly. A perverse reverence.

Then he let his fingers drift over her legs, over the skirt, feeling the fabric gather as his hands moved upward. Alicent inhaled in a shallow breath. He wanted her to beg—but she didn’t. Her body was warm, her skin quivered beneath his touch.

Her brown eyes met his with intensity—a mix of curiosity and desire.

She lifted herself slightly, raising her arms so he could pull the fabric over her head. Her naked skin was charged with a thousand meanings—purity, power, submission, legacy. And, above all, a cruel reminder that though he had not won her through love but ambition, Daemon desired her. Deeply. Desperately. In a way that made him loathe himself—but he could not stop.

He laid her down with firm, yet unhurried hands. Alicent did not resist. Her reddish hair spread over the white sheets like blood on snow. He undressed—his black garments falling silently to the floor—his body tense, marked by scars, muscles, and desire held back for far too many nights.

Slowly, he leaned over her.

“Open your legs,” he murmured, as his calloused hands found their path along her pale thighs, sliding over the soft skin toward the heated center. She let out a broken sigh when his fingers moved over her folds, suspended somewhere between surprise and the first hints of pleasure.

The more he touched her, the wetter and more breathless she became. Her milky skin flushed beautifully as her breathing grew heavy. His thumb found its way to her clitoris, tracing slow, deliberate circles, and a soft moan slipped from her lips.

He tried to remember why this was happening—the throne, the vengeance—but his mind could only focus on her sounds, how she clung to the sheets, unsure what to do with herself, beautiful like something sacred, and that only made his desire more perverse. She was purity offered up to sin.

Alicent whimpered as his fingers entered her—first one, then another. She was soft, tight, and warm inside. The more he touched her, the wetter she grew. Daemon pulled back a little to better watch her as she writhed and gasped beneath the sheets. She stared at him wide-eyed, as if shocked by the sensations he was stirring.

He quickened the movement of his fingers, making her breathe harder. Her pale thighs trembled slightly around his hand, and her walls clenched around his fingers. Daemon wondered how much longer it would take before he could push her to the edge.

He didn’t just want to take her. He wanted to remember—memorize every reaction, every gasp, every inch of the skin that now belonged to him. There was a nearly cruel desire to prolong it—as if with each motion, he reaffirmed his dominance over something the world deemed untouchable. Alicent was warm, alive, and vulnerable.

Her brown eyes sought his—there was no fear in them now. Only desire. Willing surrender.

A surrender that was not passive, but conscious.

Daemon groaned softly, nearly in agony. That look struck him like a blade of fire. He withdrew his fingers, and Alicent whimpered, as if missing their presence.

“Prince Daemon,” she whispered, tearful and needy.

“Wider,” he growled between his teeth. She obeyed without hesitation.

He positioned himself between her legs and entered her slowly, carefully. He wanted her to feel everything—the weight, the heat, the claim. He wanted her to remember his body. To desire it, even if she didn’t yet know how to name that hunger.

Ah, fuck.

It was the only thought that filled his mind as her wet, velvet warmth enveloped him. She gasped, her lips parting in a long, muffled moan.

He paused for a moment, feeling the tension wrapped around him—the heat, the tightness, the way she pulsed with life. He was intoxicated. By possession. By her ecstasy.

“So tight,” he murmured.

Their hips touched, and Daemon stilled, unsure whether he was giving her time or stealing it for himself. 

One of his hands braced beside her head, the other held her hips steady. One of Alicent’s hands loosened from the sheets and reached up to hold onto him.

Daemon began to move inside her—fully, deliberately. His thrusts were slow but deep, each one branding something into her. The rhythm built, and with it, the pleasure—shredding his logic, drowning his reason.

“Daemon—ah!”

He picked up the pace, breathless, feeling her body mold to his. And in a brief, maddening instant, he thought he could love her. Not in the way of poetry, but with blood, and duty, and guilt.

Alicent was no longer thinking. Her breaths were short, her moans broken. He leaned down to kiss her, and the change in angle made her shudder, moaning into his mouth. Her body tensed, eyes flooding with tears, and her velvet walls clenched hard around him as she climaxed, nearly crying out his name.

Daemon tried to slow his pace, to stretch her orgasm further. He’d meant to tease her—but he had long since lost control. His thrusts grew faster, more erratic. Alicent chanted his name like a prayer, overwhelmed.

He reached his peak with a rough groan, burying his face into her neck, his teeth threatening to mark her like an animal. His body trembled. So did hers. And for a long moment, the world fell silent. There was no court, no duty, no alliance—only two bodies, gasping between sheets stained with more than sweat and wine.

Alicent looked at him with drowsy, dazed eyes. Her cheeks flushed. Her lips slightly parted. Daemon said nothing. He merely watched her with eyes like shadow and satisfied hunger, feeling her shivering breath beneath his chest.

He pulled out of her carefully, tempted to lean back and watch his seed spill from her—but she closed her legs as soon as he withdrew.

The Rogue Prince let out a hoarse laugh and let his tired body collapse beside his wife on the bed.

Lying on the soft mattress, propping one arm beneath his head, he stared at the ceiling—as if the dragon embroidered in the banners had something to say.

Sensing her gaze, Daemon turned his head. Alicent was watching him cautiously, as if yearning to draw closer but fearing to do so. He hesitated for a moment, then extended an arm in her direction—a silent permission.

She approached slowly, resting her head on his shoulder and nestling against him.

A thousand thoughts ran through the prince’s mind, but for that moment, he allowed himself to forget them all and simply focus on the ease in his satisfied body, the comfortable warmth of having a woman beside him.

Chapter Text

Morning came uninvited.
The room was cloaked in shadows, but the pale light of dawn slowly crept in through the gaps in the heavy curtains like an intruder, tracing faint golden lines across the stone floor. The silence was thick — the kind that settles after something irreversible.
The air still carried the scent of extinguished candles, flowers, and wine.

Daemon woke first.
Or perhaps he had never truly slept. His eyes had been open for some time, staring at the ceiling carved with dragons, as if the answers were hidden among their wings. He didn’t move, save for the slow rise and fall of his breath and the lazy circles his thumb drew on the wrinkled sheet beside him.

Alicent was softly breathing in her sleep.
Her head rested on his shoulder, her small, pale body curled against his. Her breath was warm and delicate against his skin — like silk. Her auburn hair was loose now, spilling across the pillow and his chest like an unspoken vow.

Daemon didn’t dare move, as if any shift might make it all real — might disturb something inside him beyond repair.
He could feel her weight, the heat of her body, the lingering citrus-sweet scent of sin.

Tempting.
Gods, how he hated how tempted he was by her — how deeply he wanted her.

There was something wrong about that desire — something that didn’t align with what he knew, with what he expected. He had lain with many women before. Women who knew what they wanted, who gave as much as they demanded. Laena had been fierce — a storm of fire and pride. Rhaenyra, a smoldering coal that refused to be shaped, acting like a queen even between the sheets, commanding, demanding.

Alicent…
Alicent was a sweet poison. A quiet slip, all the more dangerous because of it. He hadn’t won her out of passion, nor taken her out of love. Every touch had been deliberate. Strategic. A move toward vengeance, toward power, toward changing a future he had already lived and loathed. Alicent was a piece on the board. That was what she was meant to be. That’s what he kept telling himself.

But here — with her body still bare beneath the sheets, with his fingerprints blooming on her delicate hips, and the sound of her moans echoing in his memory — he knew he had no control.

Not over the desire.
Not over himself.
Not over her.

His eyes wandered along the curve of her neck, where faint marks bloomed—left by him. Not aggressive, but visible.
Traces of the night.
Traces of him.
And he hated how much that pleased him.

He reached out, hesitantly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
The gesture was far too gentle for a man like him.
Almost reverent.
Almost tender.

Almost.
The word slithered through his mind like a venomous whisper.
There was no place for tenderness. Not between them. Not now.

And yet there he was, studying the shape of her parted lips as if they held a secret he didn’t want to uncover—but couldn’t ignore either.

Daemon closed his eyes for a moment, trying to push away the feeling rising in his chest—not quite guilt, but something adjacent. A quiet discomfort. As if he’d broken a promise he never made but still should have kept.

Alicent—both in this life and the one before—had always been devout, shaped to please and obey. But there was a core of steel in her he was only just beginning to see.
And maybe that was what drew him in.
The promise of what she could become.
The latent power hidden beneath manners and modest dresses.

A silent force that now belonged to him.

She shifted slightly, and for a breathless second, time seemed to hold still with him.
But she didn’t wake.
She only murmured something unintelligible, nestling even closer against his chest, as if seeking him in her sleep.

Daemon swallowed hard.
“What kind of cruel game are you playing with me?” he muttered—not to the gods, nor to the dragons carved into the ceiling. Mostly to himself.

He wondered how she’d react when she woke.
Would she look at him with shame, with anger, with fear… or with that dangerously practiced calm?

Sunlight now slipped further through the curtains, creeping into corners like an unwelcome witness.
Daemon ran a hand over his face, still carrying the scent of the night — of her, of wine, of fear and pleasure — all tangled into something he couldn’t name.

The night was over.
But what they had done—what he had done—would echo far longer than dawn would allow.

She woke slowly, as if rising from a dream she didn’t want to admit having.
Her body curled briefly toward his, instinctively, before her eyes truly opened.

And Daemon felt it.
Felt it in the way her breath changed.
In the sudden stiffness of her shoulders.
In the silence that fell between them, too heavy for words.

She didn’t speak. She just lay there, still, as if unsure what to do with her own body—unsure how to feel, how to react.

When she finally pulled away, it was with a studied grace, but he could see it—how she was ashamed of her own nakedness, and how desperately she tried to pretend otherwise.

Daemon didn’t stop her.
He simply watched in silence as she pulled the sheet over her breasts, her shoulders, her shame—and perhaps something more.

Her fingers trembled slightly.
She sat at the edge of the bed, her back unnaturally straight—posture of a Hand’s daughter, of the perfect wife, of a woman raised between whispered prayers and septa’s weary warnings.

And there, with her tangled hair, skin marked by him, and gaze lost somewhere on the cold stone floor, she looked fragile as porcelain—but also unreachable.
As if she’d already built a wall between them.

Daemon propped himself up on an elbow, eyes narrowing as he studied her.
He said nothing at first.
He wanted to see what she’d do.
How she’d behave.

It took her a few seconds to realize he was watching.
When she finally turned her face to him, her cheeks were flushed deep red.

“Good morning, my Prince,” she said, voice soft, polished—almost too obedient.

It was the same tone she’d use with her father, with the king, with the maesters and councilmen.
A voice with no cracks.
A voice that hid everything.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on her.

She blinked, surprised.
“I’m sorry, my Prince… I don’t understand.”

Daemon sat up, naked, completely unashamed.
Alicent looked away—not frightened, but embarrassed.

She had enjoyed it.
He knew.
He had felt her body unravel, the trembling, had heard the ragged moans. She had given in, fallen into the abyss even as she tried to resist.

And now it consumed her—As if pleasure had stained her soul.

He knew women like her.
Raised to serve, to be silent, to pray before bed.Taught that desire was a sin.That their bodies belonged to husbands, to gods, to duty—not to themselves.

“To run. To hide behind the mask of duty.”

He stood without care, walked to the table, and poured himself the last of the night’s wine.
It was warm, slightly sweet.
Still, it slid down like liquid iron.

He sat in a chair facing the bed.
Watched her like a man might watch something he both wanted and resented.

Alicent didn’t meet his gaze directly, too embarrassed by his nakedness—but she didn’t turn away either, too curious to look elsewhere.

“It’s the only refuge I know, my Prince,” she said softly.

The honesty caught him off guard.
Daemon took another sip, slower now, as if the wine might help him process the last hours—the last weeks.

“And what are you hiding from now?”

Her brown eyes met his, wavering between truth and fear.

“Speak, wife,” he said, voice calm but with mischief glinting in his violet eyes.
“Didn’t you enjoy lying with me? Did I not satisfy you?”

The redness spread across her face and neck.
Alicent clutched the sheet tighter.

Daemon watched silently as she struggled to answer, searching for an escape.

“Yes... I mean, no… I mean…” She faltered, inhaled deeply, trying to collect herself.
He hid his smile behind the rim of the cup.

“I did enjoy it, my Prince. I just… I shouldn’t have.”

Daemon resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Why not?”

“It’s not proper for a lady to enjoy... bedroom activities.”

“That’s what they taught you?” he asked, his voice rough—not with anger, but something deeper, almost disbelief.
“That you’re not supposed to like it? That you should simply lie there, open your legs, and close your eyes?”

She clutched the sheet tighter, cheeks burning—silent confirmation.

He scoffed, annoyed.
“And what did they say? That enduring it is a virtue? That feeling pleasure makes you... what? Impure? A whore?”

She flinched and looked away. That was answer enough.
Unbelievable.

Daemon sighed.
Wars not fought with blades were proving far more exhausting.

“I need a wife, Alicent—not just a warm hole to fuck. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about finding pleasure in my marriage. I don’t want a woman who looks at me as if she’s committed a crime for lying with me.”

A cruel smile curled his lips.
“It’s no fun if I don’t get to see you tremble.”

The jab struck something inside him too—far too close to the truth.

She looked up at him.
And in her eyes was something new. Not anger. Not hurt.
But a kind of fearful uncertainty—
As if she didn’t know whether to believe him.
As if no one had ever told her that wanting wasn’t a sin.

Daemon held her gaze, even if it made him uneasy.

Alicent nodded, slowly, as if accepting something she barely understood—
Her cheeks still flushed.

***

The Council Chamber was bathed in golden light and long shadows, as if the stained-glass windows themselves felt the weight of morning. The Targaryen sigil adorned the tapestry behind the king’s chair — carved from dark wood, spiraled with dragons — where Viserys had rarely sat in recent days. He stood by the window, eyes lost in the mist over the rooftops of King’s Landing, as though searching for answers where there was only smoke.

Corlys Velaryon spoke in hushed tones with Lyonel Strong, their words nearly inaudible, but heavy with conspiracy. Lord Beesbury, as always, frowned over a scroll. Maester Mellos added a drop of poppy milk to his tea with the practiced precision of a man who no longer expected change. Ser Harrold Westerling stood firmly near the door, as motionless as a marble pillar. And Rhaenyra was arranging crystal goblets on the table, her fingers lingering more than necessary.

Daemon entered like a man fully aware of the weight of his presence.

He wore a black doublet embroidered with the Targaryen crest — three dragon heads roaring proudly across his chest. His presence was sharp, like the blade of Dark Sister at his hip.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice smooth, drifting like smoke. “I hope everyone enjoyed their night as much as I did.”

No one replied immediately. The silence grew thick and suffocating.

Viserys turned from the window, his gaze landing on his brother with a mix of relief and apprehension. Rhaenyra froze mid-motion, fingers suspended above the glass like crystal caught in time.

Corlys spoke first — or rather, poured venom through a smile polished by salt and politics.

“I imagine the Prince is… pleased with his new position,” he said, stressing the word with a glint of mischief. “Though the Council has yet to be officially informed of the... consummation.”

There were subtle shifts in the room — a raised eyebrow here, a lifted cup there. Even Lyonel Strong glanced up, intrigued.

Otto Hightower sat rigid as stone, his jaw clenched.

Daemon raised an eyebrow, his smile crafted with surgical precision.

“Oh, it was consummated,” he replied, letting his voice drip like warm honey. “More than once, to ensure legitimacy, of course.”

The silence that followed was almost tangible.

Lord Beesbury choked on his own breath, a small cough dying in the air. Mellos closed his eyes, as if trying to erase the image from his mind. No one dared look at Otto Hightower.

Corlys merely inclined his head, pleased by the effect of his question.

“I’m relieved. After all, there was no public ceremony. Some might think the marriage was symbolic.”

Daemon leaned back against the chair, arms crossed.

“His Grace’s blessing is symbol enough, isn’t it?” he said, eyes still on Velaryon. “Or do the Lords of the Tides question vows spoken before the Sept for all to witness?”

“Of course not. I only worry for the future. For... heirs.” A cold smile.

Viserys cleared his throat awkwardly and took the goblet Rhaenyra offered him, drinking deeply.

The Lord of the Tides adjusted in his seat, rings gleaming in the light. His movements brimmed with confidence — the kind born of ships, gold, and dragon blood.

“Your Grace, it is no secret the realm watches your every move. The stability of succession is the foundation of peace. With Queen Aemma gone and no clear legitimate heirs, many look to the Prince…” he gestured subtly to Daemon, “and to Princess Rhaenyra, with... divided expectations.”

Viserys didn’t respond right away. His face remained still, but his hands, once steady, now drummed lightly against the wood.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“And what do you propose, Lord Corlys?” he asked, weary.

“An alliance. Royal blood and naval power united. My daughter Laena will soon be of age. She has Valyrian lineage and the spirit of the sea. A marriage with Your Grace would bring stability, prosperity… and children. A clear line to the throne.”

The proposal hung in the air like thick smoke. Mellos raised his brows. Beesbury looked ready to interject, but thought better of it. Otto Hightower leaned back, his eyes narrowed, watching Viserys with unreadable expression.

Daemon let out a short, dry laugh.

“Laena? She’s what... twelve days of her name?” His voice was calm, but his blood boiled. “Why the rush to toss the girl into a royal bed?”

“Laena is young, yes,” Corlys said, measured and composed. “But she’s clever. Beautiful. Well-bred. And her blood is as noble as any Targaryen. I only suggest what’s best for the realm.”

“And for your House, of course,” Daemon muttered, resting his chin on a closed fist. “Your son Laenor is a useful piece as well, isn’t he?”

Corlys didn’t smile, but neither did he deny it.

“If the Princess was chosen as heir, marrying her to my son would unite the two strongest Valyrian houses in Westeros. And ensure heirs with dragons in their blood.”

All eyes turned to Rhaenyra. The young princess sat tall, her violet eyes fixed on the wood before her. She said nothing.

“Rhaenyra is still a child,” said Viserys vaguely.

“But not for much longer, I’d wager,” Corlys replied. “The realm waits for clarity, Your Grace. The longer you delay, the more room there is for doubt... and the wrong suitors.”

“What the realm awaits, Lord Corlys,” the princess said slowly, “is the will of its King.”

Otto cleared his throat.

“With all due respect, my lord, I believe the matter of succession can be postponed. His Grace remains healthy, and the marriage of Prince Daemon to…” he coughed, “to my daughter should address the dwindling numbers of House Targaryen.”

The Hand’s eyes met the Rogue Prince’s, probing for any reaction.

“No doubt I hope to bring this council good news soon,” Daemon said, curt.

Viserys ran a hand across his forehead, as though trying to sweep away the tension accumulating with each new breath in the room.

“No more talk of marriage or succession,” he said, voice clipped, almost authoritative. “Lord Beesbury. Next matter.”

The old Master of Coin cleared his throat, adjusting the scroll with slightly trembling hands.

“Troubling reports have arrived from across the Narrow Sea. Merchants from Lys claim exiled magisters from Tyrosh and certain patrons in Myr are meeting in secret. Some suggest they intend to form a joint council... possibly even unify their military forces to protect trade routes in the Stepstones.”

Viserys frowned.

“The Stepstones belong to no one. Not to them. Not to us. They belong to chaos and corsairs.”

Corlys leaned forward.

“All the more reason they’re valuable. Whoever holds the Stepstones controls sea traffic between Essos and Westeros. My captains report increasing attacks. Pirates claiming protection under Lyseni banners. And now... talk of unification.”

Daemon remained silent, but his mind raced.

Craghas Drahar. The Crabfeeder.

He’d faced him before and won. He could do it again — but it would take time, even with full knowledge of the Triarchy’s tactics.

His absence from court could be seen as weakness. A breach for his rivals. Viserys was already faltering. Another marriage — with a fertile, strategic queen — could eclipse Daemon’s influence and undermine his claim as rightful heir.

Otto Hightower, ever the diplomat, intervened:

“These are only rumors, Lord Beesbury. The Free Cities are fickle. They form alliances under one moon and break them the next. Perhaps it’s wiser to simply observe, for now.”

Daemon finally spoke, voice cold as wet steel.

“And when our ports are besieged by pirates ‘protected’ by magisters and Myrish seals, shall we continue to observe?”

All eyes turned toward him. Viserys raised a brow.

“You suggest... what?”

Daemon swirled the wine in his cup lazily.

“To reinforce our ships. Ensure Velaryon presence in the Stepstones. For the Crown to stop pretending a threat isn’t real just because it hasn’t knocked on the door with a battering ram.”

Corlys smiled, subtly. Finally, someone voiced what he himself had been thinking.

“Your Grace,” he said, turning to the king, “if I may, I offer twenty ships from Driftmark to patrol the region. It’s prudent. Necessary.”

Lyonel Strong weighed in.

“But wouldn’t that be seen as provocation? A prelude to war?”

Daemon, with icy clarity:

“Better to seem provocative than weak.”

Otto exhaled quietly, uncomfortable.

Viserys hesitated.

“Twenty ships. Patrol only. No more. We will not declare war on the winds of the Narrow Sea without proof.”

Daemon set the cup down gently.

“They won’t send a raven to announce war, brother. When it comes… it’ll come suddenly. And bleed slowly.”

The words hung like a prophecy, but only Daemon knew they were a promise.

Silence returned — but this time, it was different. Heavy with foreboding.

Daemon sighed. The Stepstones called for him — his steady hand, his war-hardened mind. The corsair threat and the alliance between Tyrosh and Myr could not be ignored. The swiftness of Daemon’s response would decide the kingdom’s security.

War.
The word echoed in his mind like a dragon’s roar.To fly to the Steps, claim glory, crush those worms.Victory would demand respect.Force Viserys to acknowledge his worth.Silence the lords who doubted his ability to rule.

But absence was a double-edged sword.
Last time Daemon fought in the Stepstones, he left behind only Rhaenyra. He returned to find Aegon and Helaena — and his place in the line of succession slipping further.

This time, Alicent was his. Not Viserys’s.But that meant nothing. The Council could always place another maiden in the King’s bed.

Then there was Otto. His daughter was now Daemon’s wife. That meant he’d defend the Prince’s position — begrudgingly, perhaps, but still.
And Alicent…

He knew the cunning that shaped her — the Hand’s daughter, trained in patience and observation. But her ambition still slept. That fire — the one that would one day try to put a son on the throne — had not yet awakened.

Daemon knew he would need to tighten his hold — not with a blade, but with alliances, secrets, influence.
He needed to secure his position.
Prevent Viserys from finding a new queen to divide power and claim the crown.

He rose slowly, leaving the council behind, already rehearsing the moves he’d have to make in the coming weeks — war at sea, plots in the castle, and the fragile balance between desire and power now resting in his bed and blood.

Daemon moved through the halls of the castle, the echo of his own footsteps a reminder of the solitude that surrounded the throne. The call of the Stepstones weighed on him like an invisible armor, but it was his mind that refused to rest.

He needed to find a way to secure his power before leaving the capital. 

Chapter Text

Caraxes’s roar tore through the air like a living blade.
The sound reverberated around the Dragonpit, startling birds and men alike, as if the very earth acknowledged the winged monster awakening. Daemon approached slowly, hands relaxed at his sides, his silver-blond hair rippling behind him in the breeze atop the hill.
The sky was clearer today, golden sunlight piercing through the few remaining clouds, bathing King’s Landing in its radiant glow. Daemon drew closer in silence, and Caraxes’s roars gradually softened. The beast fixed its long, molten-gold eyes on him — a gaze filled with recognition.
Daemon stopped before the dragon.
“What do you say we go for a ride, partner? I need to clear my head,” he said, as if the dragon understood.
Perhaps he did — on some level.
Caraxes lowered himself, serpentine muscles shifting beneath crimson skin. His wings unfolded like sails against the soiled sky.
Daemon climbed into the saddle with ease, in a motion as natural to him as putting one foot in front of the other. His hands gripped the reins, his body settling into the dragon’s back with familiar precision. It was as though each recognized the fury in the other — and accepted it without question.
“Fly.”
The Blood Wyrm took several paces forward before launching skyward with ferocious thrust, his wingbeats shattering the air. They rose — as if fleeing the earth, the flesh, and the conspiracies that crawled through the city’s streets.
Daemon closed his eyes for a moment.
The cold bit into his face like thin razors. Adrenaline burned in his blood. The silence of the heights was nearly complete — yet even that couldn’t quiet his mind, which insisted on tormenting him with the whispers of the council, the echoes of war, and the moans of a young wife who smelled of brugmansia and confusion.
He muttered under his breath, frustrated.
The world shrank beneath Caraxes’s wings.
King’s Landing became a tangle of curved rooftops and streets like open veins. The Red Keep looked like a distant memory, pinned to the ground like a rusted thorn. Down below, the court carried on with its machinations, unaware that the Rogue Prince now knew which foxes hid among the sheep — and watched them closely.
Daemon kept his eyes half-lidded, his body pressed to the Blood Wyrm’s warm back, feeling each wingbeat as though they were his own lungs breathing violence. The thin air burned every time he inhaled, but the prince didn’t care. There was something unsettling at that altitude — as if time itself hesitated there.
Caraxes moved suddenly.
A slow turn of the long neck. A glance back. Toward the castle. Toward the towers where the living, the traitors, and the innocent still slept. Then, those golden eyes locked onto Daemon’s.
A chill climbed the prince’s spine.
A premonition passed through his thoughts — like an ancient instinct stirring beneath his skin.
It almost felt as though Caraxes knew. As if the court’s scheming was just as familiar to him as it was to Daemon. As if he shared Daemon’s resentment, his rage — as though, like his rider, Caraxes too had plunged from the skies into the waters of the Gods Eye, had received a mission that felt more like punishment, and had awakened in a body that no longer felt like his own.
Daemon exhaled slowly, his eyes still locked with the dragon’s. There was something ancient in that gaze — not just ferocity, but memory. As if the dragon also remembered. As if, in some impossible way… he had come back too.
Do you remember as well? Daemon wondered, his heartbeat quickening.
They flew higher. The clouds became a pale mist around them. Up there, there were no crowns, no alliances, no councils. Only the cold wind against his face, the fire burning in his blood, and the sound of Caraxes’s wings beating.
The prince’s eyes turned toward the sea, staring into the vastness of water. He could almost see the image of the Stepstones taking shape before him.
He needed to go.
The war demanded his name. His blade. His fury. He needed the realm to see him as a hero, as a protector, someone worthy of trust. The glory he would find at sea would help shape that image — but he couldn’t leave without setting something concrete in place. His position was still too unstable. Daemon had to ensure that, even in his absence, the throne still saw him as the rightful heir.
Viserys was fickle, easily swayed. It wouldn’t be hard for the council to place a young girl in his bed or a crown on Rhaenyra’s head. He couldn’t trust anyone to defend his claim. His good-father, the Hand of the King, would declare Alicent a widow at the first opportunity and wed her to the king — or invent some pretext to do so. And if the king chose a new wife in his absence — a queen with a fertile womb — Daemon’s name would dissolve like salt in water the moment a child was born.
He couldn’t allow that.
Succession had to appear settled. Inevitable. Otto needed an incentive to align with him. His wife needed an incentive to stay strong.
An idea he’d been trying to push away took hold of him once more.
If Alicent is pregnant when he leaves…
Daemon would need an heir sooner or later — so why not now? He didn’t trust his wife’s loyalty, still far too accustomed to obeying her father, but he didn’t need to. The pregnancy alone would be enough to steady the Council’s nerves.
If he left behind the future of the bloodline… an heir in the making… Otto would be forced to keep the throne open for him and for his Targaryen-blooded grandchild. And no one would dare speak of another marriage. Or another successor.
It would be enough.
At least, for now.
Daemon closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the heat of the dragon beneath him.
Perhaps he should speak to his wife. Offer just a hint of the game being set in motion. Alicent was clever and sharp — she would understand her role without needing much said, and she would do it willingly. After all, pleasing others was in her nature. Daemon had seen it in her eyes — that naïve conviction still lingered within her, the foolish hope that this marriage could be a loving one, if only she tried hard enough, if only she pleased him enough.
Once again, that night in Driftmark came to his mind — the way Alicent craved attention, longed for even a small gesture of support. It had been too evident to ignore. He would always despise the Green Queen — always — but respect? That, he could offer her. That, she had already proven she deserved. And if that was what she needed to remain steadfast, loyal, standing firm before her father and the court for him… then he would give it to her.
A child in her womb would be a promise to the realm. A trap for the council. A safeguard for himself.
Viserys would have no reason to wed again. Otto wouldn’t dare betray him openly. The court wouldn’t dare defy him.
Daemon loosened the reins.
“Fly higher, Caraxes,” he murmured. “Let’s see if the heavens agree with me.”
The Blood Wyrm soared upward with a roar — as if he, too, understood the dance now being choreographed.

***

Daemon found her beneath the ivy-covered pergola, where the scent of flowers mingled with the cloying sweetness of poison: freshly bloomed gossip.The ladies of the court were scattered in graceful arches of forced laughter, hands joined in gestures of false friendship, but their eyes were sharp blades turned against his wife.

He watched from a distance, standing in the shadowed gallery, as the frivolous laughter of the young ladies spilled like cheap wine over the cold marble. Alicent stood among them, her light-colored dress reflecting the golden glow of the setting sun, but the delicacy of the scene was an illusion — she was not truly part of the circle. Something in her posture betrayed it — shoulders too stiff, smile too rehearsed, fingers entwined in her lap as if seeking comfort in silence.

The others avoided her with subtle, yet cruel gestures. They moved like schooling fish, circling her without ever touching. A glance askew here, a whispered remark there, always just discreet enough to be cruel.

Her eyes met his, curiosity flashed in them, but she made no move to approach him.

So he went to her.

When he moved, it was as if everyone sensed the looming danger. A subtle hush spread, like the stillness before thunder. Daemon crossed the courtyard as if entering the throne room — proud, arrogant — ignoring half-hearted attempts at courtesy, surprised stares, and others who turned their faces as though his presence were a curse. His boots struck sharply against the stone floor, each step firm, his presence commanding, full of the certainty that the world would part before him.

The ladies opened up for him like he was the sun itself — or death’s own sickle. Some looked up at him through their lashes in feigned modesty, others blushed genuinely, and others turned up their noses. Alicent held his gaze, her brown eyes lighter in the courtyard light, and something flickered briefly across her face: curiosity... suspicion.

Daemon smiled. A refined, enigmatic smile — courtly enough for a spring banquet, yet with something predatory in his eyes.

— Forgive the interruption, — he said to the ladies, his voice low and flawless, as if reciting poetry. — But I fear I must deprive my wife of such charming company for a few moments.

Alicent, her fingers still entwined in her lap, hesitated for just a second before accepting the arm he offered. Daemon bowed slightly to her, gallant, almost ceremonious — as though they truly were the newlyweds the court whispered about. She stood, and he led her away with disarming gentleness.

As they turned their backs to the circle of ladies, Daemon murmured in a lazy, provoking tone:

— False smiles suit you, dear. Must've inherited that from your father.
Alicent didn’t miss a beat.

— And you must’ve inherited Caraxes’s gift for causing inconvenience.

He laughed, amused.

Together they walked away from the whispers, toward the farther part of the garden, where rustling leaves concealed hushed voices and roses seemed to listen more than speak. Daemon guided Alicent along the stone path — far enough so no courtiers could hear, yet close enough for them to be seen.

A calculated performance.

He could feel the court’s eyes on his back, exactly as he wanted. Daemon let Alicent’s arm rest gently in his. The young woman walked with light steps, her dress gliding like mist along the trail.

— Don’t you miss the peace of being just a lady-in-waiting? — he teased, voice low, almost lazy, eyes ahead as though the question were casual.

— Peace is a luxury no one at court truly has, — she replied softly, though Daemon could hear the bitterness underneath.

He glanced sideways at her. Her profile was as perfect as the smile on her face, but her shoulders were tense. Barely perceptible — but he noticed. He lived among beasts dressed as nobles — and he could recognize when one of them learned to hide its teeth.

— And yet... — he said, raising an eyebrow — you make it look easy. This role of the silent, graceful wife. Almost as if you were born for it.

Alicent paused in front of a rose bush. She didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she touched one of the flowers gently, her fingers brushing a petal as if testing its softness. The setting sun lit her hair like fire. A moment so perfectly staged it could fool anyone.

Anyone but Daemon.

— I learned from the best, — she said, without turning — My father, the court... and lately, you.

Her answer made him smile.

— I’m flattered my wife thinks she can learn something from me, — he murmured, leaning slightly toward her. — Or should I feel insulted to be placed in the same list as Otto Hightower?

Alicent finally turned her eyes to him, and for a moment, something sparked there.

— I’m sure you and my father appear on many lists together.

Daemon tilted his head, studying her like an ancient scroll written in a language he didn’t know, full of secrets.

He was used to eliciting certain reactions from women — the look, the voice, the confident posture, the ever-present scent of wine and smoke — it usually made maidens tremble and ladies smolder. But Alicent had always been different — not indifferent, he knew she couldn’t be indifferent to him — but she didn’t lean in nor retreat. She stayed where she was — firm, chin raised, refusing to yield even when the ground shifted. He was starting to like that resolve. It was admirable. Useful.

— Have you heard about the increased tariffs in the ports of Lys? — he asked, as if talking about the weather.

Alicent raised an eyebrow.

— I heard some Velaryon ships were detained.

— For questionable reasons, — he said. — And Myr seems to be arming, though no one says it aloud.

She pondered in silence. Her fingers tapped lightly on the arm resting on his.

— The sea is never calm for long, — she murmured.

Daemon smiled.

— The Stepstones won’t stay quiet either, — he said casually. — Ships will start disappearing, whispers of flags uniting will grow louder, and foreign coins will flow even more among merchants.

Alicent didn’t respond right away, eyes fixed on the path ahead as they resumed walking.

— Do you think there will be war? — she asked neutrally.

Daemon shrugged, as if it were nothing.

— When isn’t there?

A brief silence fell between them. The garden’s fragrance — roses and lavender — felt too sweet, like an ill-fitting disguise.

— You’ll need soldiers for war, — Alicent said, playing a piece on the board — And allies for when you return to court.

— Perhaps I’ll need to improve my reputation too, — he added with a half-smile. — Great Houses prefer kings who look like heroes. And heroes have beautiful, modest... admired wives.

She stopped, and he did too.

Alicent turned slowly, raising her face to meet his. The garden behind her looked like a stage set for this poisoned exchange.

— Is that why you came? To assign me a task as if I were a member of your Guard? — Her voice was calm, but sharp as glass. — Certainly not for the pleasure of my company or my counsel.

Daemon laughed — a low, hoarse sound. There was something biting in it, but also a trace of contentment, barely perceptible even to him.

— Sometimes appearances must be kept, my sweet wife. The people love a good heroic ballad and promises of prosperity. I want the Houses to see stability in us, unity… legitimacy.

— Ah yes, what an epic tale we tell, my Prince, — she said, voice dripping with irony.

Daemon didn’t respond immediately. He watched a loose petal fall to the ground. The wind toyed with it aimlessly.

— I need you to help me win over the court, — he stated. — You know how to charm. You know when to listen, when to smile, how to flatter without seeming obsequious. The women like you.

— I’m not sure that will be a successful move, my Prince. The women have been avoiding me lately.

— For now. But I know you can change that.

She looked him in the eye, her brown gaze gleaming under filtered sunlight.

— And what exactly do you expect me to do?

— Enchant them. Make them forget the rumors. Or better yet... let them enjoy them. They love a scandal, as long as it comes with charm and power. You’re one of the most powerful women in court now. Remind them. Soon your husband will sit the Iron Throne — and you’ll be their queen.

The silence that followed said more than any promise. Alicent didn’t reply, but Daemon knew she understood. Perhaps even better than he realized.

He offered his arm.

— Shall we take another turn, Princess Alicent? Give the Ladies something to talk about?

This time, Alicent didn’t hesitate. She placed her hand lightly on his arm, and as they walked away from the women’s gazes, Daemon wondered — just for a moment — whether this game was becoming too dangerous.
Even for him.

Chapter Text

The day had dawned hotter than usual.

The Small Council meeting had gone nowhere — reports had been read, expenses discussed, port and customs complaints dragged on for long minutes. But nothing of real significance had emerged from within those stifling walls.

Daemon had seriously considered abandoning the meeting and heading down to the training yard — let the sweat carry away his boredom and frustration. But he didn’t. As king, he would have to learn to endure such trivialities.

When the session ended, he didn’t go straight to the training yard. Instead, he decided to walk through the gardens, where the breeze was almost tolerable and the shadows of the trees a welcome relief. He wanted to see how his wife was faring in her endeavor — but he didn’t find the Hightower he was looking for there.

Otto Hightower was alone, in plain sight, as if his presence were meant to seem accidental — and likely wasn’t.

The old Hand raised his eyes at the sound of approaching steps and gave a slight nod.

“Prince Daemon.”

“Lord Hand,” Daemon replied, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. “What a surprise, seeing you so exposed to daylight. I thought you preferred to weave your plots among tapestries and behind closed doors.”

Otto smiled faintly, as if he had heard a mundane comment, not a provocation.

“And I thought Your Grace preferred steel to diplomacy. But it seems we’re both trying new things.”

Daemon approached slowly, fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on Otto as if measuring him.

“I’m impressed you’ve remained calm after Corlys’s speech yesterday. Doesn’t it bother you that he might succeed where you failed?”

Otto clasped his hands behind his back, unfazed.

“Lord Corlys is a man of ambition and means, Prince. His successes and failures are his own, not mine.”

“Until he succeeds in putting his daughter in the King’s bed.”

Otto stayed silent for a moment. A thrush sang between the rosebushes, filling the space between them — taut as an overdrawn bowstring. When he finally spoke, his voice came low and measured, as always.

“Lord Corlys plays with the pieces he has,” he said with a shrug, his eyes wandering across the flowering hedges. “A young daughter, a capable son. It’s natural he’d offer them as a solution to the King’s dilemma. But… not every offer must be accepted. And not every marriage is inevitable.”

Daemon let out a brief laugh, more at the irony than from any genuine amusement.

“Speaking from experience, I imagine?”

Otto met his gaze, eyes narrowed against the soft morning sun.

“Experience is all I have, my Prince.”

“And what does that experience suggest?”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, lips curling into a cruel half-smile.

“There’s much still to present against Corlys’s ambitions. A consummated marriage, a fertile womb, and with luck… a seed already planted,” the Hand said casually. “Many of the Council’s arguments depend on the threat of House Targaryen’s extinction.”

Daemon didn’t answer, his violet eyes remained on the Hand — calculating, appraising.

The old bastard had reached the same conclusion he had.

“The concern over succession will always be at the center of any debate,” Otto continued, eyes now on the stone path. “A child of royal blood… silences many voices. Even those of old lords who think themselves indispensable.”

“Corlys sees himself as king of the seas and wants to be father to a queen,” Daemon said, stepping forward until he was shoulder to shoulder with Otto. “But if succession is already guaranteed by another line…”

“Then he loses ground,” Otto finished, without turning to look at him.

They stood like that for a few seconds, side by side, but distant in every other way. The silence between them was not comfortable — but it was functional. As everything must be between enemies who find themselves with a shared purpose.

“Corlys won’t take this quietly,” Daemon said at last, eyes fixed on the deeper shadows in the garden. “If he fails with Laena, he’ll push for Laenor. He won’t rest until he sees his blood on the Iron Throne — or dies trying to put it there.”

“I believe that won’t be too hard to work around,” Otto replied — quicker than Daemon had expected. “Laenor is young, but there are already many rumors that he… does not lie with women. Which seems, shall we say… inconvenient, for a suitor to the princess.”

Daemon let out a brief scoff.

“You’ve always been more cruel than you seemed, old man.”

“And you, more cunning than you pretended to be.”

They fell silent once more. The sun kept climbing, and the garden felt warmer than before.

“If we want to frustrate Corlys’s plans, we’ll need more than insults and insinuations. We’ll need to act… together.” Otto’s words came firm, but laced with distaste.

Daemon slowly turned his head toward him.

There was a flicker of revulsion in his eyes — but also the unavoidable recognition of truth.

“So now you see we’re on the same side of the board?”

Otto didn’t smile, but his eyes glinted with something between triumph and repulsion.

“Only for as long as it’s convenient, Prince Daemon.”

“So be it, Lord Hand.”

***

The early evening breeze was not enough to dissipate the stifling heat that hung over King’s Landing. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows, painting the halls of the Red Keep in shades of amber and blood-red — as if the gods themselves had spilled wine upon the stones.

Dinner had been Viserys’ idea.

He’d given some half-hearted excuse, but Daemon knew it for what it was: a desperate attempt to recreate something that was already slipping through his fingers. With mourning still casting its shadow over the court, the king wished to soothe tensions and remind — more to himself than to anyone else — that something resembling family still existed under that roof.

The prince moved through the silent halls with the ease of someone who knew every shadow in the Red Keep. Two guards stood stationed before his wife’s chambers, silent and stiff. As he approached, one of them turned and knocked on the door. The sound echoed through the empty corridor. Alicent opened it softly. She wore a dark green gown delicately embroidered with golden thread, her hair pinned in a neat chignon.

Daemon grimaced.

"You're wearing that?" he asked with distaste.

His eyes roamed over the dress, as if searching for its flaw.

 "Yes," she replied simply. "It was a gift from my father. You don’t like it?"

He scoffed.

 "Wear red next time. Or black. You're my wife now, you should wear the colors of my House. Order new ones if you must."

Her hazel eyes met his, surprised.

 "Oh, I didn’t know I could."

Daemon offered his arm. She took it without hesitation.

"Wearing my colors?" he mocked.

"Ordering new gowns. My father says such things are frivolous."

"You are a princess of the realm now. You can do as you please," Daemon said, his voice flat, cold. "Go to the royal tailor tomorrow and order new dresses. Red and black."

"Only red and black? I enjoy wearing other colors, you know," she replied, with a hint of indignation.

The Rogue Prince glanced sideways at her, a small smile curling his lips.

 "You may wear whatever colors you like, wife — except green. I never want to see you in that color again."

Alicent stopped before the wooden doors, staring at him with a spark of curiosity.

 "As my Lord husband wishes."

The doors groaned open ahead of them. The room was lit by silver chandeliers and the soft flames of a brazier. A round table had been brought in, far too large for the five seats arranged around it. Viserys was already seated in the chair closest to the window, Otto to his right, Rhaenyra to his left. The princess didn’t look up when the couple entered. She merely pressed her lips together.

"Ah, there you are," the king said, somewhat relieved. "We were waiting."

 "Forgive us, brother," Daemon said, guiding Alicent to the seat beside Otto, pulling her chair before sitting between his wife and niece.

Viserys waved a dismissive hand.

"What matters is that we’re all here," the king said, his pale eyes drifting among the gathered faces before resting on Alicent. Daemon clenched his jaw.

Servants approached, pouring weak, sour wine into goblets and placing dishes on the table: meat pies with golden flaky crusts, pork loin in orange sauce, steamed vegetables seasoned with oil and spices, roasted potatoes, ribs glazed with honey and dates, and fresh bread. Viserys raised his goblet.

"A toast: to our family may it grow and thrive, and may we remain together, even in times of adversity."

A tension passed through the table. Goblets were lifted in salute, but the words felt hollow amid the chasms widening between them. The king smiled with satisfaction, oblivious to the war brewing under his nose.

Alicent raised her goblet delicately, offering the king a gentle smile.

"May the gods keep you strong, Your Grace."

Viserys nodded, visibly moved by the courtesy. Rhaenyra, on the other hand, swirled her wine in silence, eyes fixed on the dark liquid, as if seeking an escape within it.

"The gardens are particularly beautiful this summer," Alicent offered lightly, trying to fill the silence. "The gardeners were pruning the rose bushes this morning. The red ones are blooming again."

"Ah, lovely to hear," the king said, brightening. "Aemma was very fond of the red ones."

Silence. A brief, uncomfortable silence.

Alicent set her goblet down carefully.

"I remember," she murmured. "She always had a bouquet in her chambers. I used to see them when I accompanied Rhae… the Princess on her visits."

Daemon watched her sideways, as if weighing every word she spoke before his brother. She seemed hesitant, but earnest. Kind.

Rhaenyra, however, arched a disdainful brow.

"You seem to know quite a bit about my mother, Lady Alicent," she said without lifting her gaze.

"I try to pay attention to what matters," Alicent replied, with unshakable politeness.

Daemon bit into a piece of pie without comment. Otto sipped his wine like he wished to vanish into it.

Viserys leaned forward slightly.

 "I'm thinking of reopening the main hall for smaller gatherings. Perhaps some music, a few noble families… something modest. The court’s been too somber."

"An excellent idea," Alicent said, with restrained enthusiasm. "Music’s warmth does help soften mourning."

"We might even invite lords from important Houses," the king added, glancing sidelong at his daughter, gauging her reaction.

"I imagine you wish to start forming new alliances," said Rhaenyra sweetly, her tone sugar-laced with steel. "I thought you might wait a bit longer considering... the recent unions in our family."

Daemon raised an eyebrow. Alicent kept her smile, but the tightness at its corners betrayed rising irritation.

"My union with Prince Daemon is a matter of honor for me and for my House," she said, voice calm.

"Honor," Rhaenyra echoed, slicing a potato with needless precision. "A strange word for such a scandalous beginning."

The tension crackled like dry wood in flame. Viserys cleared his throat.

"Tell me, Lady Alicent, how are you finding your new married life? I imagine many things have changed."

Alicent looked at the king, surprised by the question, and gave a delicate, practiced smile.

"Oh, many things have changed, but… it’s different from what I imagined."

Rhaenyra glanced up at that, one eyebrow raised and a crooked smile forming — but Viserys replied first:

"I hope that’s a good thing."

"It is, Your Grace." Alicent nodded. And for a brief instant, she seemed sincere. Something quiet and true passed in her gaze.

Daemon slowly turned to her, studying her. He said nothing, but his once-indifferent expression sharpened.

Rhaenyra seized the silence to jab:

"Of course. I imagine being married to a Targaryen prince changes many things. Must be... challenging."

Alicent held the princess’s gaze a second longer than necessary, without losing her composure.

"Every marriage is a challenge, Princess. But some are worth the effort, however difficult they may seem."

She turned to him, her brown eyes glinting with meaning. Daemon let out a low sound — half stifled laugh, half skeptical sigh — more amused by her answer than he should have been.

Rhaenyra brought her goblet to her lips with exaggerated slowness, savoring both the wine and the discomfort she stirred at the table.

"I imagine not all ladies of the court share your opinion," she said, saccharine sweet. "Some say love is easier to feign than to earn."

"Some tongues in court are as light as the wind," Alicent replied, gaze serene, measured. "Sometimes the best course is not to listen at all."

Otto cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable.

"The court has always been a place of rumors and venom. None of this is new."

"That’s true," Daemon finally spoke, his voice low, velvety. "But even the deadliest poisons can become cure in the right hands."

The look he gave Rhaenyra was almost fond, but something smoldered beneath it. The princess tilted her head slightly, acknowledging the provocation — but choosing not to respond.

Viserys sighed, weary, eyes flicking between them like a man trying to regain control of his own table.

"What would you think of us all visiting the sept together tomorrow? Offering our prayers — as a united family?"

A beat of heavy silence. Alicent nodded first.

"Of course, Your Grace. It would be an honor."

"Not quite my kind of environment," Daemon murmured, not looking at anyone.

"Ah yes," said Rhaenyra, venom-laced, "I think we’re all aware of your preference for pillow houses."

The words hung in the air like a dagger. Otto looked away at once, as if suddenly bored by the entire conversation. Viserys frowned but said nothing. Alicent’s fingers tensed beneath the table.

Daemon let out a soft chuckle — no shame, no retreat, only that persistent glint of provocation in his eye.

"Another place full of broken vows," he replied with cutting indifference.

Alicent looked sideways at him, eyes clear but cold.

"Vows mean no more or less depending on how grandly they're spoken," she said, calm, each syllable precise. "What matters is keeping them."

He turned to look at her. Tension flared between them like a drawn string. Rhaenyra pounced.

"Sadly, Lady Alicent, I don’t think your husband is a man inclined to keep promises. He isn’t called ‘the Rogue Prince’ for nothing."

Viserys pursed his lips, on the verge of intervening — but something in Daemon’s look stopped him.

Daemon leaned forward, a smile half amusement, half threat.

"Now that you mention it, niece… it has been quite a while since my last visit to such a place, if anyone's curious." His gaze slid toward Alicent.

The Hand’s daughter kept her eyes on her goblet, but her posture stiffened. Her lashes fluttered — a subtle tell of a thought barely contained.

"I believe my young wife inspires me to keep my vows," he added, still watching her. "A rare thing, I’ll admit."

Otto shifted in his chair, discomfort growing. Viserys cleared his throat but remained silent.

Daemon leaned in with that faux-intimate tone of his, the one he knew cut deepest.

"She makes me reconsider certain… inclinations. There's something charming about virtue — when it's your temptation."

Alicent looked at him — briefly, just enough for Daemon to catch the faint blush rising on her neck. She returned her eyes to her empty plate.

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, biting her cheek, her gaze simmering.

Silence thickened. Viserys sank into his chair, visibly uncomfortable. Otto stared into his goblet as if willing it to transport him elsewhere.

Daemon leaned back lazily, wine swaying in his fingers. His eyes drifted from Rhaenyra to his wife, who, though serene in expression, clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

And he couldn’t help the flicker of satisfaction running down his spine.

Alicent remained upright, composed — but it was more than trained grace. She wasn’t porcelain. She was polished glass: elegant, but capable of cutting if pressed.

"Some promises," he said in a slow, dragging voice, "are worth keeping." He turned to her, gaze deliberate."And some company… is more intriguing than any pleasure bought with coin."

Alicent flushed again — subtly, but enough. Her goblet wavered slightly in her grip, but she said nothing. Just lifted her eyes for a fleeting instant — and their gazes met.

The silence stretched too long as they stared at each other. Otto cleared his throat, uncomfortable. Viserys looked down at his plate, as if he wished he were anywhere else.

Daemon leaned in slightly, shortening the distance between him and his wife, as if they shared a secret the others had no right to hear.

“Though many accuse me of disloyalty,” he continued, his voice laced with poisonous sweetness, “nothing is more tedious than repeating old habits when... better stimuli are available.”

Alicent's eyes drifted away, and a shadow briefly passed over her face, as if she were struggling to maintain her composure. Daemon watched her with something close to clinical interest. She wanted to keep control — and did — but the strain of the game, of the unwanted attention and layered words, showed through. And yet, she remained.

She was made for this game , he thought.

And for some reason he couldn’t quite name, that pleased him. Alicent wasn’t like the women who trailed after him for power or pleasure. She resisted. She measured every move. And maybe that was what made her so thrilling.

Rhaenyra didn’t look quite as impressed.

“Fascinating,” said the princess with a dry laugh. “I never thought my uncle would become a model of marital virtue.”

“Nor did I,” Daemon replied with a crooked smile. “But you know, niece... life has its surprises.”

Viserys let out a weary sigh, resting his elbows on the table.

“That’s enough. Don’t you all think we’ve had enough jabs for one night?” he asked, trying to sound firm, though fatigue clung to his voice like rust on old iron. “We’re here as a family…”

The words hung in the air, dead before they hit the floor. No one seemed particularly convinced.

Otto kept his gaze lowered, silent and stiff. Rhaenyra stifled a dry laugh and stabbed her fork into her food as though she wished it were something else.

Daemon simply raised an eyebrow.

“Ah yes... family. So united. So... affectionate,” he said sarcastically, downing the rest of his wine in one lazy gulp. “I’m sure we’ll all sleep soundly tonight, wrapped in the warmth of such love.”

Viserys shot him a tired look but said nothing.

Daemon slowly wiped his lips with a linen cloth, then laid the napkin over his plate, unhurried. He stood, adjusting the cuffs of his dark tunic, and turned to Alicent.

“Come, wife. The night may still offer something more entertaining than thorns and veiled cuts.”

Alicent hesitated for just a fraction of a second. She knew what that gesture — and accepting it — would communicate. But she also knew that if she stayed, the tension would remain.

She gently set her napkin beside the plate, rose with her usual poised grace, and inclined her head to the king.

“Your Grace.”

Viserys nodded, frustrated, and Alicent followed Daemon silently, their footsteps echoing together across the cold marble.

Rhaenyra watched them go with narrowed eyes. Otto did too, though he didn’t raise his head.

As they left, Daemon heard Viserys mutter under his breath:

“May the Seven grant me patience…”

The doors closed behind them with a soft thud, muffled by the tapestry-lined halls. The silence out here was different — not the heavy quiet of the king’s table, but a pause between heartbeats.

Daemon didn’t speak right away. He simply walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back. He could feel the wine warming his blood, but his thoughts were sharp. And his anger — though quiet — still writhed inside him like a fire-worm.

Alicent kept pace with subtle discretion, slightly behind, as if measuring every movement. Always so composed. So well-trained. But he knew her well enough to spot the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her fingers clenched beneath her sleeves.

She was angry. Maybe with herself. Maybe with him. Maybe with everyone.

Good.

“You held up well,” he said at last, not looking at her. His tone was neutral, though there was an edge of mocking in it. “Didn’t lose your composure even when my dear niece spat venom in your face.”

Alicent didn’t reply immediately.

So Daemon stopped, turning slowly. They stood alone in a long corridor lined with pillars and low-burning torches. The light wrapped around them in tones of gold and red, and her face looked carved in amber.

He realized — as he had too often lately — how beautiful she was. Not in the obvious or vulgar way, but in how she fought to maintain control. The contrast between her soft features and the pride pulsing beneath them.

A queen made of glass and steel.

“Was this what you thought would be different?” Daemon asked, voice low. “What you expected when you married the Rogue Prince? That I’d break my vows, disappear into the night and return with blood on my hands and cheap perfume on my clothes? Are you disappointed, wife?”

Alicent held his gaze, but her expression was unreadable.

“You’re not mocking me,” she replied, sweet as poison. “You’re mocking yourself.”

Daemon smirked, just one corner of his mouth.

“Perhaps. Do you know what I’m really doing, Alicent? I’m giving you a chance.” He stepped closer, then closer still, until the distance between them turned intimate. “Prove to me you can be my ally, and you’ll have my protection.”

“Only your protection?”

“I cannot offer more than that.”

She looked away for just a second — and that second was enough to ignite something in him.

Daemon didn’t need to touch her. It was enough to watch her fight her own blush, enough to see the subtle tremor in her breath. It was a game — and he’d always been good at games. But with her, lately, the game was becoming something more.

He leaned in, close enough to catch the citrus-clean scent that always clung to her.

“Careful, my lady,” he whispered like a secret. “If you keep looking at me like that, you might just make a decent man of me.”

Alicent swallowed hard, but didn’t step back.

Daemon stared a moment longer, then stepped away first — offering her a way out, or perhaps conceding a small victory.

“Come,” he said, resuming his pace. “We’ve had enough fun for one night. Tomorrow there’ll be more poison at the table.”

And he moved ahead, unhurried, certain she would follow.

The stairs leading to her chambers were dimly lit at that hour, but Daemon knew every curve, every shadow and step of that wing of the Keep like he knew his own hands. Polished-armored guards waited at the end of the hall — two silent men, still as statues before the ornate door that now belonged to the new Targaryen princess.

As they neared, Alicent slowed. Her silence had shifted — no longer one of restraint, but of something building, something ready to spill. Daemon felt it, like a change in pressure.

He stopped a few steps from the door and turned to her. The guards politely averted their eyes, trained to do so, though he knew they were listening — they always listened.

“Perhaps tomorrow we should put on a new performance for the courtly ladies, my Lady — discourage their husbands from pushing their daughters into the king’s bed. And if they still try, perhaps I’ll remind them why I’m so infamous in King’s Landing,” he said low, almost to himself — but just loud enough for her to hear.

Alicent furrowed her brow slightly but said nothing. She just looked at him — not like a wife, not like a wounded maiden, but like a woman who understood the weight of words. And of silences.

Daemon raised a hand, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then brushed a strand of hair from her face. The gesture was brief, almost chaste, but charged with meaning. His fingers grazed her skin lightly. More than they should have.

She didn’t flinch.

“You don’t have to please them forever,” he said, his tone bordering on advice — but carrying something more intimate, something... possessive. “They’ll never accept what you are — and even less what you could become by my side.”

He didn’t know why he said it — maybe the wine, maybe the fire still simmering under his skin. Or maybe it was just the sight of her in that soft light, her eyes glowing like embers beneath snow. Alicent was a walking contradiction, and that fascinated him. Because she still believed she could survive by being merely proper. Still believed there was a clean path, an honorable one, in a house built of fire and lies.

Daemon knew better.

He took a step back, pulling away from the moment’s intensity. The smile that curled his lips was colder now, more calculated. An armor regained.

“Sleep well, wife,” he said with a slight bow of the head. “And don’t trouble yourself with what they’ll say tomorrow. Let them talk about me. It’s what they already expect.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode off into the corridors, his footsteps echoing like somber bells in the fog of night. He didn’t look back.

But somehow, he knew — he just knew — she was watching him go.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely risen above the walls of the Red Keep when the silence of the chambers was broken by the soft creak of the door.

Daemon stood, half-dressed, buttoning his scarlet doublet while the morning breeze drifted in through the open balcony. His hair, still loose, fell in disheveled waves over his bare shoulders. A leather belt lay on the unmade bed beside the sheath of his sword, and an unfinished goblet of wine rested on a side table.

He looked up at the sound of soft footsteps behind him — recognizing them before even seeing her.

“Well now…” he said with a drowsy laugh, not hiding the surprise or the sarcasm, “up early to catch me dressing?”

Alicent stood by the door, immaculate despite the hour. She wore deep blue, a light veil over her braided hair. Her eyes were focused, determined — and tired. As if she’d already argued through this moment in her mind a dozen times before arriving.

“I came to remind you that we’re to attend the sept today. As we promised the king.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, turning fully toward her, now slowly buttoning his sleeve.

“We promised, did we? Because I don’t recall swearing anything.” His tone was light, mocking. “You were the one who said, ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ with that little saintly smile of yours. I was more focused on drinking as much as possible.”

She crossed her arms.

“Still, it was said in our name. We’re married now. We are a unit — or at least we should appear to be one.”

Daemon scoffed and walked over to the table, picking up the goblet with a bored glance at the wine remaining inside. He swirled the liquid thoughtfully, then downed it in one swallow before speaking.

“The Faith of the Seven wants nothing to do with me. And I want nothing to do with them.”

“This isn’t about faith.” Her reply came firm, without hesitation. “It’s about image. Influence.”

He turned to face her again, eyes sharper now. Alicent stepped forward, with the calm of someone addressing a prince — but the conviction of someone speaking to a man who needed to listen.

“You want the realm to see you as trustworthy. You want to convince the lords, the people, even your brother, that you’ll be a good king — one with a stable, prosperous, and secure reign. A united couple, in faith, in court, and in politics, would help build that image.”

Daemon frowned — not in disagreement, but in distaste at how much sense it made.

“A simple walk to the sept at my side is all I ask,” she went on, gentler now, but no less resolute. “It might not change the world, but it would plant an idea. And you know the power of an idea when it’s sown at the right time.”

Silence stretched between them. His violet eyes scanned her restless hands and the rigid set of her posture.

I can’t believe I’m actually considering this.

The prince took a deep breath, looking at the woman before him. For a moment, something like respect flickered in his gaze — reluctant, but real. Alicent had learned to speak his language: she didn’t beg, didn’t demand. She simply made her case.

He stepped closer, stopping in front of his wife. His fingers touched her chin briefly, lifting it just enough to make her meet his eyes.

“You’re a clever little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured.

She held his gaze, unflinching.

“I’m only trying to keep up with you, husband.”

Daemon smiled — a sharp, feline curve.

“Very well.” He turned back to the bed, grabbed Dark Sister, and fastened it at his waist. 

“Let’s go visit your damned Seven. But if any septon gets too close, I swear by the old gods and the new I’ll toss him down the hill.”

“Behave,” she said as she left, not hiding a small smile.

He followed, shutting the door behind him.

Strangely, the Red Keep felt a little less gray that morning.

***

The Great Sept was bathed in golden light that morning. Sunbeams filtered through the tall, colored stained glass windows, painting the marble floor in hues of ruby, emerald, and sapphire. The scent of incense and melted wax hung heavy in the air, nearly suffocating, muffling even the soft creak of the doors being opened.

Daemon entered two steps behind Alicent.

At first, no one seemed to notice. But then someone turned their head, a gasp broke the silence, and whispers spread like wildfire through dry straw — within seconds, the entire space was filled with a quiet, tense buzz.

Prince Daemon’s attire — dark, sober, refined, but decidedly secular — stood in stark contrast to the soft robes and pale tones of the devout. He moved like a predator loosed among lambs: silent, calm, lethal. And though there was no smile on his lips, there was something in his eyes that provoked.

Alicent, on the other hand, seemed made for the space. So composed, so serene, with her hands folded at her waist and a discreet lace veil covering her hair. She greeted those present with a small nod — no arrogance, no submission — just the exact degree of reverence expected from a lady like her.

Daemon watched in silence. When Alicent knelt beside him, he did not follow suit. He did not close his eyes, nor recite the prayers. He simply stood there, hands clasped behind his back, relaxed in posture but with his mind as far away as possible.

Fools’ play.

These gods who slumber while kings let mothers die. These were gods who asked for gold, silence, and reverence — but never moved a stone to prevent tragedy. He owed them nothing; they had not sent him back.

But if this is what Alicent wants… if this is what she deems necessary… if it’s what the king wants to see...

He turned his head slightly. Alicent seemed less rigid here, her eyes lowered, words whispered with practiced devotion. But something in the line of her neck, in the way her fingers intertwined a little too tightly, betrayed a subtle tension. A quiet fear — as if she expected him at any moment to walk out of the temple laughing, spitting insults at the Faith of the Seven.

The thought was tempting, but Daemon did no such thing.

He stayed.

He remained there while his wife’s soft voice murmured prayers with fervor, while the devout cast him wary, sidelong glances. While the king stared at him — surprised, perhaps even amazed. While the whispers rippled through the gathered crowd.

Daemon was the first thing his wife’s eyes sought when the prayers ended. Her hazel gaze held many things — surprise, relief, gratitude, and even a flicker of suspicion.

The murmurs of the court buzzed low, speculative. All seemed to be trying to understand what this image meant: the Rogue Prince towering over noble, pious Alicent Hightower like a shadow, observing in silence as she knelt before the altar — two parts of a whole, bound in a fragile balance.

As they departed, the eyes that followed them no longer hid behind decorum. Some were openly shocked, others wary. Court ladies whispered behind their lace veils. Knights exchanged glances, a few shaking their heads like men trying to make sense of a chessboard being rearranged before their eyes.

Daemon ignored them all.

He left the Sept with steady steps, hands clasped behind his back and an impassive expression. As if standing before the gods he scorned was as natural to him as wielding a sword.

Alicent walked at his side. The delicate veil still covered part of her hair, but it did not hide the light flush on her cheeks — or the gleam of someone who had just won a quiet battle.

She tried to mask her joy beneath a facade of sobriety, but it was hard not to notice the slight bounce in her step.

Daemon bit back a laugh.

Ah, wife. Is it the presence of your gods that makes you glow like this — or is it the fact that I stood beside you?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that everyone saw. The entire court.

The image would spread like hot oil across parchment: The Rogue Prince, attending the Sept willingly, only to please his young wife. They would likely believe marriage had tamed him.

Daemon nearly laughed aloud. Let them believe whatever they wished — redemption, stability, obedience.

Every word spoken behind fans or cups of wine was another coin of influence falling silently into his hand.

They passed the guards at the Sept’s entrance and descended the stone steps under the full light of morning. The air outside felt lighter, cleaner.

The prince took a deep breath, drawing in the unpleasant air of King’s Landing.

Still better than that damned incense , he thought.

Without hurry, he and his wife made their way back to the castle.

“I know why you did it,” Alicent’s voice was low, restrained, as they crossed the marble courtyard between the gardens and the lower staircase of the Red Keep. “Even knowing your reasons… I still… well, thank you. I’m glad you went to the Sept with me.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, not turning fully toward her.

“How touching. I already feel like a martyr. Should I ask the High Septon to commission a stained glass window in my honor?”

Alicent shot him a warning glance, though a faint smile tugged at her lips.

He let the sarcasm hang for a moment longer before an amusing idea formed in his mind, in a lower, almost husky tone he added:

“Now it’s your turn to return the favor, wife.”

She stumbled.

“What do you want me to do?”

Daemon turned to face her fully, a mischievous smile blooming on his lips.

“I want you to fly with me.”

Her eyes widened, so vivid they nearly sparkled in the light.

“Fly…?” Alicent hesitated. “My Prince, I… Caraxes isn’t—”

“A bloodthirsty beast?” Daemon finished for her, as though the idea amused him. “Yes. He is. But he’s my bloodthirsty beast. He belongs to me — just like you belong to me.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came.

He tilted his head, studying her like a cat watching a sparrow fall from a branch.

“Don’t you trust me, wife?”

“Not much. Especially when your dragon is involved.”

“Clever girl.”

She hesitated, as she always did when he pushed her to the edge. He had learned to recognize that look — the small storm of doubts and duties swirling behind her brown eyes. But, as every other time, she eventually gave in. Daemon saw the exact moment her shoulders loosened, and her voice came out in a tightly held breath:

“Alright. I’ll go.”

The corner of his mouth curved up, satisfied.

“Excellent. Let’s go, then.”

“What? Now?”

He laughed. A full, careless, mocking laugh. Her shock at him not joking was always delightful.

“Of course. The day is perfect for a flight.”

Before she could protest, he had already seized her hand — her fingers cold and tense against his, warm and assured — and was pulling her with quick steps through the corridors of the Keep.

“Daemon, wait—” she began, trying to resist, but he ignored her completely.

“If you stop at every sigh, we’ll never get there,” he called over his shoulder.

He could hear her stumbling steps behind him, her skirts dragging across the floor, her breath slightly quickened — from effort or panic, perhaps both. Every attempt she made to pull away was met with firmer grip. He had no patience for all this hesitation. She had agreed, and that was enough. The rest was just fear. And fear was a luxury he had never been in the habit of indulging.

“I… maybe we could do this some other time,” her voice was nervous, almost childlike. “I don’t want to interfere with your plans… and I’m not dressed for—”

“Don’t worry, Caraxes won’t care what you’re wearing,” he cut in, dryly. “He’ll like you either way. Or not. But at this point, there’s no turning back.”

She didn’t answer, but he felt her body stiffen. Even so, he didn’t stop. He knew that if she had truly decided to resist, she would’ve shouted, broken free, stomped her feet. But she hadn’t. Because deep down, even frightened, she wanted to go. She wanted to see.

Daemon felt along the stone behind the tapestries, searching for the cracks in the wall.

“My Prince, what are you doing?” Alicent asked, confused.

He only smiled slyly before opening the passage, pulling his wife with him into the hidden tunnels within the Keep’s walls.

Alicent gasped as the wall closed behind them. Daemon kept walking immediately, dragging her along. He found his way easily through the tunnels — the air quickly grew thicker, more humid. The sound of their steps echoed through the stone corridors — his boots scuffing, her lighter shoes stumbling, the faint clinking of chains in the distance. The Dragonpit was close, with its hot breath and the atmosphere of a profane cathedral.

When the dark, vast interior of the Pit came into view, Daemon finally let go of her hand.

She stood frozen for a moment, her eyes scanning the great structure, as if seeing it for the first time, as if trying to make sense of how she’d ended up there. He watched her silently. Her face was paler than usual — but her eyes… her eyes shone. Not with courage yet, but with something very close.

Daemon smiled.

***

Damn the day she married Daemon Targaryen.

The thought repeated itself like a cyclical lament as she descended the damp, dark stairs of the Dragonpit, her hands still trembling—hands Daemon held tightly, as if giving her no choice but to follow him. And perhaps he truly didn’t. From the start, from the moment he stormed into her life like a tempest and wrapped it around his waist, Alicent had known that standing beside Daemon Targaryen would be like walking along the edge of a cliff.

Marriage to him meant scandal, danger... and, ironically, safety.

It wasn’t the hell she had feared. Nor the heaven others might have painted. It was something else. A marriage built on provocation and unspoken pacts.

Daemon didn’t treat her like a delicate flower as the court did—nor like the pawn her father saw in her. He was rude, unpredictable, often infuriating… but he also seemed honest in his intentions, in his desire to include her, challenge her, drag her into the center of his blazing world.

And maybe—just maybe—she was beginning to like that.

Still, now, here, before the cavernous entrance where the heat of dragons rose like furnace breath, Alicent wished to retreat. The smell of sulfur and charred flesh invaded her nose, and Daemon’s footsteps echoed mockingly through her hesitation.

"I’m not sure this is a good idea," she tried, a final appeal, eyeing the heavy chains hanging from the stone columns. "Maybe... maybe later. When I’m more prepared..."

Daemon glanced over his shoulder and smiled. A dangerous, impatient smile that said more than any words. Alicent swallowed hard.

And then she heard it.

The sound was unmistakable: a low growl, a deep breath like wind between stone crevices. Heavy steps that made the ground tremble beneath her feet. And then, as if emerging from the shadows of the world itself—Caraxes.

The dragon moved with a warped elegance, lean and sinister, with eyes like living embers set in a skull of crimson bone. Alicent’s heart sped up—part fear, part anticipation. Seeing a Targaryen with his dragon was always fascinating. There was a silent language between them, a wild, terrifying symbiosis… and beautiful.

Daemon slowly released her hand, sensing her rising tension. He stepped forward toward Caraxes without hesitation, murmuring in High Valyrian, his movements confident, intimate. The dragon lowered his head, exhaling a burst of hot air that lifted Alicent’s hair around her face.

Even terrified, she couldn’t look away.

"He’s… he’s looking at me," she whispered, nearly breathless, her wide eyes locked on Caraxes.

"Don’t panic, that’s normal," Daemon said with a low chuckle. "He’s just deciding if you’re food or not."

"Wonderful. That’s very comforting," she snapped, her feet rooted to the ground, her hands trembling.

Caraxes’s long, sinuous neck tilted toward her. His nostrils flared in a hot gust that raised goosebumps on her neck. Her stomach sank. It was the scent of sulfur, leather, and heated metal—primal, alive, terrifying. But the beast’s eyes… they didn’t seem hostile. Curious, perhaps.

For a moment, she almost thought the dragon recognized her.

As if it knew something she didn’t.

"He likes you," Daemon said, proud.

"Are you sure? Because I think I’m so nervous I’m hallucinating and he’s about to devour me in five seconds."

Daemon laughed loudly. A warm, arrogant sound that echoed through the stones of the Pit.

"Come now, Queen of Whispers," he said, offering his hand. "Climb up."

She hesitated for a second but took his hand. It was firm. Warm.

Heart pounding, Alicent let Daemon pull her closer. She felt as light as a feather as he helped her mount.

The saddle was unlike anything she knew—rougher, made of thick leather, fitted to Caraxes’s scaly, uneven back. Daemon adjusted the straps around her with practiced precision, and Alicent couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her as his fingers brushed her hips and legs, fastening the buckles.

"If he tries to throw me off, do you swear to catch me?" she asked, trying to sound light, though her voice was two tones higher than usual.

Daemon smiled, a mischievous glint in his violet eyes.

"If he tries to throw you… then you’d better scream really loud and pray to the Seven."

She let out an indignant huff, but he simply wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer into the saddle.

"Hold on tight," he murmured near her ear.

Caraxes rumbled—a deep sound from the bowels of the earth. Alicent held her breath, but Daemon seemed completely unfazed.

"He likes you," the prince repeated, tugging another strap and tightening it so firmly it nearly made her fall backward. "Or maybe you just smell like fear—dragons appreciate that. Makes the prey more flavorful."

"How reassuring."

He laughed again, and Caraxes stirred beneath them, restless, his tail slamming against the stone with enough force to shake the ground. Alicent flinched.

"Easy," Daemon said—but whether he was speaking to the dragon or to her, it was impossible to tell. "He won’t eat you."

She looked at him, sincere in her fear and outrage, but he only adjusted himself behind her, fitting his body to hers with ease.

Alicent could feel the heat of him through her clothes, the solid presence behind her.

Daemon’s hand moved over hers, adjusting her grip on the side handles, guiding each of her fingers into place.

"This is madness," she murmured.

"Almost everything worth doing is," he replied, his breath brushing her neck, his hair grazing her skin. "Ready?"

"No."

"Good."

He shouted a word in High Valyrian, and Caraxes answered with a brutal roar, spreading his dark wings wide.

Alicent stifled a scream as the world dropped out from under her feet.

King’s Landing shrank rapidly, the wind slicing the silence like a living blade. Alicent let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and laughter as Caraxes beat his wings powerfully and climbed into the skies, leaving behind the safety of the ground, the dark pit, and any illusion of control.

A rush of vertigo overtook her.

It was madness.

But it wasn’t as bad as she expected.

The wind lashed her face, tugged her hair back, and her eyes watered from the speed.

The entire world seemed to hum beneath her—or rather, beneath the dragon who now felt like a living extension of Daemon Targaryen’s fury.

Caraxes roared, and the sound vibrated through her spine like thunder from within.

She should have been terrified. She should’ve been praying to survive.

But there was something electrifying about being up there, riding the Blood Wyrm through the skies.

She suddenly understood why Daemon loved it so much. Why Rhaenyra always smiled so widely when returning from a flight.

The sky was vast, and free, and brutal—and there was a power in being up there that no throne room, no septa’s veil, could ever offer.

Caraxes was terrifying, yes— But he was also alive beauty, wild strength contained in wings and fire.

And amid the chaos, she wasn’t alone.

Daemon was behind her, steady as stone, his hands gripping the reins—and her. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him—his heat at her back, the solidity of his arms.

It should have made her more nervous.

But strangely, it didn’t.

He was there.

And as insane as it sounded—

Alicent trusted Daemon.

Yes, he was unbearable. Arrogant. Unpredictable.

She didn’t yet know what she felt for him—or if she was even allowed to feel anything beyond tolerance.

But there were moments like this, moments when he wrapped her in his madness and made it seem possible—even desirable—to be lost in it for a while.

She closed her eyes for a moment, just to feel it.

The wind.

The roar of the dragon.

The bitter safety of Daemon at her back.

Freedom.

Chapter Text

Daemon liked the silence of the sky.

Up there, there were no politics, no crowns, no meddling brothers, no septons whispering in corners. Only the sound of wind slicing through the air, Caraxes’ powerful wings pushing the world behind them, and the muffled roar of the beast as it flew free.

And this time, there was her.

The small, tense woman in front of him, wrapped in layers of velvet and contained courage, who had agreed to mount a dragon simply because she was too obedient to deny her husband… to deny him . Daemon had felt her body stiff at first, spine straight, fingers trembling as they clutched the saddle as if death lurked just below — and it did.

But Alicent let out nothing more than a surprised squeak.

Daemon kept one hand firm on the reins and the other on her waist, guiding the flight with precision. The sky was his element, and Caraxes knew every beat of his wings like a dance among clouds. At first, he flew cautiously, not wanting to scare his poor wife too much. Then, because he needed her to feel him that way — wild, yes, but safe. He needed her to trust him.

Suddenly, he felt a slight weight rest against his chest. A barely perceptible relaxing.

For a moment, he thought Alicent had fainted. His hand moved from her waist to her arm to shake her, but then she shifted. A flock of birds crossed in front of them, and she turned her body slightly to follow them.

Daemon frowned, surprised.

Caraxes dipped lower, gliding over the waters. The sky’s reflection shimmered below, but Daemon only had eyes for her — for the way Alicent now leaned slightly forward, the wind pulling her auburn hair back like living flames. Her eyes were wide, yes, but not with fear.

She looked… enchanted.

Daemon felt a strange pang in his chest. Almost uncomfortable. As if he’d been caught seeing something he shouldn’t.

She was smiling.

A small smile, but real, sincere. And for a moment, just a moment, Daemon thought about staying there forever. The dragon, the sky, her warmth against him, the silence that asked for no answers.

Alicent turned her head slightly, and he saw her eyes gleaming with excitement.

“You see?” Daemon’s voice cut through the wind, hoarse and laced with irony. “Not so terrible after all. Or are you still going to tell me you're scared to death, wife?”

Alicent didn’t answer right away. The sound of rushing air, the rhythmic beat of Caraxes’ wings, and the vastness around them filled the space like a spell she hesitated to break.

But then she laughed. Softly, surprised — as if even she didn’t know where it came from. A short, light laugh, born from the thrill and the vertigo.

“Yeah, I guess there are worse things than this,” she finally said. Her voice was steady, but there was still a trace of wonder hanging between her words. “Though I still prefer keeping my feet on the ground.”

Caraxes climbed several meters in a sudden burst, making the air tear around them. Alicent tensed reflexively, but didn’t scream — and he felt a foolish pride swell in his chest. When the dragon stabilized, gliding again, Daemon leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, voice low and rough.

“Don’t lie to me, Alicent...” he whispered. “You liked it, didn’t you? The feeling of danger. The thrill of flying. Of being this close to me.”

She was silent. The kind of silence that made his blood run faster.

Then she answered, calm:

“I like Caraxes.”

The beast cooed beneath them, almost as if saying he returned the sentiment.

Daemon laughed, a brief, warm sound, like hammered metal.

“Of course you do.”

Inside, he pushed what he’d felt moments before as far down as possible. The way her body had molded into his, the involuntary smile, her brown eyes lit like embers.

He would not think about that.

There were more important things to focus on.

“Next time, maybe I’ll let you lead,” he teased. “Then I can hold on to you.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Oh, so you are afraid?”

“No,” she said, slowly turning her neck to meet his eyes over her shoulder. “I just think I prefer it when you’re the one in control.”

Daemon held her gaze. And smiled — slow, dangerous, feline.

“So do I.”

Caraxes roared in the skies, as if laughing with him.

***

Caraxes spiraled downward, slicing through the clouds like a crimson blade.

His wings spread to their full span before touching down in the Pit, kicking up dust and fragments of long-forgotten bones. Daemon saw Alicent clutch the leather straps tighter at the last second, the nerves returning as the dragon’s claws finally met the ground with a dull thud.

Daemon dismounted with the natural ease of someone born for that kind of raw, living power, then turned and lazily extended a hand to Alicent.

She hesitated, just as she had before mounting. But now there was something new in her expression — not just fear, but exhilaration. Her loose hair was wind-tangled, her eyes glistening and wide.

“Come on, my brave wife,” he teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Before I leave you here to live with Caraxes.”

She rolled her eyes, still trying to look more composed than she was while he loosened the straps that held her to the saddle.

Footsteps echoed behind Daemon — light, decisive. He knew who it was before even turning. It was like a spark of heat in a frozen field — fiery, stormy, unmistakable.

Syrax flapped her wings impatiently, bound by iron chains, while Rhaenyra’s figure emerged from the damp stones of the Pit. She didn’t look at him right away. Her eyes were fixed on Alicent, still mounted on Caraxes, hair loose, her face flushed from the thrill of flight.

When Alicent’s feet touched the ground, still trembling with adrenaline, Rhaenyra stepped forward.

“Finally found your courage?” she said, voice low and cutting. “You never agreed to fly with me, but my uncle only had to ask once, didn’t he?”

Daemon stepped forward, his hand lightly touching Alicent’s waist in an automatic gesture. Almost as if she were still on the dragon, he thought. A gesture of possession or protection 

— Daemon wasn’t sure, and he hated that it was either one.

Rhaenyra noticed.

Her eyes dropped to the touch, her jaw tightening ever so slightly before she looked at Alicent again with a smile that cut like a freshly honed blade.

Alicent, in turn, composed herself instantly. The flush of excitement still tinged her cheeks, but composure rose around her like a well-trained wall.

“I’ve never feared dragons, Princess,” she said with polite sweetness, eyes locked on Rhaenyra’s. “But I never had a reason to trust them… until now.”

Daemon nearly smiled. Nearly.

“How convenient,” Rhaenyra replied, her tone dripping equal parts honey and poison. “I imagine my uncle must be very… persuasive.”

The silence that followed spoke louder than any reply.

Syrax growled behind Rhaenyra, impatient, as if she could smell the tension in the air. Alicent calmly squared her shoulders, and only then did Daemon step back, like retreating from a duel whose outcome he already knew.

“Oh, you’ve no idea,” Alicent answered at last, voice low but steady. “Especially when he’s not trying to impress anyone.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a hint of mischief.

“Well, well,” he murmured, to no one in particular. “Now I know what it feels like to be left out.”

Rhaenyra glanced at him, but said nothing. Still, her gaze spoke for her — there was a storm brewing behind those lilac eyes.

Alicent saw it. And perhaps for the first time, she understood the depth of the bond that existed — or had existed — between the two Targaryens.

“I’m not here for a fight,” she said then, her tone making clear she wasn’t just referring to the Pit. “I came because I was invited. Because a proposal was made.”

“And why did you accept it?” Rhaenyra countered, stepping closer, her voice still gentle but with something threatening to break beneath the surface. “Out of obedience? Duty? Or just curiosity?”

Daemon let out a short laugh, tilting his head as if savoring the scene.

“She accepted because she’s braver than the court gives her credit for,” he said, with an indifference so carefully crafted it turned cruel.

Rhaenyra whirled toward him.

“And are you enjoying this?” she asked. “You love this, don’t you, Daemon? Two women arguing over you — is that your idea of fun?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked past them both with his hands behind his back, his cloak trailing at the level of his boots, dusty with bones and dirt. His voice came low, drawn out, almost bored.

“I thought it was obvious… the whole world competes for my attention.”

Alicent bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling — not fully.

Rhaenyra, however, did not laugh. She didn’t even smile. She simply looked at Alicent once more, from head to toe, as if measuring the exact size of the threat.

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Lady Alicent,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Dragons are loyal… for a time. They tire of playing with their prey eventually.”

With that, she turned and marched toward Syrax, her footsteps echoing on the cold stones of the Pit. Her mount’s chains rattled as she climbed into the saddle unassisted, as she had a thousand times before. Syrax gave one last look at Caraxes — a warning, perhaps — before taking off with a roar that shook the structure down to its beams.

Silence returned, thick as smoke.

Alicent sighed, smoothing down her wind-blown hair.

“Well, now she definitely hates me.”

Daemon leaned in slightly, voice low, almost conspiratorial.

“That’s a good sign. It means you matter.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” she muttered dryly.

He smiled.

“Believe me, Hightower… in the game of dragons, being noticed is already half the victory.”

“Are you sure? I thought being noticed by a dragon meant you were about to be its next meal.”

Daemon laughed, offering his arm to her.

“Sometimes, wife. Sometimes.”

Alicent took his arm with elegant reluctance, as if doing both of them a favor. They walked in silence for a while, their footsteps muffled by the stones underfoot and the distant hum of Syrax slicing through the darkening sky.

***

Morning light streamed through the colored stained glass, casting shades of blue and red over the long table where the Small Council was already gathered. The atmosphere was tense; the lords cast sideways glances at the prince, as if afraid they'd be cursed if they looked him in the eye.

Viserys seemed more awake than usual, perhaps fueled by the rare satisfaction of seeing his brother fulfill a public expectation without any visible scandal.

"I must say, Daemon," the king began with a slight smile, "it was good to see you at the Sept yesterday. The presence of a Targaryen prince was... reassuring for many. Even more so beside your wife."

Daemon was lounging in his chair with his usual nonchalance, one hand resting on the carved wooden arm, the other absentmindedly tracing the rim of his goblet. He smiled, but did not look at his brother.

"I suppose it’s an exciting fantasy, isn’t it? A pious, well-mannered woman who managed to redeem the rogue prince through the grace of the Seven." He paused briefly. "Thank Alicent, if you must. She can be quite persuasive."

Otto repositioned his hands, folding them over the table. His face remained as unreadable as ever, but his eyes were sharp, catching every word exchanged.

"Forgive my intrusion, my Prince, but... are the rumors true?" Lyman Beesbury interjected, frowning. "They say you took Lady Alicent flying on your dragon."

Daemon stretched slowly, like a lazy cat, and finally fixed his eyes on the old master of coin.

"I believe what I do—or don’t do—with my wife is none of your concern, Lord Beesbury," he said, his voice as sharp as a Valyrian steel blade. 

An uncomfortable silence lasted for a few minutes.

"But yes, I decided to show her the skies she seems to yearn for."

A low murmur rippled across the table, quickly stifled by disapproving glares cast at Beesbury, who lowered his eyes and fiddled with the papers in front of him.

Otto cleared his throat with calculated softness, cutting through the tense silence that followed Daemon’s response.

"What truly matters," he said with the composure of a man who had already weighed the risks, "is that the marriage, by all appearances, seems promising. A union that stirs curiosity, yes—but also hope."

Daemon shot him a look that glided like a blade beneath the skin.

Viserys placed his hands on the table, smiling with almost childlike hope on his face.

"How good it is to hear that, Otto. I’m pleased to know the court is beginning to see merit in this union. And I hope we’ll receive good news soon."

The silence that followed was not of embarrassment, but of poorly concealed expectation. Even Beesbury, unsubtle as he was, offered a restrained smile.

Daemon raised his goblet slowly, twirling it between his fingers before taking a short sip. A wicked smile tugged at his lips.

"Don’t worry, since everyone seems so eager for ‘good news’, I’ll try harder to deliver it," he said — and out of the corner of his eye, he saw his good-father shift uncomfortably. "After all, nothing seals an alliance better than a woman’s swollen belly."

"That’s enough. What’s done is done. And I, as king and brother, am grateful. The image of you both at the Sept was noted by every house represented at court. Even the High Septon sent a letter. Blessing the union."

"What an honor," Daemon said, his sarcasm plain.

Otto stepped in again, now with a slightly more cautionary tone, though still wrapped in diplomacy.

"It would be wise not to scorn the Faith too openly, prince. Especially now that it sees your wife as an example of virtue… and perhaps sees in you a new beginning."

Daemon leaned back again, smiling without warmth.

"What a charming vision... and dangerously optimistic."

The chamber door creaked open, briefly letting in a servant with new letters, but no one broke the moment. It was clear that something was being negotiated — or at least tested — between the lines of that conversation.

Viserys drew a deep breath, glancing between Otto and Daemon.

"Time will tell what this union brings. But for now, we must work so that the people see it as a sign of stability."

Daemon smirked.

"So be it."

Chapter Text

It was late when he walked the path that would lead him back to his chambers, the whispers of the court having followed him all day, lurking behind the tapestries exactly as he had expected.

His mind was unusually alert; it had been a long time since the Fourteen Flames had last manifested, and Daemon was somewhat troubled by the possibility that he had failed.

But not even the unrest in his thoughts kept him from hearing the footsteps behind him—light, quick, nervous.

“I was hoping to find you here,” said a soft yet tense voice.

Daemon stopped, turning slowly.

Alicent approached with her hands clasped before her, the pale tone of her dress making her brown eyes and youthful, fair skin stand out. There was hesitation in her steps, but what drew his attention most was her expression—a mixture of expectation, determination, and a touch of fear.

“Lady Beesbury told me the Council was rather unproductive today,” she began, attempting to sound casual. “I imagine it’s been a long day.”

Daemon studied her in silence. He noticed how she kept her posture straight, yet pressed her fingers together tightly, as if holding herself back from some impulse.

“I saw you didn’t join the City Watch today, so I thought this might be a good moment.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow.

“For what?”

“I thought—” Alicent cleared her throat. “I thought perhaps we could have dinner together tonight. We’re husband and wife now; it would be natural for us to spend more time together.”

A slow, mischievous smile tugged at his lips.

“Missing me already, wife?” Her face flushed red. “I thought you had more pleasant things to occupy yourself with.”

“I’m afraid not, my Prince. The other ladies remain… a little hostile. Though I admit things have improved considerably since your visit to the Sept.”

Daemon looked at her, silent. The silver light fell across her face from the side, casting delicate shadows under her lashes and chin.

“Really? What a pity. Then it seems we’ll have to endure each other’s company tonight. I hope that won’t be a problem for you, wife,” he said, offering her his arm.

Alicent stared at him, wide-eyed, as though surprised by his agreement. For a moment, she seemed unsure whether to smile or remain cautious. She took the arm he offered. Her hand was light, almost cold, against the dark leather sleeve covering his forearm.

“Your company is never exactly… peaceful,” she murmured, eyes on the polished stone floor. “But it is always interesting.”

Daemon let out a low, rough chuckle—more a vibration in his chest than an actual sound.

“Was that a compliment?”

“It’s as close as you’ll get to one tonight.”

As they walked, the sounds of the fortress grew scarcer. A few servants still hurried past, carrying jugs of wine, buckets of steaming water, fragrant oils, and trays of hot food. Daemon stopped one at random, ordering dinner to be prepared for himself and his wife and brought to his chambers. The servant looked visibly startled before bowing and hurrying off.

As they made their way through the corridors, one could almost feel the weight of unseen eyes and the metallic taste of expectation. It was natural, of course—they were still the court’s newest novelty. People remained curious about such an unusual pairing: Daemon, the Rogue Prince, and his pious wife, Lady Alicent.

“You seem… displeased,” Alicent said as they climbed a narrow staircase. Her voice sounded almost intimate in the quiet of the night. “I don’t wish to trouble you, my Prince, if my presence…”

“Just a little irritated,” he interrupted—only half a lie. Alicent’s arm still rested lightly on his, almost weightless, yet Daemon could feel the faint tremor in her hand. She was tense, and he knew why. The weight of what was expected of her—of what he expected of her—the anger she concealed, the scar he had caused, the nights she had wept for the friend stolen from her and the happiness destroyed, now replaced by the duty that had always haunted her. It was there between them, an invisible shadow in the moonlight, and not even a successful flight could erase it.

Alicent hesitated, her hand tightening slightly on his arm.

“I imagine your irritation has something to do with my father, then.”

Daemon gave a low, gruff sound.

“Partially, perhaps.” He glanced at her sideways, a glint of something unreadable in his violet eyes. “Otto and I have a long and fruitful history of mutual dislike. It’s a constant source of entertainment, I admit, but there are vultures enough in King’s Landing to irritate a man even without the contribution of your good old father.”

Alicent bit her lower lip.

“My father has always believed he does what’s best for everyone,” she said, her voice low and calm. “He can be quite… inflexible in his convictions.”

“Inflexible, yes. And ambitious,” Daemon replied dryly. “A dangerous combination for anyone who happens to be in his way. You’ve surely learned a thing or two from him.”

She cleared her throat and, after a moment, murmured,

“My father believes he’s protecting the realm. And me, too… I think.”

Daemon stopped at the top of the stairs. He turned fully to her, his face half-shadowed by the tapestry hanging on the wall.

“You think?”

Alicent held his gaze for a moment. Her brown eyes were steady, but there was a trace of vulnerability there.

“I don’t know anymore,” she answered softly. “But I didn’t come here to defend my father.”

Daemon studied her a moment longer before resuming their walk, leading her to his chambers.

The rest of the way was marked by silence, broken only by the sound of their steps on the stone floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Daemon saw Alicent lift her free hand to her mouth and nibble at the skin around her nails—a gesture that seemed instinctive, unconscious.

When they arrived, he stepped ahead and pushed the door open. The familiar warmth of the hearth wrapped around them. The dimness of the room was broken only by the orange glow of the flames, casting dancing shadows over the tapestries and dark wood furniture. Daemon entered first, making space for her to pass. Alicent hesitated only briefly before stepping inside.

She moved with caution, as though walking into foreign territory. She seemed out of place here—and at the same time, strangely as if she belonged, as though this were exactly where she was meant to be.

He gestured toward one of the seats by the table near the hearth. She sat slowly. It was no banquet hall, nor a place for formal dinners, but it was comfortable, almost intimate—perhaps too intimate, now that he thought about it.

“I imagine this isn’t what you’re used to at court dinners,” he said dryly, settling into the chair opposite her.

She merely smiled before three servants entered silently with trays, steaming dishes, and a jug of dark wine. Their presence shifted the air—what had been warmed by conversation became rigid, closed. Alicent immediately recomposed herself, slipping into the mask of the ideal wife: straight posture, lowered eyes, a controlled mouth. Daemon also fell silent, his face expressionless. Alicent thanked them with a slight nod; Daemon merely watched as the servants set the table.

When the last one left, bowing silently and closing the door softly behind him, Daemon poured the wine into two cups.

Alicent accepted hers with a faint nod, but did not speak right away. Their eyes met over the rims of the cups, each studying the other, weighing how much they could trust.

“I imagine you’re not here just for food and company,” he said, a provocative smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

She set her cup down slowly, leaning forward slightly.

“I don’t usually go where I’m not invited, my Prince,” she replied softly.

Daemon studied her face. Her tone was gentle, but there was a complaint there—a request disguised as an observation. He leaned back in his chair.

“Then consider this an invitation,” he said. “Albeit a late one.”

She lowered her eyes and smiled, and for the first time that night, the silence between them felt comfortable. Daemon picked up one of the knives and cut a piece of the served meat, but didn’t bring it to his mouth.

“The council has been curious about us,” Daemon remarked.

She looked up at him, wary, but not surprised.

“Do they expect news so soon?”

“They’ve been expecting news ever since the rumors of our supposed transgressions spread.”

Her cheeks flushed faintly.

“So the rumors have reached the Council too? Do they also think I was already pregnant at our wedding?”

Daemon only shrugged, tilting his cup. The wine was full-bodied, dense, and slid down his throat like silk.

“I care little for what they think.”

Alicent gave a low chuckle, almost to herself.

“By the way, I don’t think I ever told you this, but thank you… for stopping the bedding ceremony. I imagined it would be exactly the sort of entertainment you’d enjoy, but…”

She let the sentence hang unfinished. The Rogue Prince made a sound somewhere between a scoff and agreement.

“Public humiliations don’t whet my appetite. Especially when it’s my wife who’d be subjected to them.”

The words left a weight in the air. Alicent looked thoughtful as she picked a piece of fruit and calmly brought it to her lips.

The meal went on slowly, as if every gesture were part of some ancient game. Alicent ate deliberately, always measured, cutting her meat into small pieces as though before a ceremonial feast. Daemon, on the other hand, watched more than he chewed. He was used to silence at meals — most were like this within the walls of the Red Keep, with unspoken words in every bite and intentions beneath every glance. It was like walking on thin ice.

“Your father seems more resigned to our marriage now,” he said casually, though his eyes were fixed on her.

Alicent held his gaze; she had the same inquisitive eyes as her father, the same calculation.

“He’s starting to see the advantages, but he still hasn’t forgiven me for not becoming queen in truth.”

Daemon smiled faintly.

“You’ll be one soon enough.”

“You say that with great certainty, my Prince.”

He tilted his head, studying her like a piece on a game board.

“You bear the name Targaryen now. You’re closer to the throne than you’ve ever been,” he replied simply.

She didn’t retort at once. She drank a sip of wine and set the cup down slowly, as if weighing each word.

“This castle, wife, is a place where only the strong and the cunning survive, where ambitions weave through these halls,” Daemon went on, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, almost a whisper only she could hear. He leaned slightly forward, violet eyes fixed on hers. “Loyalty is costly, and trust is rare coin.”

“It’s better to trust ambition than bought loyalty, husband; not everyone in this castle would trade their freedom for gold.”

“Indeed, dear. That’s why I offer blood ties instead of coins.”

The words hung between them like something heavier than mere irony. Alicent didn’t answer immediately. She simply lifted the cup to her lips again and took a long sip, as if she needed time.

Soon the wine no longer tasted so harsh on their tongue.

Daemon leaned back, letting the silence stretch — but now it seemed almost comfortable, like a pause between musical notes, no longer a provocation.

“I think this is the first meal in days I’ve finished without being interrupted by whispers or prayers,” she said lightly. “The ladies of the court have the dreadful habit of speaking without looking around them.”

“Then we should dine together more often,” Daemon said, raising his own cup. “I’ll make a point of drowning all whispers in wine and conversation.”

“That won’t stop them from making up stories,” Alicent replied, though there was a trace of laughter in her voice.

He toasted lazily, as if not disagreeing.

“Let them be good stories, at least. We’re married now, after all. Let them imagine the rest.”

Alicent shook her head but smiled. The candlelight danced in her hair, making it seem to sway like flames. Her shoulders had loosened, her posture less guarded. She tapped her fingers on the side of the cup, distracted.

“Sometimes you speak as if things were simple.”

“Nothing is simple, especially under this roof,” he replied naturally. “But it doesn’t have to be a burden either.”

She looked at him long and slow, as if weighing the intent behind his words.

“And what about this marriage? Is it destined to be a burden?”

Daemon thought of replying with a provocation, but held back. Instead, he leaned in to refill her cup.

“I’m still deciding.”

Alicent let out a short laugh — the kind that escapes without permission. A small sound, but genuine. Her eyes no longer carried the same tension as before.

Outside, the wind blew against the windows, but inside the world seemed reduced to the gleam of wine, the warm candlelight, and the low murmur of two voices that, at last, found some rest.

By the end of the jug, the wine seemed to have softened the sharp edges of the night.

Alicent now leaned slightly over the table, cheeks flushed, eyes brighter. She swirled the cup slowly between her fingers, unhurried, as if the gesture itself soothed her.

“I think that after yesterday, there’s no going back,” she said suddenly, in an almost childlike tone.

“You’re talking about your friendship with Rhaenyra?”

She nodded.

“She hadn’t been speaking to me for some time,” her voice came low, almost like a thought slipping out. “Since that day when you asked for my hand in the Council… we haven’t exchanged a single word, but I think my agreeing to fly with you, after refusing so many times to do so with her, threw the last shovelful of dirt on the matter.”

Her face was flushed — whether from the confession or the wine, he couldn’t tell. Daemon swirled his cup, watching the crimson liquid with feigned attention.

“You expected her to be happy about you becoming her aunt?” he asked, lightly scornful.

“I expected her to know it wasn’t my choice.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking at her over the rim of the cup.

“With the nature of the rumors going around, it’s hard to believe it wasn’t.”

Alicent held his gaze for a moment. Her eyes were darker, deeper — perhaps from the wine, perhaps from the loneliness she was finally letting herself confess.

“I know, but… she didn’t even let me explain. I think I’m upset that she trusted the rumors more than she trusted me.”

Daemon gave a low laugh — the first genuine one of the night.

“I thought we’d agreed that people inside this fortress shouldn’t be trusted lightly.”

Alicent let out a murmur.

“Yes, but I thought she had at least some regard for me. Rhaenyra was my dearest friend, my only friend. I loved her, still love her ” her voice faded to a whisper “ I suppose it was foolish to think she loved me back.”

Daemon said nothing. His violet eyes were fixed on her.

There was something both childlike and dangerously adult in that moment. She seemed fragile, yet more sincere than ever — as if she were letting him see the cracks beneath the perfect veneer everyone at court expected from her.

“The whole court whispers when I pass by,” she went on. “About the marriage. About you. About me. It feels like everyone has their own version of the story. Almost none of them good.”

Daemon set his cup down.

“You really do care about what they say, don’t you?”

She hesitated before answering.

“Only when I’m alone.”

Daemon felt something stir within him. Not compassion, but perhaps a shadow of recognition. He knew loneliness too. The feeling of always standing on the wrong side of the hall.

“You’ll have to face the whispers at some point, wife.”

Alicent gave a humorless laugh.

“Often, confronting rumors only serves to fan the flames,” she retorted.

“You say that because you’re too much of a coward to face the court directly,” he said with a cruel smile. “You Hightowers are far too timid to fight your own battles, so you send others to fight for you while you watch from afar and pretend to be above it all.”

Alicent’s brown eyes flashed with anger.

“I’m not as meek as you think I am.”

Daemon stifled a scoff. Oh, he knew. He knew very well how ruthless the Green Bitch could be.

“Of course — and Otto’s not an ambitious bastard,” he said dryly. “Whispering gossip in the court’s ears doesn’t count, dear. You’ll have to be more incisive than that to impress me.”

Alicent looked at him through narrowed eyes. Her delicate hands gripped the cup so tightly her knuckles were white.

“There was a day, before the betrothal was officially announced,” she began, “when I seriously considered gouging out Lady Cynna’s eyes with an embroidery needle.”

Daemon arched a brow, amused.

“What a charming sight.”

She repressed a smile, her shoulders relaxing slightly. Daemon rested his chin on his hand and watched her as if she were a particularly good play.

“I was passing by the embroidery gallery when I heard the giggles. It’s different, you know? Knowing people whisper about you and actually hearing them do it.”

Daemon said nothing, only swirled the wine in his cup with a faint smile at the corner of his lips.

“I knew how cruel they could be, but hearing it? Saying that I lay with you and with the King to serve my father’s ambitions, prostituting myself for favors?”

She paused, her eyes fixed on the cup.

“I should have left. I should have let them say whatever they wanted and gone to my chambers, but I was so angry I went inside. I gathered all the dignity I had left and walked in, as if the rumors didn’t bother me. They greeted me as if they hadn’t been speaking about me behind my back seconds earlier — but I could see the contempt in their eyes. I said I’d heard the rumors.”

Daemon let out a dry, low laugh.

“And after that?” he asked.

“I said I wasn’t bothered by them — an outright lie, but I said it anyway. That I thought it natural they were curious and jealous. I told them I would tolerate it, but that you weren’t the sort to take insults lightly. Lady Marra turned so pale I thought she might faint.”

Alicent was struggling to hide a satisfied smile. Daemon blinked slowly.

“You used me as a threat?”

“Of course — you’re perfect for it.”

“To inspire fear in others? Are you trying to insult me?”

A light laugh escaped her lips.

“Just stating a fact.”

“You sly, shameless little thing — aren’t you embarrassed to use your lord-husband’s name like that?”

Alicent shrugged, smiling in a way that was almost mischievous.

“You yourself offered me your protection, so don’t complain if I use it.”

“Fair enough.”

***

The door closed with a soft click.

The refreshing, citrus scent still lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of melted wax and strong wine.

Daemon remained where he was, staring at the spot where she had left, unmoving. The room seemed larger now, emptier. The silence that settled in was unsettling, as if mocking him.

He let out a slow sigh, sinking into the chair, his eyes fixed on the nearly empty goblet.

Damn Alicent Hightower.

What was she doing to him?

When he had accepted the mission imposed on him by the Fourteen Flames, Daemon had been certain that this was his punishment — to remain trapped in a marriage where there would be nothing but anger and resentment. He had promised himself he would hate her every day of this miserable union, and he had resigned himself to the idea that his only satisfaction would come when he sat upon the Iron Throne.

But the more time he spent with Alicent, the more interesting she became.

He had always thought of her as a shrew — a dull, disagreeable woman by nature. He had never understood why Rhaenyra, so bold and full of life, had any interest in her friendship, or why Viserys had chosen her as his second wife. But now… he was beginning to understand.

And he hated it.

He hated how their affection for her seemed to make more sense now.

She is a means to an end, Daemon kept repeating to himself — but deep down, he knew that the more time he spent with her, the less this marriage felt like a punishment.

He walked to the hearth, rubbing his temples with wine-stained fingers.

A bitter taste rose in his throat — far too familiar.

“Focus” he told himself in a low voice “ The throne. The succession. The war.”

But the words sounded weak. Empty, like unanswered prayers.

He hated himself for that moment of hesitation — for that glimpse of something he should not want.

Anger was safer. It was what he needed to anchor himself to.

He had to win the war, claim the throne — there was no time to be distracted by a young wife with a sharp mind and doe’s eyes.

He closed his eyes, trying to push away the memories that crept in: the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the soft, restrained sighs, the way her eyes wavered between fear and surrender, her hair flying in the wind, her face lit by the exhilaration of flight, her body free of fear, full of trust that she would be safe as long as she was atop Caraxes — as long as she was in his arms.

It haunted him.

Daemon was not a man who hesitated. He killed when needed, took what he wanted, spoke whatever came to mind — but there was something about this Alicent that made him act with caution.

A desire. A newly awakened curiosity.

But desire was dangerous.

Desire forged invisible bonds, unraveled alliances, dulled the blade of ambition.

He hated himself for wanting to touch her again.

More than that — he hated himself for wanting to hear her.

To hear her careful voice choosing its words.

To watch how her mind worked behind that serene face.

Alicent was like a book whose cover he despised, yet upon opening revealed unexpectedly sharp pages.

And now, he could not stop reading.

The Fourteen Flames had not shown him this.

The instructions had been clear: to prevent the ruin of his House, he must take the young Hightower as his wife. He had accepted this fate — for the throne, for the longevity of his House, for the dragons. But no vision had prepared him for the discomfort of… enjoying her company.

No prophecy had spoken of doubt.

And it was that doubt — that fine, fragile crack — that enraged him.

She is only a girl, raised to please, taught to smile and obey, he tried to tell himself. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She only… reacts.

But it wasn’t true — and he knew it.

Alicent was not blind. She saw more than she said. She wielded silence like a blade, modesty like a shield. She was not weak — she was strategic.

And that attracted him as much as it unsettled him.

Daemon clenched his fists, the knuckles whitening.

There was no room for this kind of distraction.

He had enemies. An unstable brother. A court full of serpents. A war looming on the horizon.

He could not afford to lose himself in daydreams about brown eyes and citrus perfume.

He had a war to win.

A throne to claim.

Chapter Text

The day broke without mercy, bringing a gray sky over King’s Landing, as bleak as the prince’s mood. Daemon had not slept. Or, if he had, it was only a brief, restless stupor between empty cups and the shadow of a name he refused to speak.

He dressed before the first servants stirred and spent the day on routine tasks, each hour dragging under the weight of previous days and the new, unsettling reflections on his wife.

He escaped to the training yard at the first opportunity, marching there as if starved for violence.

He trained with the new recruits as though each blow could drive away the recurring thought. He ordered them to strike with real force, without mercy, and when they hesitated, he laughed in disdain. Spears splintered, shields broke, some had to be carried to a maester with fractured bones — yet he continued. One, two, ten opponents. Exhaustion was a welcome relief. Sweat burned his eyes, muscles screamed, blood throbbed in his ears. Perfect. Painful. Silent on the inside.

Before the sun had fully left the skies, Daemon had already stripped off his training garb, replaced it with armor and the gold cloak, and set off into the streets of King’s Landing with the men of the City Watch behind him, sweeping through the alleys like a storm.

The number of offenders had dropped considerably since the first massacre led by the Lord Commander, but they still found thieves in the markets, men extorting the needy with invented fees, prostitutes complaining of being beaten by their protectors, gang leaders hiding in decaying taverns. The Prince of the City’s wrath fell upon them without respite. A warning to every criminal who thought they were safe in the Commander’s absence: the Dragon did not slumber, it merely withdrew, waiting for the right moment to breathe fire.

A reminder to the court: the Rogue Prince would not be tamed.

The bodies were left exposed as he withdrew with his men — a macabre warning to those seeking the city’s nightly depravity.

Daemon didn’t bother cleaning the blood from himself before heading to the Street of Silk with the City Watch, entering a brothel where even lords could not gain entry without naming their ancestors — a protocol that, of course, did not apply to him. It was a golden house, opulent, where the wine came from the south of Lys and the sheets were hand-embroidered silk. The women — and men — were trained to give pleasure as an art.

He was welcomed with reverence. Every pleasure house in King’s Landing knew nothing was to be denied to the Rogue Prince. This was not courtesy — it was devotion. A carefully crafted gesture to please the dangerous creature before them. And Daemon, as always, accepted the tribute with a vague nod and an unreadable gleam in his eye.

The finest wines were brought — as dark and clear as freshly spilled blood. Lys, Myr, Pentos — names that danced in crystal cups, served by trembling, perfumed hands. The Goldcloaks spread themselves among cushions and tapestries, laughing loudly, already surrendering to the night’s promise.

Candles were placed with near-religious precision, as if pleasure itself required perfect illumination. Shadows flickered over gilded marble columns, and the entire hall seemed to hold its breath when the dancers entered — one after another — veiled in sheer fabrics, covered in jewels and molten gold.

They moved like snakes enchanted by an invisible flute, bodies undulating to a slow, lascivious tune of flutes and low drums. Each step an invitation, each gesture a promise. The veils fell slowly, revealing golden skin, breasts adorned only with strands of pearls, waists cinched with belts of tiny bells that chimed at the slightest movement.

Daemon sat on the central divan, legs spread, arms loose, his commander’s cloak hanging from one shoulder. Watching as the dancers approached the soldiers first — bait to calm the beasts — and then slowly made their way to him, the greater prey.

One knelt at his feet and offered him a cup. She was young, with slanted eyes and hair dyed an exotic blue. He accepted the cup but did not drink.

Another touched his knee lightly — an invitation he ignored.

His own disinterest annoyed him. The life in which he had delighted in slaughter and brothels seemed centuries away; it was frustrating. He hadn’t noticed any change after returning from the Stepstones the first time — his appetites had remained the same, perhaps even grown greater, inflamed by the adrenaline of battle — so why now was he so unmoved by warmth, by provocation, by the invitation to pleasure? What had witnessing the Dance done to him?

The scent of brugmansia invaded his senses as if seared into his brain. Daemon inhaled deeply, impatient with himself. He rose abruptly, brushing away the hand still resting on his thigh. The room fell silent for an instant, the musicians missing a note. He didn’t care.

His violet eyes scanned the hall like a restless predator until they fixed on a more distant figure, sitting in the shadows at the back. When her eyes met his, she smiled — more out of politeness than seduction.

He searched the room again until he found the madam, then pointed. She arched a brow, surprised. That girl was certainly not one of the favorites. Far from the Valyrian beauties he usually preferred — no, she had a more common appearance — yet something about her drew him.

Daemon left for the upper floors without needing to be shown the way, the prostitute following him in silence through the luxurious corridors, her light steps muffled by red carpets. He spoke no word as they climbed the carved wooden staircase, nor when a hurried servant opened the door for them before slipping away.

The room was wide, heavy with the scent of dried flowers and spiced incense. Curtains the color of deep wine, low-burning candles in candelabras, mirrors in every corner — as if desire needed to see itself to exist.

The girl approached slowly, like a tamed cat. She knelt before him and began undoing the fastenings of his armor with the calm, practiced hands of someone who had done it hundreds of times.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

When the armor hit the floor with a dull thud, he grabbed her by the chin and kissed her with a ravenous hunger. She returned the kiss with trained sweetness, without hesitation, letting herself be laid between the sheets with a soft sigh. Daemon covered her with his body and hiked up her skirts in one motion, bunching the fabric at her waist, and without ceremony, he entered her. She gasped, startled by the sudden intrusion, but he gave her no time to adjust.

He began moving with force and precision, her hands gripping his shoulders, his tangled in her curls, pulling them harshly. He lowered his mouth to her neck, his violet eyes fixed on the strands in his grasp — red, not the same shade, lighter, but similar.

He slowed.

Daemon truly looked at her then. The fiery curls, the large brown eyes, the small, slender frame with delicate curves and pale skin. The resemblance was undeniable.

The image of his wife invaded his mind with brutal force — the young, intense face, the warmth of her skin under his hands, the citrus scent, the sound of her voice calling him in ecstasy.

Daemon stopped.

His body still over hers, muscles rigid, eyes wide as if struck in the chest. The woman looked up at him, confused, her mouth parting as if to speak, but he pulled away abruptly before she could.

He rose without a word, a scornful laugh rising in his throat. Pathetic. He had chosen a shadow. A pale, cheap copy of the wife he pretended to hate. He paced the room naked, chest heaving, hands trembling with rage.

The young woman sat up slowly, pulling the sheet over herself. Fear now shone in her eyes — a genuine fear of the silent, mounting fury radiating from the Rogue Prince like heat from a forge.

Daemon raked a hand through his hair, then kicked a chair hard against the wall. The crash echoed through the wood.

How dare she live in his mind so easily?

“Out,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

The girl hesitated for an instant, then slid out of the bed, adjusting her clothes with trembling hands. Daemon did not look at her as she left. The door shut with a muffled click.

Silence fell like a stone.

Daemon found himself alone, surrounded by mirrors. His reflection stared back at him from every side — naked, marked with sweat and fury, and profoundly, miserably empty.

The memory of Alicent still burned in his flesh like a wound.

And for the first time in a long while, he did not know whether he wished to kill a woman… or beg for her.

***

Daemon did not know how long he wandered the streets after leaving the brothel. The wine burned in his throat, and the anger burned within. He had drunk more than he should, and still it was not enough. Nothing was. His thoughts still spun in his mind like a storm — desire, denial, rage.

The stone steps of the Red Keep seemed steeper that night, and his footsteps echoed through the corridors like the beat of war drums. He spoke to no one. The guards stepped back at the sight of him — some even averted their eyes. The gold cloak billowed behind him like a living shadow, his armor stained with wine, blood, and dust.

When he pushed open the door to his own chambers, he expected the usual: the empty room, the spent candles, the complicit silence that allowed him to exist without witnesses.

But that was not what he found.

Daemon stopped, stunned.

The shadows were soft. The candles, nearly spent, cast a trembling light upon the walls. A meal lay forgotten upon the table, untouched, its steam long gone into the cold air. The hearth still crackled softly, and before it, sunk into the armchair, sat Alicent.

She breathed slowly, caught in peaceful sleep.

Her hair was mussed, her head tilted against the armrest, her hands folded in her lap. She had clearly fallen asleep waiting for him. She wore a simple dress, red, just as he had asked her to only a few days before, and her face rested in an expression of genuine exhaustion, vulnerable. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the firelight.

Daemon stood there, motionless, his eyes fixed on her as if seeing a ghost.

For a moment, everything was suspended: the drunkenness, the fury, the desire. As if the world itself had held its breath.

She looked wrapped in peace, calm as though she were resting in her own chambers, as if she felt… safe here.

It enraged him even more.

How dare she seem at peace after leaving him at war with himself?

Daemon clenched his fists. Blood boiled. His jaw was locked tight. For a moment, the silence became unbearable.He wanted to shout at her. To wake her. To tear that serenity apart. He wanted to see her cry and tremble.

Daemon took two steps toward the hearth before realizing she was moving.

Alicent shifted slightly, her lashes fluttering, her breath unsteady as she moved from dream to waking. Her eyes opened slowly — brown and glimmering in the wavering firelight. For a heartbeat, she said nothing. She simply looked at him, as though unsure if he was real or merely a fragment of her dream.

Then, with a voice still drowsy and soft as worn silk, she murmured:

“You’ve come, my Prince.”

Daemon stopped, eyes fixed on the flames. He did not answer. Did not turn. He only closed his eyes briefly, as if those words — so simple, so calm — had struck him with unexpected force.

He tore open the clasp of his cloak in a sharp motion, and the fabric fell to the floor with a muffled sigh. Then he began removing the pieces of his armor, his fingers heavy, impatient. The steel was stiff, the straps seemed to multiply under the weight of his rising frustration.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alicent step beside him.

Her small, precise hands touched his shoulder, sliding deftly along the metal fastenings.They moved with familiarity, without hesitation, as though she had done it before.

Daemon tilted his head slightly, meeting her gaze over his shoulder. Brown eyes met violet, and a small smile touched her red lips.

“I used to… I used to help Gwayne with his armor” she said in a tone almost apologetic “He’s always too impatient to wait for his squires.”

Daemon said nothing. He only watched her for a moment longer before turning his gaze back to the empty room.

She continued, unfastening the hooks of his breastplate with quick, steady fingers. The silence between them was thick as smoke — not the comfortable silence of intimacy, but the kind that precedes a storm. A current hung in the air, fed by all that had been said, and all they still dared not say.

When the armor finally fell in its entirety, landing with a muted crash on the marble, Daemon was taut as a bowstring on the verge of snapping. His skin was slick with sweat, his muscles throbbing — his body exhausted, yet his spirit restless.

Alicent was so close that his breath stirred the fine hairs atop her head.

“Why are you here?”

His voice was low, rough, rasped by wine and undigested anger. It sounded more like a challenge than a question.

Alicent lifted her eyes to him, her fingers still near the last loosened straps. Her expression was calm. There was something vulnerable there — and, at the same time, resolute.

“You said we should have supper together more often” she answered, her voice still soft. “You said you could silence the whispers if need be.”

Daemon did not react. He simply stared at her, his eyes hard, unblinking.

Alicent hesitated for a moment, then added:

“Today the whispers seemed… especially cruel. I… I don’t know, I just thought that maybe… maybe you wouldn’t mind if I came here.”

The silence that followed seemed to compress the air around them.

Daemon looked away.

“You seem to enjoy using me as a weapon against your enemies.”

Alicent’s brow furrowed slightly.

“What? No, of course not. I only… thought I would be safe here.”

He looked at her.

“You shouldn’t trust me.”

“I know. But I do.”

The Rogue Prince gave a mocking smile.

“Doesn’t sound like a very wise decision.”

“Perhaps not” she agreed quietly “but I’ll risk it anyway.”

Silence fell again, thick and stifling.

The candles cast dancing shadows on the walls, as if the fire itself doubted what it was witnessing. The smell of cold food mingled with her subtle fragrance — citrus and sweet — the very same scent that still haunted him, even after so many other hands and bodies.

Daemon drew a deep breath. His eyes were still fixed on her.

“Go to sleep, Alicent,” he said at last, his voice low and taut. “Go back to your chambers.”

Alicent had been raised to be an obedient wife, to follow orders without hesitation, and she usually played her role with mastery — but this time, she did not move. She remained exactly where she was, looking at Daemon as if she could see into his soul. The fireplace crackled behind her, the flames tossing lazy sparks as though it too were curious about where this would lead.

Very slowly, she took a step forward.

“You haven’t eaten,” she said gently. Her tone carried no reproach, only statement. She glanced toward the tray still laid out on the table. “I had them prepare a hearty meal. I thought you might be hungry.”

Daemon ran a hand over his face, the gesture tense, weary. He felt exhausted, yet more awake than ever.

“I’m not.”

Alicent lifted her hand slowly and touched the side of his face. Her thumb traced his temple, then slid down along his jawline.

“You seem troubled, my Prince.”

Daemon closed his eyes for a moment, as if that touch were a pain he didn’t know how to bear.

“My state of mind is none of your concern, Hightower,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t pretend to care — I know you hate me.”

Alicent smiled, melancholy.

“Sometimes I do. But not all the time.”

Violet eyes opened, searching the brown ones with curiosity.

“Most of the time you’re a complete ass and I despise you,” she said, a trace of amusement in her voice. “But sometimes, just sometimes, you show me you’re a good man, and I think… I think we could work.”

Daemon let out a humorless half-laugh. Then his hand moved to her wrist, gripping it firmly — but without force.

“That’s a childish dream.”

“Maybe. But I dream it anyway.”

Daemon pulled her to him.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a collapse.

The snap of a cord stretched to its limit — the clash of someone torn between desire and disdain. Alicent returned it with equal intensity, as if she too was tired of restraint. Her hands rose to his shoulders, fingers tangling in his loose hair, and Daemon wrapped his arms around her as if he meant to fuse her to himself.

There was no room for hesitation. Only for need. Only for what had always lurked between them — hidden in glances, veiled words, interrupted gestures.

When they parted, both were breathless, their foreheads pressed together.

“Daemon…”

He kissed her again, cutting her off. Demanding. Claiming. He didn’t want to know what she meant to say, didn’t want to hear it. Alicent already occupied too much space in his mind, and now she threatened to take it all.

Daemon buried his face in her neck for a moment, breathing in that damned scent that had tormented him since their wedding day. That sweet, understated perfume — one he hated as much as he desired. Alicent was warm against him, alive, and her presence made him burn as if the whole world were aflame.

He guided her toward the table, his steps driven more by impulse than intent. His hands roamed almost frantically, fueled by something deeper, more dangerous. It wasn’t passion, he told himself — it was lust in its purest form. A minefield of buried feelings now surfacing under his feet.

She stopped when her legs bumped the table’s edge. Her eyes never left his. There was no fear. No hesitation.

“I didn’t come out of obligation,” she whispered. “I came because I wanted to be here.”

Daemon stared at her for a long moment, chest rising and falling. The wine’s effect had worn off. The anger was ebbing, little by little — but what remained in its place was more frightening.

With a growl of frustration, he kissed her again.

His hands dug into her waist, lifting her easily and setting her onto the table. She let him, parting her legs so he could step between them. Alicent’s fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling frantically. Daemon pulled back just enough to strip the fabric from his body and toss it aside.

The air seemed thicker now, heavy with the scent of wine, woodsmoke, and barely contained desire. Daemon felt his blood pounding violently, each heartbeat a challenge to reason itself. Alicent was there — so willing, so alive — and it enraged him as much as it drew him in.

She shouldn’t be here.

She shouldn’t want to be here.

And, above all, he shouldn’t want her here.

Alicent’s hands slid over his bare chest, her cool fingers against his heated skin. She explored him with an almost reverent calm, while he trembled with restrained rage and pent-up frustration. It wasn’t because of her — it was because of everything. Because of what he’d lost. Because of what he’d never had. Because of what he was beginning to want, against all logic.

Her lips left his, tracing down his neck the same way he’d done to her on their wedding night. 

Daemon began undoing the ties of her dress like a desperate man.

When she felt the fabric loosen over her body, Alicent gently pushed him back. She stepped down from the table with slow, deliberate grace, letting the dress pool at her feet. Her undergarments followed, leaving her completely bare before him.

Violet eyes traveled over her. From her legs up to pale thighs, wide hips, a narrow waist, small breasts that rose and fell with her heavy breathing — up to her flushed face, lips parted and bruised from his kisses, brown eyes with pupils blown wide, reddish curls tousled and tangled.

Slowly, she sat back on the table, her gaze locked on his.

The air was charged, thick with expectation, tension, desire.

Alicent leaned forward, her fingers — trembling slightly — reaching for the front of his trousers, pulling him to take his place between her legs. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t protest. He simply moved in, his body pressing to hers as if he could find silence in her skin. His mouth found hers again, this time with less violence and more hunger.

It was as if every part of him was asking for something he didn’t even know how to name. Relief. An ending. An impossible peace.

Alicent welcomed him with arms and legs, with lips and sighs. Her hands held his face as if trying to anchor him, as if she knew he was slipping away.

He slid one hand between their heated bodies, caressing her soaked folds.

“Daemon,” she whispered, as if it were a prayer.

“You are my torment,” he growled, as his thumb circled her core.

Alicent moaned in a soft, needy way, clinging to him, digging her nails into his flesh.

“And you… ah, ah… are my ruin, ah,” she replied between gasps.

Daemon slid two fingers inside her, moving them in a slow, torturous rhythm. He wanted to see her unravel, wanted her to beg for her release, beg for him.

Her moans grew louder, more desperate. Her eyes were full of unshed tears of pleasure.

“Daemon, ah… I can’t… ah… I need you.”

“I’m here, darling,” he said, thrusting his fingers harder, as if to prove his point.

She choked.

“No…”

One of Alicent’s hands left his shoulders, slipping between their bodies to reach the ties of his trousers. His cock throbbed at her touch, light as a feather.

“I need you… inside me, ah!”

Daemon withdrew his fingers, making her hiss at the loss.

Their hands fumbled together, trying to undo his clothing.

He didn’t bother removing them completely—just pushed them aside enough to free his hardened length.

Alicent kept her eyes on his face, too shy to glance any lower. Her cheeks were flushed from arousal and effort.

Daemon grabbed her by the hips, pulling her forward until her body hovered at the edge, supported more by him than the table. Alicent wrapped her arms around him, clutching as if afraid he might pull away.

He rubbed himself against her warm, inviting folds before sinking into her.

He slid in easily, her velvety insides welcoming him eagerly, tightening as if to pull him closer, deeper.

“Is this what you wanted, wife?” he asked, his voice so hoarse he couldn’t even manage a mocking tone.

Alicent nodded frantically.

His fingers dug into her hips as he began to thrust fast and hard. The brutality of his movements forced her to release one hand to brace herself. Beneath them, the table shook and creaked, as if about to give way under their weight.

“Daemon… ah, gods!”

He roared like a wild animal, and every time their bodies met, Daemon felt himself slipping further from control. He could focus on nothing but the feel of his wife around him, the nails digging into his shoulders, the softness of her skin under his fingers, and the sweet voice repeating his name like a prayer.

“Daemon, ah, I’m going to—” she came with a hoarse cry.

Her insides clenched tightly around him, milking him with force, her thighs trembling around his hips. Daemon groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate.

She whimpered his name, overstimulated, her voice low and husky. He buried his face in her neck, teeth pressing against her skin as his instincts urged him to mark her, to claim her.

Daemon gave in. He sank his teeth into the pale skin of her neck, hard enough to leave a mark, but not to truly hurt.

Alicent gasped, startled.

His release hit him like a lightning strike—overpowering, leaving his limbs weak. His body collapsed against hers, drained. Her delicate fingers slid into his silver hair, stroking gently.

They stayed like that for a while, unmoving, breathless, savoring each other’s warmth. For a moment, Daemon wished he could remain there forever, trapped in that instant, feeling Alicent’s body pressed to his, hearing her breathing. That thought made him realize he was completely and irreversibly lost.

With a hiss, he pulled away, withdrawing from her slowly. Alicent remained where she was, flushed and breathless, her body still trembling slightly from the remnants of her climax.

Daemon let out a soft, breathy laugh.

He felt the urge to pour himself some wine, but there was none—the jug had tipped over, spilling the red liquid across the table and floor, the goblets lying in shards on the ground.

Brown eyes followed him, uncertain.

When he made to lie down, her voice came—low, almost disappointed.

“I should go now, my Prince. I must return to my chambers.”

“You can stay,” he said indifferently. “I don’t mind if you sleep here, if that’s what you want.”

I’m already lost, what difference does it make?

Alicent stepped down from the table, her legs trembling and unsteady. She looked utterly undone, and that, in a way, pleased him.

With a mischievous smile, he approached her again, slipping one arm behind her knees and the other around her back as he lifted her easily into his arms. Even after all they had just done, her face flushed deep red at the gesture.

“Very chivalrous of you, my Prince,” Alicent said playfully, though she did not meet his eyes.

“I have my moments,” he replied, carrying her across the room and laying her gently on the bed.

Daemon dropped onto the mattress beside her, utterly exhausted—more mentally than physically. He pulled the blankets over them, settling into the bed. Alicent moved toward him slowly, cautiously, like someone approaching a wary animal, and nestled against him. He slipped his arm beneath her, letting her rest her head on his chest.

Violet eyes found the ceiling, yet seemed to be staring far beyond it. His head felt both full and empty at once. A thousand thoughts surfaced, yet he could focus on none of them. He felt unsettled, and at the same time, utterly at peace.

Their breaths gradually slowed, syncing as if their bodies knew that, for this moment, there was a truce.

Daemon lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though seeking some kind of answer in the silent stones. Alicent’s presence beside him was so light, so warm, that at times he forgot she was even there—until she shifted, or sighed, or let a soft sound escape, and then he remembered. Remembered that this woman, who once felt so intolerable to him in another life, was his now. And worse… deep down, he didn’t want it any other way.

Perhaps she wasn’t his punishment after all.

But why? Had the gods not sent him back so he could redeem himself? Then why give him something good?

Daemon closed his eyes, brow furrowing.

He was not a good man. He had never pretended to be. He had blood on his hands, dark desires in his heart, and a soul fractured since childhood. He was the king’s brother, master of Caraxes, a dragonrider, a commander; he had been a queen’s husband, a soldier, and an infamous prince—but they had never allowed him to simply be a man. Always a shadow, always a threat, always another Targaryen.

Daemon drew in a deep breath through clenched teeth. He could smell her on the sheets, on his own skin—a soft fragrance that now seemed almost sacred, impossible to forget.

His fingers trailed slowly up her back, tracing the delicate bones of her spine until they reached the tousled strands of her hair.

She stirred, still drowsy, murmuring something inaudible against his skin.

Daemon felt an unexpected warmth in his chest.

He closed his eyes.

Let the world vanish for a moment.

Let himself sink into that impossible peace.

Chapter Text

“Ser Ryam was a strong commander of the Kingsguard.”

Daemon swirled the wine in his cup, bored. The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the council chamber, painting the stone floor with streaks of gold and blue. The murmurs of the gathered men were muffled beneath the weight of the tapestries, the incense, and the tension that always haunted those walls.

“But he had been ill for some time. I hope he rests in peace.”

The Rogue Prince listened to the voices of the lords of the council, but he wasn’t truly paying attention to them.

His mind wandered far away, back to the chambers he had left that morning. The memory still fresh: Alicent asleep against his chest, her soft breaths warming his skin. It was strange how accustomed he had grown to that habit over the past weeks — waking with his wife in his arms, inhaling her discreet, citrusy and refreshing scent that seemed to cling to her, and hearing the whisper of her voice when she tried to wake him gently.

It was more than tolerable.

It was desirable.

Daemon didn’t like to admit it, but there was pleasure in her company, even a certain peace. And the desire… ah, that grew like fire fed with each passing day.

He disguised the thought with a light tap of his fingers against the table, lips curling into a crooked smile, as if silently mocking himself.

The doors to the hall burst open with a crash. Corlys Velaryon entered like a storm. The firm sound of his boots echoed on the stone floor, his steel gaze sweeping the table before landing directly on the king.

“Four ships have vanished,” his voice cut the air like a blade. “The last bore my banner. The Stepstones have become a battleground. And you sit here discussing courtly matters.”

“If you have something to bring forth, Lord Corlys…” began the Hand, but the Lord of Driftmark cut him off at once.

“I want to know what will be done about my ship and my men.”

“The Crown will compensate you for the ship and the crew and make an offer to the men’s families,” said Otto, diplomatic and disinterested.

“I don’t want compensation. I want to take the Stepstones by force and burn that Crabfeeder.”

“I am not prepared to start a war against the Free Cities,” said the king.

“Your Grace,” Corlys’s tone was slow, as if explaining something to a child, “those pirates are not the Free Cities.”

“Who do you think supplies their ships and boats?” Viserys shot back sarcastically.

Daemon stifled a smile. It was always amusing to see his meek and docile brother trying to lace his words with venom, like the other lords did.

“In all its history, my lord,” Lord Lyman interjected, “the Seven Kingdoms have never gone to open war with the Free Cities. If that were to happen, the losses would be incalculable.”

“The losses will also be incalculable if we remain idle,” Daemon commented as if he were speaking of the weather.

Corlys eyed him from the corner of his eye, wary.

“With each passing day the Triarchy grows stronger; every second we allow them to remain unpunished feeds their confidence.”

Viserys sighed, running a hand over his thin beard as though the very discussion already wearied him.

“We have neither the gold to sustain a war, Lord Corlys, nor the will. The Stepstones have been contested for centuries, and this is not the first time pirates or mercenaries have exploited the region.”

Daemon’s violet eyes stayed fixed on the seething fury of the Sea Snake.

The Rogue Prince knew he could win the War for the Stepstones. He knew Craghas Drahar, knew his tactics, knew how he would respond to each offensive, and that knowledge would allow him to win with minimal time and resources — yet still, he hesitated.

Alicent hadn’t even mentioned the possibility of being pregnant, despite the time they spent between the sheets, and that worried him somewhat. Even though she was doing an excellent job regaining the favor of the court ladies, their position was still fragile.

His eyes slid to his niece, who was filling goblets while feigning disinterest.

Viserys still refused to choose clearly between him and Rhaenyra, still refused to name an heir, to give a definitive answer, despite Daemon’s efforts to force him to choose. It boiled his blood. How was it possible that his brother, usually so easily swayed, could become so stubborn on this matter?

Daemon drummed his fingers on the chair’s armrest, as if trying to silence the echoes of his own thoughts. Alicent had not given him children yet, and leaving without that foundation might be foolish… but every day of waiting was a greater risk. He knew well how the court’s shadows moved: Otto, ever skillful, weaving his web with soft words; Rhaenyra, watching him as if she could peel the skin from his bones with her gaze; and Viserys, always deluded by the hope that he would never have to choose. All these schemes would unfold whether he was there or not, except now it was in the Hand’s interest that he remain heir.

“You speak of prudence,” Corlys’s voice sliced through the hall again, full of contained ire, “but while you hesitate, the Crabfeeder enslaves men, mutilates them, feeds them to his own crabs! Is that what you want for the might of Westeros? For us to become a mockery?”

“I already told you, Corlys,” Viserys retorted, his patience fraying. “We will not march to war over pirates.”

Daemon lifted his cup, swirling the wine before setting it back on the table. He let his voice slide in, low but clear:

“They are not just pirates.” His violet eyes gleamed, cold. “Craghas Drahar is no mere marauder. He commands the armies of the Triarchy, who support him in exchange for control over the Stepstones. If we do not act now, tomorrow it will be more than four ships.”

Otto looked at him cautiously, as if still measuring how much venom hid in that tone.

“The Stepstones are a strategic point,” Corlys asserted. “If the Crown ignores them, it gives Essos room to sink deeper roots into maritime trade.”

Viserys furrowed his brow.

“And what do you suggest? That I send the royal fleet? That I spend blood and gold on a conflict that repeats itself every generation?”

“You have dragonriders, father,” Rhaenyra interjected. “Send us.”

Every eye at the table turned to the princess, but she held firm, staring at the king with confidence. Corlys’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his approval evident in every inch of him.

“It is not that simple, Rhaenyra,” said Viserys gently.

“I am only saying that we—”

“Don’t even think of it!” the king barked, his voice surprisingly firm. “I will not let you risk yourself. It is out of the question.”

“I agree. She does not need to take the risk,” the Rogue Prince interjected.

Daemon’s eyes traveled from his niece to his brother, holding the king’s gaze for a long moment. Part of him wanted to spit out the truth: that he already knew this war, that he knew how it ended, that he had been forged in its ashes. But he limited himself to a smile — a thin, cutting smile.

“Because I will go. Caraxes and I will solve the problem faster than any slow, costly fleet.”

Corlys leaned forward, eyes blazing.

“I will also bring my forces. My ships and my men. Together, we can turn those rocks to ash.”

A heavy silence fell. Daemon could already hear the clashing of swords, smell the stench of sweat and dried blood, feel the heat of Caraxes’s flames.

Viserys slumped back in his chair, his trembling fingers sliding over his short beard. He looked smaller before the combined fury of the Lord and his brother, as if the weight of the crown bent him more than the council’s bickering ever could.

“No,” he said at last, the word coming out weaker than he intended. “I will not fund this campaign.”

Corlys let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“So you will do nothing? You will sit on this throne waiting for the Triarchy to control the Narrow Sea while you search for a marriage for your daughter and discuss feasts and ceremonies with your counselors?”

The king’s lips tightened, but he did not answer.

Daemon watched in silence, the wine still untouched in the cup before him. He could already taste the metallic tang of war on his tongue, though hesitation burned in his mind. Alicent. Her warmth was still imprinted on his skin, the memory of her steady breathing while in deep sleep, the way her fingers curled around his with almost innocent trust. Leaving her now felt like stripping off a freshly forged armor.

And yet, he knew he must go to the Stepstones. Only he could win this war.

“You needn’t fund anything, Viserys,” he said at last, his voice calm, but sharp as a naked blade. “I did not ask your permission.”

The table went silent. Otto shifted in his chair, his eyes assessing Daemon’s every move as if trying to measure how far he could control him.

“Careful, prince,” the Hand said softly, but with danger in his tone. “Disobeying a direct order from the King could be seen as rebellion.”

Daemon arched a brow, amused by the choice of word.

“Rebellion?” He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “I call it initiative.”

Corlys straightened, like a captain finally catching wind in his sails.

“Then we are agreed.” His challenging gaze swept across the table. “If the Crown will not move, we shall.”

Viserys rose abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.

“You dare?” his voice echoed, more with indignation than royal authority. “The Crown does not approve of this.”

Daemon held his brother’s gaze, and for an instant, time itself seemed to hold its breath. He wanted to shout, to hurl in his face every mistake, every hesitation, every cowardice he knew would one day cost him dearly — but he restrained himself. The smile returned to his lips, a dragon’s smile, cold and inevitable.

“Then let it be clear: it is not the Crown that will fight in the Stepstones. It will be me.”

***

The days of preparation dragged on in a tense atmosphere. Corlys had departed for Driftmark soon after the council meeting to gather men and resources. Daemon chose to remain in King’s Landing for a few more days; there were a few loose ends he needed to tie up before leaving. The City Watch needed a Commander in his absence, and his wife deserved to hear of his departure from his own lips.

Daemon hoped she would handle the news well — and she did — though deep down he felt slightly disappointed by her rational reaction.

“ I shall pray for your safe return, my Prince ,” she had said, as if she had rehearsed the phrase a thousand times.

Always the well-mannered lady.

The composed noblewoman.

The perfect daughter.

The perfect wife.

A soft knock echoed against the heavy wooden door. Daemon barely lifted his eyes from the leather belt he was fastening around his waist. He would recognize that gesture easily — restrained, respectful, almost timid.

“Come in,” he said, and the door opened just enough to allow Alicent to slip through.

She crossed the threshold slowly, dressed in a deep shade of blue, her hair tied into a low, elaborate bun. Her eyes swept quickly around the room before settling on him — on the half-fastened armor the prince was trying to adjust by himself.

“I thought you might need some help,” she said, her voice firm yet low.

Daemon raised an eyebrow but didn’t refuse. Alicent stepped closer, her fingers quick yet careful as she secured the shoulder clasps, the breastplate, and glanced at the helm resting on the table. He watched her silently, noting the slight furrow of her brow as she focused.

“While you’re away,” she began without lifting her eyes, “I’ll make sure no one questions your position, my Prince. The court feeds on rumors, and it’s best that there’s nothing that can be used against you in your absence.”

Daemon let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Planning to run a political campaign in my name while I fight the war, wife?”

“I have to,” she replied firmly, tightening the leather strap over his shoulder. “I can’t afford to appear fragile. If the realm decides you left to face pirates and corsairs just to soothe your ego, abandoning your wife to courtly intrigue, everything you win with your sword will be lost. I need to make sure they know you act for the good of the realm.”

The words were spoken calmly, almost like a calculated strategy. A plan traced without emotion — and yet Daemon caught the faint tremor in her breathing, the tiniest pause before each sentence. She wasn’t speaking only of politics.

He tilted his head, studying her. He was getting better at reading her; closeness revealed more than she intended to show, though most of the time she still remained a mystery to him.

“You speak as if you were a general,” he said, his voice low, almost amused.

“Perhaps I need to be,” she answered, finally raising her eyes to meet his. There was something there — a doubt that seemed to torment her, as if she wanted to say something but feared his reaction.

For a moment, they stood still, the only sound between them the metallic clink of armor pieces. Daemon thought of asking. The question lingered on the tip of his tongue — what was she hiding, what did she truly want to say? But he held back. There was more use in letting her keep her secrets than forcing them into the light before their time.

He merely nodded, letting the silence stretch. Alicent finished the last adjustment and stepped back, her hands hovering in the air as if reluctant to leave him.

***

The sun had not yet had time to warm King’s Landing when Daemon and Alicent crossed the great gates of the Dragonpit. The air inside was heavy, saturated with the smell of soot, iron, and charred flesh. Caraxes was restless, pacing back and forth, wings half-open and scraping against the stone walls, his yellow eyes fixed on the figure of his rider approaching.

Alicent did not hesitate. She was no longer the reluctant woman Daemon had first taken to the skies weeks ago. There was a firmness in her now that impressed him. Her steps were steady as she walked toward the dragon’s massive shadow, the creature’s deep, resonant breathing washing over them like a wave. When Caraxes lowered his head, exhaling a warm puff of smoke, Alicent raised her hand and touched his scaly snout without flinching.

Daemon watched in silence, and for an instant the world seemed to pause. He remembered the last time he had set off for the Stepstones: the haste, the anger, the burning need to prove himself. There had been no one waiting for him, no one to wish for his return. Only a freezing void and searing hatred had accompanied him to war. But now, there was something different. Something that sank heavy in his chest and made this farewell unexpectedly difficult.

“He likes you,” Daemon murmured with a half-smile, his deep voice echoing through the cavernous space. “Few would dare approach him like that. Fewer still would succeed.”

“Perhaps he knows I’m no threat,” Alicent replied, her fingers still resting on the warm scales. Then she turned to Daemon, and for the first time since they had entered, her eyes seemed to betray the restraint she had maintained.

Daemon looked away, adjusting the gauntlets of his armor. He wouldn’t press her. If she wanted to speak, she would. If not, he had learned how to wait.

He walked toward Caraxes, feeling the weight of the silence stretching between them. Mounting the dragon had always brought him a sense of absolute command—of strength, of freedom. But today there was a different shadow deep in his chest: the awareness that this time, someone would watch him leave. Someone would remain behind.

“I’ll pray for the Gods to protect you, my lord,” Alicent said, her voice faintly trembling. Something stirred inside Daemon, and he looked at her. She turned her gaze away, as if trying to hide the tears gathering in her eyes. “I’ll pray for you and Caraxes to return safely.”

Her hands returned to caress the dragon’s scales, so gently he wondered if Caraxes could even feel it through the thick hide. Daemon swallowed the sarcastic remark on his tongue, unwilling for his last words to his wife to be mockery.

“Thank you.”

He placed his foot on the stirrup, ready to climb into the saddle, but was stopped by Alicent’s hand gripping his wrist tightly. Daemon turned to her. Crystal tears fell from her brown eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line.

A heartbeat stretched between them, thick with hesitation and expectation.

The next, Alicent had thrown herself into his arms, holding tightly around his neck. Half-stunned, Daemon returned the embrace.

He kept his hands firmly around her waist when she pulled back, not moving far. Her right hand rose to his face, caressing it with her fingers.

“Promise you’ll come back to me, Daemon,” she whispered, her voice choked.

Her hands took one of his, guiding it down to rest on her belly. Daemon felt his heart skip a beat. Alicent laced her fingers over his, pressing all three hands there.

“For us. ”

For an instant, time ceased to exist. Caraxes’ roar, the smell of ash clinging to the air, the diffuse light streaming through the cracks of the Dragonpit… all vanished. All that remained was the warm sensation beneath his palm, the weight of her gesture, and those two words echoing like thunder in his mind.

For us.

Daemon couldn’t remember the last time he had been surprised. Truly surprised. He had felt the happiness that news like this brought before; he already had children, children he would never see again, born in a different life, of different wives. Yet somehow, none of the other times had felt as charged with emotion as this moment. Daemon was immobilized by Alicent’s delicate touch, his heart pounding violently out of rhythm in his chest.

Alicent was expecting a child.

His child.

A child that could change the entire future of House Targaryen.

The first reaction was the most instinctive: a wave of possessiveness surged through his veins, fierce and hot, as if in that instant everything had changed. He no longer departed as a warrior seeking glory — he left as a man with something to lose.

His violet eyes locked onto hers, brimming with tears, fragile and yet steady. Alicent was not fragile as the court believed; he knew that. She was clever, calculating, able to navigate the court with more subtlety than he had ever possessed the patience for. But now, seeing her like this, asking him for a promise… Daemon felt torn between the urge to laugh at the irony and the impulse to yield completely.

A child… He thought of his brother, of the throne, of the crown that still slipped through his fingers. He thought of Rhaenyra, of Otto, of the court’s endless webs trying to ensnare him. For the first time, all those shadows seemed distant before this concrete reality: the life she carried. His legacy.

He pressed Alicent’s hand against her belly, firm, as if sealing an unspoken vow. He didn’t say “I promise”, for he was not a man of promises. But the look in his eyes — dark, intense, and resolute — said more than enough.

“For us?” he repeated to be sure, in a deep, almost inaudible whisper.

Alicent nodded. He could see all her certainty in that simple gesture.

Caraxes roared behind them, impatient, calling him to war. Daemon, however, remained there for a moment longer, etching into memory the feeling of that revelation, of her warmth against him, of the gaze that seemed to trust him despite everything.

“Daemon, I…” Alicent began, then swallowed the words with effort, as if trying to stop herself from saying something foolish. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

Her voice was calm; he nodded in understanding but didn’t reply. Daemon knew she wasn’t speaking only of the war — there was more there, but he wasn’t ready to face it yet.

When he finally pulled away, climbing into the saddle, the weight of the armor felt heavier than ever. It wasn’t only steel he bore: it was an invisible thread that bound him to that woman and to the new future forming inside her.

As Caraxes spread his wings and the wind roared in his ears, Daemon left with the certainty that his destiny was now sealed.

Chapter Text

The sky over the Stepstones was overcast, the salty sea mist clinging to skin and clothes like a damp film. Caraxes descended with a roar, scattering the men in the camp, who instinctively bowed under the force of his wings. The campfires flickered, and the banners of House Targaryen and House Velaryon whipped in the wind as though saluting the dragon.

Daemon dismounted in a single leap, his eyes sweeping the scene with the cold familiarity of one who already knew this hell.

Corlys Velaryon was already waiting in the main tent. Every surface seemed to be covered with maps, supply lists, hastily written reports. The Lord of the Tides seemed part of that organized chaos, his hands braced on the table, his expression hard.

“You arrived quickly,” Corlys said without lifting his eyes from the maps. “That eager to fight?”

Daemon smirked, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto the table.

“The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

Corlys finally looked up, studying him.

“You’ve already begun planning without even seeing the field? Haste is the enemy of perfection, you know.”

Daemon leaned over the map, his finger tracing the markings of ships and garrisons.

“I don’t need to see. I know exactly where they’ll be.” His voice carried a conviction that made Corlys narrow his eyes. “Craghas Drahar is more predictable than you think he is.”

Corlys let out a sound that could have been a laugh or disdain.

“Predictable? He’s already sunk four of my ships with those ‘predictable tactics.’ What do you suggest? Throw Caraxes at every beach until nothing’s left?”

Daemon raised his eyes slowly, a sharp glint in the violet.

“If necessary, yes. But there are other ways. I know how the mind of men like him works.” He paused, his voice carrying a weight absent in the last war. “I want this over as soon as possible. I have reasons to want to return to King’s Landing quickly.”

Corlys arched a skeptical brow.

“Really?”

Daemon gave a brief, almost scornful smile, but his words held a firm edge.

“I want to be there when my child is born.”

Silence lingered for a moment. Corlys almost stepped back, his expression momentarily neutral.

“Lady Alicent is with child? Excellent news, my Prince.” The words were polite, but Daemon caught the flicker of something in the Lord of the Tides’ eyes — the sudden realization that the game of power in Westeros had just shifted considerably.

Daemon saw it and smiled like a sharpened blade.

“I see you’ve received the news with… enthusiasm.”

“Of course.” Corlys turned back to the maps, his voice carefully measured. “An heir is cause for celebration.”

Daemon stepped closer, his tone laced with veiled provocation.

“For some, yes. For others, it may look more like an obstacle.”

Corlys did not reply at once, and the silence was more revealing than words. Daemon knew. He could see the restrained anger behind the courteous mask.

“We’ll begin moving at dawn tomorrow,” Daemon said, breaking the silence, his voice back to a practical tone. “I know where the Crabfeeder’s men are hiding. We’ll strike at the first opportunity.”

“And I’ll tell you if we have the ships and men to match your pace,” Corlys retorted, curt.

Daemon smiled again, a smile that promised both victory and chaos.

“Then be ready, Corlys. Because I didn’t come here to waste time.”

And as he left the tent, he felt Velaryon’s gaze burning into his back. There was war at sea, but also within the camp. And he was ready to win both.

***

Daemon stood atop the makeshift stone wall, gazing out at the raging sea. The past two months had been a succession of brief skirmishes and tense meetings with Corlys and his captains. Weariness weighed on him, but anger and ambition kept him awake.

A sound behind him made him turn. One of Velaryon’s young messengers appeared, breathless, clutching a sealed parchment.

“For you, my Prince. From King’s Landing.”

Daemon frowned as he took the letter. He expected nothing more than reports from the capital, or perhaps the insipid, unsolicited opinions of the Lords of the council. He rolled his eyes when he saw the seal of House Hightower — he would never understand the pleasure Otto found in meddling in matters that were none of his concern.

He broke the seal with a look of distaste, but it was not the elegant hand of the Hand of the King that met his eyes when he unfolded the parchment.

"My dear Prince,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I pray every day that no harm befalls you or Caraxes, and that the Gods return you both safely as soon as possible.

As soon as we parted in the Pit, I went directly to the King. I thought it fitting that he should be the first to know. He seemed overjoyed at the news. He asked that I join the Small Council and personally announce to the Lords that I am expecting our first child. All offered their congratulations—well, almost all. The Princess did not seem to receive the tidings so gladly. Now, of course, the entire court knows, and as expected, many of the ladies who once looked upon me with coldness now approach me with smiles and gentle words.