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Chapter Text

The Red Keep had been inhabited by numerous Kings and Queens, but all of them had been Targaryen. As the men had made terrible creatures to live by, lesser was known about the women who walked the halls of the Capital. This was something Maegera would often think about, in the sly of the constant noises coming from the castle itself. She had known two, five, seven, nine, twelve and then fourteen. Which it was the name day as the sun shone on the crimson castle. Sometimes, she thought the red stones were chosen for all the blood spilled during the Conquest, as a gruesome homage. “A great feast is to be held in your honour,” announced her uncle Baelon as she turned around, her dress twirling at the words pronounced. 

Her hands crossed against her lower stomach as her maid made its way to finish dressing her up whilst the other was still braiding her striking-white hair, reaching a bit past her lower back. Baelon had been distressed, ever since Aemon’s unfortunate death, whenever he stared at his niece. In her lilac eyes, he saw the traces of a brother he had once known, and couldn’t protect for all his sake. Ever since, Baelon had softened even further to the thought of Maegera. Sure, she wasn’t born from Jocelyn and therefore, his father had a few restraints to legitimize her, but that didn’t change how fond the Spring Prince was of his niece. In some way, she reminded him of Alyssa, as well. 

She would've loved the girl, he thought. Turbulent, daring, full of fire, just as the Targaryens were. “Is it, uncle ? I thought my gransire would not even wish for my presence amongst my peers.” Baelon laughed at that, sparklingly. Little did she know it was in fact him, who had suggested for old Jaehaerys to concede his will upon the matter, and himself organized the celebration of her nameday. “He did not, but speak to the old man of Myrish-wine, and he can be convinced of anything.” Maegera smiled at that, her uncle always had a way with her. Perhaps thanks to Alyssa, or Saera. The ginger-haired maiden stopped braiding her hair, kept in a high burn circled of two thick breads and then thinner ones to circle her face, the rest of her pure white mane falling freely until the end of her back. Baelon did not live during Valyria, not even the Conquest, but he was sure she could be the flicker of a memory of those ancient times. 

“Who will be there, uncle ?” 

“Many of the Seven Kingdoms, my niece.” He answered as he politely held her hand to help her reach ground-level again, previously up-lifted by the small platform. “The Lions, the Wolves, the Sun-Spears, the Fishes, Falcons, and even the Roses.” Maegera nearly winced at the thought of her mother’s kin being present at the reception. They had little to do with the House of the Dragon, she thought. She could not even explain how and why her father had taken abed her mother. Perhaps ner beauty, perhaps for favors. She could not decide which reasons she’d use for the day. 

“Do you wish for your present now, or later tonight ?” The Spring Prince asked. He always had fine taste when it came to ravishing the women of his entourage, that, for sure, was pure truth told by books and people alike. Maegera took a few seconds to think, piqued by curiosity, just as she was thrilled by the unknown. 

“Later, uncle. Though, I do thank you for your investment. When will the reception begin tonight ?” 

“When the sun will be bathing the Red Keep in orange hues, my niece. Until then, you might as well do as you please.” Baelon explained, his body leaning slightly forward in friendliness. Maegera smiled back. The Princess was quite known for her ruthlessness, but for her uncle Baelon, everything was worth smiling for. He gave her a curtsy, she granted him one as well, and left to see his attendings shortly afterwards. The halls of the Red Keep buzzed like a stirred hive. Servants ran like silent shadows between sunlit corridors, arms full of silks and dishes and goblets made of silver and red-stained glass. In the distance, Maegera heard the clang of steel — the training yard was still alive with the bellowing of boys who dreamed of dragons.

She walked alone now, no longer with Baelon at her side, and felt her own breath echo softly against the marble columns. Her steps slowed as she passed the empty throne room, and her gaze lingered on the iron monstrosity that sat brooding at the far end. Stairs until no ending, spikes, and the cuts she’d imagine running along the skin of her greatsire. And the many Kings to come. 

A thousand swords, and none meant for a woman’s hand , she thought, she ought a Queen to one day sit on the Iron Throne, wishing it was her wearing the crown more than any else. Who did not convey the chair that was the biggest of all ? The thought came unbidden, sharp as milkglass. Her grandfather’s absence made her wonder if, one day, he was not to sit all any further. She wished for it to be tomorrow, that, for her nameday, she’d perhaps become the first woman of the Seven Kingdom to reign.

A sound startled her, a laugh. Raspy, dry, a male hidden behind the maester who had nodded at her, between the halls. She turned around. Dressed in a red and black cloak, her cousin stood tall. 

Daemon. 

“ Konīr ao issi. ( there you are)” He smirked, his neck-lengthed silver-gold hair brushed slick and pushed back, his purple eyes catching hers like the sun would an unsheathed blade. Maegera blinked slowly. Daemon was ten and six, known to be the finest of all swordsmen within the Kingsguard, and slain numerous opponents, he was supporting his weight on Dark Sister’s hold. “ Ao issi nagegone . (you are late)” She replied to him, in their ancient tongue. Daemon smiled as well. 

Stepping forward, he stood by her. He was a head taller than she was, even with the small heels of her shoes. Daemon was known to be rather big. Bigger than Viserys, but not in weight. Just in height. “I find namedays dull, unless there are tourneys or duels involved. But I came for the wine. Mayhaps you will forgive me if I do tell my father has wished for my presence at your reception tonight ?” 

Maegera laughed, sardonically. She didn’t wish for Daemon’s presence to be forced, for he was rather known as a troublemaker, no matter how much she appreciated his company as of personal preference. It wasn’t a secret the two twirled around each other like will-o-wisps around a willow tree, but never crossed the line, as Daemon was betrothed to the Lady Rhea Royce of the Vale. Though he seemed to bore no affection for the girl. As much to call her dull and of no use in his life. 

“And will you be there ?” 

“How could I not during the celebration due to my dear cousin ?” answered Daemon right away, the steel of his armour not so far from Maegera’s skirts. Perhaps one step away from walking on the thick fabrics. For a few seconds, silence lingered between the two, one of which Maegera was enamoured to look at Daemon as if the world didn’t exist. “And did you bring a gift for your beloved kin, Daemon ?” The latter nodded, his gloved hand reaching for her sleeve as he later descended right to her wrist, then her thin hand. 

“One of my choosing. After all, Qilōni gīmi ao sȳrkta ñuhoso ? ( who knows you better in my way ? )” He whispered, his words becoming near mumble as she listened to every one of them. 

“ Daorys (no one).” 

Daemon’s smile twitched, pleased at her answer — or perhaps at how easily she said it. His fingers lingered just a breath too long on the back of her hand, then slipped away, as if teasing her with what he could take and what he wouldn’t. He drew something from beneath his cloak: a narrow, blackwood box bound in silver clasps, its top engraved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen — but in deep obsidian, not the usual red. He offered it with both hands, though the gesture was not humble. Daemon Targaryen did nothing humbly.

“For you,” he said, in the Common Tongue this time, voice quiet.

Maegera took the box slowly, careful not to show how her hands trembled beneath the silk of her sleeves. The weight was heavier than it seemed, and warm — as if it had been close to his body all day.

She opened it. Inside lay a choker of Valyrian steel, smooth as water, dark as storm clouds, and impossibly light. In the center, set within the metal like a shard of dragonglass, burned a small pale lilac stone — the color of her eyes. It was old. Ancient, even. The kind of thing not found in Westeros, nor crafted any more in this age.

She did not speak right away. Her eyes traced it, her breath caught in her throat.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, voice low. Daemon’s tone was casual. Too casual. “From the ruins of a Valyrian shipwreck that washed up on Driftmark’s black sands last year from Lys.. I took it before the Sea Snake could claim it.”

“You stole it,” she said, smiling despite herself.

“I salvaged it,” he corrected, with a wicked grin. “It was waiting for the right neck.”

She held the choker up against her skin, studying it in a mirror of bronze on the nearest column. Her hair was piled high in curls and twists for the day — too high to try the clasp now. But it would suit her perfectly. The steel shimmered like dragonhide. Maegera could see what Daemon meant.

The right neck.

Daemon stepped closer behind her, looking at her reflection. “It suits you. Dark things usually do.” He was in her back, as he removed his gloves from his hand. His fingers ran to the necklace to circle Maegera’s neck with its chain, the calloused tips running around her milky-toned skin, she could feel Daemon’s breath against her soft complexion, warm. He tied the jewel, placing it himself between the birth of her chest. He did not move an inch away. “ Gevie (beautiful.)” 

For a moment, nothing moved. Even the torches along the hall felt to flicker lower, as if they too were listening. Maegera turned slowly, her chin tilted up, face barely inches from his. The iron scent of his armor, the faint spice of wine and dragon oil from his leathers — it all wrapped around her. His fingers were still hovering over her soft skin, drawing the shape of her collarbone and dancing on the snowed-field of her neckline. He’d push a white curl or two away from her face, until he’d make a trail with his hand to the curve of her chest, until the crease of her waist and then the swell of her hip. 

He looked down at her, and the smirk was gone.

But then, the echo of a footstep broke the spell. A servant perhaps, or a guard rounding the hall. Maegera turned her head just enough to breathe again. 

“Will you stay for me tonight, cousin ? Not just come. I know you bear no affection for the assemblies.” Daemon’s gaze lingered on her mouth before rising back to her eyes. “Always,” he said, before turning on his heel, cloak billowing. “Until tonight, Maegera.” The marble beneath her shoes felt colder now that he was gone. Maegera stood still, her fingers brushing the pendant that now lay above her heart, laid by Daemon himself there. She’d wear it proudly. The weight of the Valyrian steel was nothing compared to the heaviness in her chest. Her reflection in the bronze was the same and yet not. 

As she stared back at the lilac stone and rolled it between her fingers, she thought back to the Royce girl from the Vale. Alongside her sheeps and her greenlands. And the sheeps were prettier than she was, and Maegera thought only she was worthy of Daemon Targaryen. She had always been. Fire and Blood, melting alike, in a Dance of Dragons. No one could understand him better than she could, as if they were born in the same mold.  No, her cousin had nothing to do with the sheep girl, he was born and fated for silver locks and violet eyes. For dragonriding and the skies, not to settle down in the dirt and the stables. 

She moved around, unsure of what to do for the rest of the day, until then. Her lessons were always the same, swordcraft wouldn’t be in order today, for the feast was happening. Therefore, she had little to do, and a lot to bear. Perhaps too much. When she had passed before the tapestries freshly washed, she had also observed the food prepared for the upcoming event, her uncle giving orders here and there. Maegera was known to be quite vain, and it was perhaps too close of truth for her taste, when she noticed that, in fact, being valued as much overflown her with rejoycement. A bastard she was, that she had been, but a legitimized one. And that, in fact, changed it all. Duties weren’t necessarily imposed, if not for expectation to remain worthy of her name. 

Her feet led her to the library, where she had asked the Maesters for books about the Conquest again, and there she took a few. At least two of them, slightly thin and quick to read before she made her way to her chambers again to quietly come at her occupation, until her ladies came forth inside of her room, with a dress held carefully, as well as a box and a pair of shoes, closed black sandals that wrapped in ribbons around the calves. She turned around. “What is this ?” 

Lady Ornella raised her voice first, slightly trembling in all of her shyness before her mistress. “A first gift, made from both your half-sister, Princess Rhaenys, and your dear uncle Baelon, your ladyship.” She raised from her seat and observed the dress, held on a wooden model. It was black, with a gradient of red as the colours of her father’s family would, but the intricate embroideries were made in the Tyrell gold and green. The skirt wasn’t too thick, enough for a good twirl, but the waistline was close to the body, to encircle the thinness of it. The sleeves were loose, done like the dresses she owned in Old Valyria fashion. 

The box full of jewels, aligned next to it, held precious stones made out of pure gold and gemstones as rubies. There were also a few rings to put on her fingers, but not the one she wished Daemon would give her, hairpins were given, holding the sigil merging both the Rose and the Dragon. 

The shoes were pitch black, sandals, closed to the toes in round shape and small heels to help to her height, the ribbons thin but tight to tie around her calves. Small crystals were put on the sides of each shoe. Maegera smirked, the tip of her plump lip creasing as she stared at her ladies. 

It was close to what she thought was worthy of her, of her standing. She passed a vague hand on the fabric and raised her lilac eyes back on Lady Ornella, still slightly shaking. “How late is it ?” 

“Near the end of noon, Princess Maegera.” 

She circled around the dress, as she began to remove the jewels set in her mane of snow, putting it away on the stand nearby. “Then help me wash and change, the time has soon come for me to give my honours to my sweet half-sister and my beloved uncle.” 

Without much more of a ceremony, Maegera asked for the doors to be closed as the women would soon run to give her a hot bath. Her body reddening at the temperature, but she cared none as she stared at Starfyre flying high in the sky, near the almighty Meleys. She rested her head on the iron, closing her eyes as her body was closely scrubbed with soap, of jasmin sambac and coconut cream made from Essos, her body hair removed with honey and lemon. Lady Ornella was the one who would brush her long white curls, putting in it a mixture of a cream made out of shredded oranges, coconut fat, vanilla bean from Tyrosh. Until dry and settled, twirled high again in hoops and her long locks decorated of those same offered jewels. Oils were spread on her body as perfume, and her body now covered by the dress.  A paste was put lightly on her lips, painting them a powdered pink shade. 

It hugged her curves, slight but definitely there. Both Rhaenys and Baelon had seen close to the detail as she turned around to see the back in the mirror. She placed back Daemon’s gift in the crease of her chest, showing it proudly before all to see. Ornella stared at the present, sure enough to not have seen this jewel even once in her life. “If not imprudent, your Grace, from whom have you received this beautiful necklace ?” 

“My dear cousin Daemon, who had ought to offer me my nameday’s present in private.” 

Ornella twitched a brow up, but answered nothing. Maegera was quick enough to offend, and she didn’t wish to be whipped or worse. Even less to that day, that’d be unbearable. The Princess smiled at her reflection in the mirror. They could both hear the muzzling of the Red Keep enhancing, the numerous guests arriving slowly but surely for the feast to come. Maegera quickly realized she had not seen her lady mother during the day, and relished in that. Melany Tyrell and her daughter were not always on the best terms. Perhaps it was better for the Keep to remain as peaceful as it could be, thanks to that. 

Even for her fourteenth nameday. 

“I will now go. I dismiss you for the night, you might as well do as you please.” With that, she rumbled and tossed her a bag of coins. Gold coins. “Spend them as you like. I will tell the guards to not look, as you go.” She continued, Ornella opened her eyes wide, unsure of what to do, but her body bent forward, thankful of her mistress. “Thank you, your Grace.” 

With a wave, the maid disappeared into the halls, leaving the girl on her own. She could hear chatters, banners lifted in the air and carriages held by men and horses both alike from the heights of her window. She waited there, until it was, once again, her dear uncle Baelon who invited himself and stared at her, a proud smirk on his face. “Rhaenys had seen the truth. This does look beautiful on you, dear niece. The seamstress has done wonders. Your father would've adored seeing you like this.” 

She bowed to him, her lips curling again as she grabbed her uncle’s hand and they walked out. The halls were emptied. “Are you nervous ?” 

“No, why would I be ?” she replied right away. “It is my day.” 

“And the court will remember it. You’ll have them all on their knees by night’s end.”

She didn’t respond— not with words, just a laugh. The hall was still bathed in golden torchlight and muffled music. She walked beside him, head high, her curls bouncing lightly with each step, the scent of coconut, jasmine, and warm vanilla trailing like a silent herald. Her perfume mixed with the smoke of torches, the faint tang of wine from the kitchens, and the distant echo of laughter.

At the top of the grand staircase, she paused.

The ballroom had been transformed — long tables dressed in green and gold, silk banners of Targaryen red-and-black sweeping down from the rafters. Musicians tuned their instruments in one corner. Knights in polished armor mingled with lords in embroidered doublets, with ladies glittering like moving jewels. Her name was already in their mouths.

“Aemon’s girl”

“The Tyrell.” 

The moment she descended the stairs, silence rippled through the crowd like a sudden draft. All movement slowed, all eyes lifted. She walked slowly. Music stopped, she let them stare at her. Like a status, or new tapestries. A jewel, carved out of rhinestones right from the bat, as she looked at the assembly with a smirk and her uncle Baelon by her side. Her sister Rhaenys was sitting at the dinner table, in the back of the room, King Jaehaerys right in the middle and his lady wife to his right. All of his children, with Viserys and Aemma Arryn both there as well, all lifting their gazes to her. The powdered-pink lips, the shimmering jewels in her hair, the way her dress clung to her. Baelon gave her confidence, as he grabbed a cup and raised it in the air. “Tonight is the fourteenth name day of my niece, Princess Maegera Targaryen, daughter of my late brother Aemon, who fought bravely until his very last breath.” Baelon's voice rang strong and clear, the sound commanding the attention of all who dared even whisper. “Rider to Starfyre, blood of Old Valyria.” 

Then the hall erupted into applause, cups raised in answer, voices rising in praise. Some cheered out of loyalty, others out of awe. Some, perhaps, out of fear. But none remained indifferent. Maegera descended the final steps as if she were walking on smoke and air. The long train of her dress swirled behind her, a comet-tail of molten silk. She moved with grace too honed for her years, her education had built her. Her eyes moved around the room, but Daemon seemed to be nowhere to be found, with a thorn inside of her heart, she recently stepped in and bowed before her grandfather, his beard white and clean. “My Lord Gransire and King, I am honoured to see you be welcomed at this table tonight, for I thought you’d rather not come at all. I am thankful, it is my greatest gift.” She lied, of course. King Jaehaerys watched her closely, his look stern and closed as he detailed her. She looked like her father, if not for her dark brows and her fringe of black eyelashes, details from her mother. The Old King’s mouth twitched, not even quite a smile. “Sit, child. There is much to celebrate.” 

Beside him, Queen Alysanne’s expression was softer, though her fingers had stilled above her goblet.

Without another word, she took the seat dedicated to her, invited by her uncle, next to her half-sister. Rhaenys, with her black and white straight locks, was wearing a red and black dress, just as thought, with a cape. “My Lady-Sister, I do have to say the dress suits you very well. You might despise being half a Rose, but Green finds you well.” 

“I shall thank you, sister.” She nodded. “For your gift made with our uncle Baelon, you always had great taste. As for my heritage, I daresay it is not being a Rose that I despise. It is more… personal.”

Her mother trying to raise her away from her Valyrian blood, so desperately, above all. Rhaenys nodded, holding her cup to her as she would a sister celebrating the life of another. “Then, feast. It is in your honour.” 

The feast began with wild boar glazed in sweet wine, followed by honeyed doves and bowls of pomegranate and blood oranges. Music resumed, strings and pipes playing a melody of both Reach and even the Summer Isles. Valyrian tunes, mixed with those of the Westerosi. She could see Rhea Royce, sat at the guest's table, the Lannisters and the Starks alike. Lions and Wolves together, she laughed inside. They might as well try to prey at each other , she thought. 

She sipped from her goblet slowly, her gaze drifting through the great hall, studying each face that dared to look her way and those that didn’t. A Baratheon looking at her too long, a daring Tully, the mighty Strongs. Her fingers grazed the stem of the goblet. Her nails were painted crimson, matching the rubies at her throat. A queen’s colour, Rhaenys had called it once, perhaps jokingly. Perhaps not. The music jarred the guests, dancing around after the feast. The pile of gifts soon opened and showed for the greatest to expose their wealth. Maegera thanked them all, individually before finishing the very last one by Lord Benjen Stark, who had offered her a white and red gown with fur around the neckline and the wrists, made with a few bears of the most beautiful handfacture. “Winterfell sends its regards—and may the warmth of the Reach never thaw your fire.”

Maegera stood slowly, lifting her cup in turn. “And may Winterfell always remind the realm how to endure.”

More applause. Another ripple of conversation and glances exchanged. She felt it again—that buzzing tension under the skin of the feast.

The music slowed, as the door opened in a thud and the silhouette of The Rogue Prince showed itself. Her cousin wrapped in the most delicate fabrics, in old Valyria’s dressing  as well, his mid-length hair slicked back, his brow lifted right to her, and the silence seemed to hang in the air as she stared at him. Fashionably late, but no less confident, in walked forth as the guards announced him. “Prince Daemon Targaryen, Grand Son of his Grace, the King Jaehaerys the First, son of the Spring Prince Baelon and brother to Viserys Targaryen.” The round applauded, just as she did, her saliva caught in her throat as Maegera barely heard her half-sister speak. 

“Always knowing how to make an entrance, that one.” 

Maegera’s eyes stayed locked on Daemon, as if the very air around him had shifted the room’s gravity. His presence rippled through the hall like a knife through silk—sharp. The old Valyrian style he wore shimmered in hues of smoke and blood, embroidered with dragons that seemed to twist and writhe with every step. He wore no crown, no armor, but he needed none; his smirk was sharper than steel.

“Indeed,” Maegera murmured, barely above a whisper. “He never comes unnoticed.”

Rhaenys’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace. “He likes to remind the realm he is not his brother.” Daemon’s eyes found Maegera before any other. He dipped his head faintly toward the dais where Jaehaerys sat, but the bow was shallow—borderline insolent. Still, the King said nothing, only observed, his expression unreadable.

Queen Alysanne leaned into her husband, whispering something only he heard. A flicker of irritation passed over Jaehaerys’s face, but he nodded and gestured to a place at the high table.

Maegera kept her expression composed, but her fingers curled around the goblet in front of her. Wine touched her lips but she didn’t drink. She didn’t trust her hand not to tremble.

When Daemon finally reached them, he stopped before the table, his violet eyes flickering from her to Baelon, then to the King. “Forgive my tardiness,” he said smoothly, “but a night as bright as this deserved a proper entrance.”

“Then you timed it well, Grandson,” Queen Alysanne replied coolly. “The feast has just begun.”

With a flourishing bow, he turned again toward Maegera. “Princess,” he greeted her, voice laced with honey and smoke. “Fourteen summers now… I might as well wish you a happy day again.” He rejoiced in seeing his present hanging within her chest, his eyes lingering perhaps a bit too long on it as he sat at the end of the table, at the right side. His bethrothed’s eyes locked on his, though he didn’t even salute her when he entered the room. Without much more of a warning, the music picked up again, slowly, as the hall breathed once more. Maegera took a sip of wine, needing to cool the tension building in her chest. The moment she looked up again, Daemon was already watching her—not like a man looking at a girl, but like a predator watching another of its kind, curious whether she would bare teeth or retreat. 

And she did none. 

Instead the tables were soon dismissed as well as the food and pairs were made to dance together. She was asked to rise from her seat, as her uncle Baelon joyfully asked her for a dance, which she accepted. Grabbing his hand, he made her twirl, and made steps to the left and right, until the crowd was now merged and the duos changed. Baelon would eventually find the hand of Rhaenys, whilst Viserys would give a dance to lady Baratheon and Aemma to Lord Benjen. As the table emptied itself to leave, the Children of the Dragon to banter and amuse themselves. It took a few songs for the crowd to ease and Daemon to find the hand of his cousin, the latter swirling and swaying between the sons and daughters of many houses. 

“ Rȳ mōrī (at last),” He spurred like a snake to her, his voice becoming near a whistle as she attempted to keep her attention fixed on him. “ Nyke umazigho ao (I found you).” Maegera’s brow furrowed, her hand inside of Daemon’s as his hand travelled to her waist and grabbed her, possessively. “ Yenka tha ao sagon rūsīr aōha ābrazȳrys, dubys (Shouldn’t you be with your wife, cousin ? )” Daemon let one of his hands fall and cupped her cheek abruptly with the latter, causing the Princess to smile. “ Ziry iksos daor ābrazȳrys hen ñuhon (She is no wife of mine).” He whispered to her. Maegera’s lips twirled into a smirk, one of her hand holding is as he made her spin around to drag her back to him, her back smashing against his chest. 

“ Ziry jāhor sagon (She will be),” She breathed into the crook of his neck, the room was heated. Maegera didn’t know if it was the wine, or Daemon’s body against hers that ignited such a flame within her core. The tension was barely hidden thanks to the music and the drums resonating inside of the room. His mouth came close to her ear, and it perhaps played louder than any songs of their beloved fallen land. 

“ Daor lo nyke kostagon dohaeragon ziry (Not if I can help it.)” 

Daemon’s breath ghosted against her skin, his hand tightening just slightly at her waist, anchoring her to him in a way that defied every rule of the court and every expectation set upon them. The tension was no longer subtle. 

The drums thundered, feet moved around them, but Maegera only heard her blood pounding in her ears.

“Careful,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded as she turned her head slightly toward his. Her voice was soft, nearly lost in the cacophony of laughter and music, but it struck like a dagger. “You speak like a traitor.”

Daemon laughed, low and unbothered. “Only a traitor to duty, never to what I wish for.” She inhaled sharply, but it was not from shock. No, it was a realization. She knew this part of him. Reckless. Consuming. Maddeningly free. And gods, how it mirrored something inside her, she had tried too long to tame. To take him as he was. 

Their dance was less than a waltz and more a duel of wills. He pulled her closer with every step; she allowed it with every breath, yet never yielded. “You shouldn’t touch me like that,” she said suddenly, though her voice was devoid of true protest. “Not here.” 

Daemon laughed darkly at her ear, and made his way right to her hand, he made her dance, move around the room, until they reached out of the doors, as the guards had spread themselves around the room, leaving the two doors unguarded and open, his hand lingered until music became a mere noise in the back. They buried themselves in the halls, emptied of all presence, as their steps resonated within the very walls. Maegera was following him closely, as he had led her to the Throne Room, the Iron chair sitting unoccupied, he walked forth and opened his hand toward her. As if inviting her. She widened her eyes, in wonder, almost hesitating as she, despite all sense of thinking, stepped in his direction and grabbed his palm into hers as he carefully grabbed her hips to help her climb the stairs until the royal seat. She made her way, observing Daemon from atop, and the room, trying not to cut herself on the chair. 

“Why ?” she asked of him, her voice resonating through the immense, gleaming room, dwelling in the moonlight of its ground-to-ceiling windows. The ten and six Daemon, pouted almost, but dared to answer. “I wanted to see how this seat would look on you.” 

“And how does it look then, cousin ?” she asked right back, almost unwilling to wait until she could reply. Daemon cracked one of his fingers, his violet eyes lingering on her feminine figure. 

“I wish I could see you be crowned and climb those stairs. The crown would sit beautifully upon your head. Perhaps a bit too thin for your curls, but we could arrange that. Mayhaps it’d be me, to lay the gold upon you.” 

She smiled at him, sincerely this time, her face almost hidden beneath her hair, her breaths becoming more and more peaceful as minutes went by. “I would make you the Hand of the Queen, then.” 

Then, reality came crashing back, cruel and unrelenting. Their stolen stillness shattered by the voices of Viserys and Aemma, echoing through the stony corridors of the Keep — sharp, calling out, dragging them back into a world that wouldn’t allow such closeness. “Daemon! Maegera!” The names rang like bells of warning, urgency sharpening every sound. Maegera’s hand tightened on his, grounding them both. “We need to go,” she whispered, urgency barely contained. Without another word, they bolted, her skirts whispering against the stone floor, his boots striking fast and soundless. Together, they slipped into the inner maze of Maegor’s Holdfast, ducking through passages long forgotten by all but ghosts. Daemon moved like water through the cracks of the Keep, as though the castle itself conspired with him. No guard could catch what they couldn’t see— and Daemon Targaryen, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, had always known how to vanish.

But the Keep was alive with sound now, and their absence had not gone unnoticed. Bootsteps echoed down corridors, iron-tipped and urgent. The guards were spreading fast, their calls bouncing off the walls, commanding the others to search every hallway, every stairwell. “They were seen near the eastern wing!” one barked. Another: “Check the old library! He may have dragged her off again!” It wasn’t the first time Daemon had vanished from his brother’s reach, nor the first time Maegera had disappeared like smoke through her mother’s fingers— but it was the first time they’d done so together, in the full glare of court suspicion. The Keep’s torches flared as shadows crossed them, as soldiers hastened down halls, rattling doors, flinging them open in bursts of noise. 

He led her with unerring precision, the pad of his thumb brushing her wrist as they turned corner after corner, breathless, limbs burning with the thrill of escape. “There,” he muttered, pulling aside a thick cabinet near an alcove that opened into shadow. Behind it, a narrow corridor yawned in the dark, old and long forgotten, the kind of passage not marked on maps. A single line of light stretched across the floor like a blade, just enough to see by— but not enough to reveal them unless one was especially keen. Daemon slid inside first, then tugged Maegera in by the waist, her body pressed against his, heart pounding between them like war drums. Her breath hitched at the sudden intimacy of it, the closeness cloaked by shadow. His hair fell forward, silver strands brushing her temples as he looked down at her, his expression unreadable. They stayed like that, suspended between silence and breath, their proximity speaking louder than any word could. His gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips, back again, as if he were memorizing her, as if this moment, in all its chaos, belonged to them alone.

For a few seconds, Daemon stared. Into her gaze , on her lips, back in her lilac eyes, and he did this a few times. Over and over, as she was silent. A hunger settled on him, that he could only keep to himself for so long. “Daemon…” she whispered against him, her breath reaching for him. Craving, feasting on the crumbles of their passion. He cupped her cheeks again, deliberately now, more precise this time and drew the shape of her jawline, the swell of her lips, traced her eyelashes until his lips fell on hers abruptly. It was grazing on her flesh, devouring her kiss with a hunger barely caged, as though starving on the taste of her. She answered back with the same fire, her tongue mingling with ease once there was even the slightest of openings. He explored her, his hands slid down her neck, tracing the curve of her shoulders, and then, the softness of a covered chest. She sighed within their kiss, her fingers exploring him as well. Every muscle, every inch of them both, given to each other, settled in that one moment. The Rogue Prince pushed her face aside, as well as her white curls, his tongue tracing the thinness of her jugular, heaving a sigh and almost a moan from the princess. 

Though he relished in it, he could not risk having the two of them caught in such a proximity, for her sake. Daemon covered her mouth with that very same hand, his teeth finding her flesh appealing, reddening the paleness of it. It was enticing, for both of them. He kissed her collarbone, and descended until the crease of her chest, Maegera grabbed his chin, forcing her cousin to look at her. “We can’t, not here, not now. If we are foun-...” 

Daemon kissed her, just to cut her off. “As long as we don't sing to each other.” She barely braced herself against the cold stone, when he let her go. She could already feel him tight inside his breeches, and she wanted more. Always more of him, her Rogue Prince. She knew him no maid male, but for sure she was a virgin herself. Yet, impetuous Maegera, fireborn Maegera, wasn’t scared. 

Not of him. Never of him. He was the only one of their kin, who fully understood her, and who fully took her for who she was. Not what he ought her to be. He pursued his trail down her chest, moving around the fabric of her dress as his hand cupped one of her breast, a soft half-a-fist of a flesh, inside of his palm, his palm tickling her peaks with his thumb as she bit her lip, and he managed to draw both of them out to leave them hang. Perky. The Silver-haired Rogue, approached, his tongue off the soft mound and twirled it around the flesh of it before wrapping himself around her, making her tense and straightened. 

“Dae-...” He stopped her, again, laying his free hand upon her lips, as her hand traveled down to his waistband, grabbing his hardened shaft, between his legs. Daemon sighed, continuing his devilish-game until her two breasts were marked by his touch, and teeth. 

“ Ao issi gevie (You are beautiful),” He whispered to her ear, biting her lobe, continuing to play with the two globes of flesh in his hand, swaying them into his hand. “Sir gevie.” He laid his hand on hers, on his length, encouraging her to tighten her grip, sighing himself, feeling way too tight inside of his breeches. “ Nyke dijāves ao syt sīr bōsa (I desire you for so long), ūndegon nyke avy jūndan (when I look at you.)” 

Maegera breathed in, trying to find back her pace as she caressed him, softly, on his masculinity, feeling herself aroused between her legs. “ Yne jurnē? (Are you looking at me)”

He smiled at her and kissed her again, his palm palpating her crotch, as she arched herself to feel him even further. “ Va mōriot (Always).” 

Maegera didn’t know how long they were gone, it could be twenty minutes, like an hour, like six, but she couldn’t care less. All she could feel and think was Daemon against her, how she wanted him to sway his hips against hers in a song long known amidst all kinds. He was touching her, his dexterity roaming around, lifting her skirts until he could find the soft skin of her fleshed thighs and explore their inner flesh, reaching out to her laces. He placed a careful index on her slit, and as if she realized what she was about to do, within this very small corridor into Maegor’s Holdfast, she placed her hand upon his, trembling. The Silver-Haired stopped his kisses and whispers again, staring right into her eyes, as a servant passed through the corridor. 

The Rogue Prince smiled again, he quickly understood : she was comprehending what he was doing to her, and in what position they were. Daemon was also well aware this could not thaw the fire between them, for it’d surely leave ashes behind them both. “Trust me, if it goes wrong, I’ll take it,” He murmured,  not in a plea, not an order, but nearly a wish. She took a few seconds until she let him do it again, in a nod. Her nails dug into his shoulder, not to push him away, but to anchor herself to the choice she was making. “Yes,” she whispered. His middle finger passed through the white fabric and was tickling her heat, circling around her bud as he, once again, collected all her moans. Daemon’s touch moved like a whispered secret, shameful and intricate, slow and deliberate, seeking her warmth. He kissed her again and again— a kiss that devoured her breath, swallowed her doubts— and this time, she answered with hunger of her own.

They heard it all, orders, the rattling of keys, the impatient scraping of sword pommels against stone. His grip on Maegera’s hand tightened. “They’re sweeping the upper levels,” he whispered against her ear, low and controlled, though the fire in his eyes betrayed the thrill pulsing beneath his skin. He lived for this: the danger, the edge, the rebellion. But she was no bystander. They darted across an open archway, two guards thundered past in the other direction, unaware of how close their quarry had come. One wrong step, one misplaced breath, and they would be seen. But Daemon’s slight laugh had been enough to reassure her. 

He pursued, his fingers pinching her bud, tickling it, until one of them slid inside of her sheath and she pushed her head back. Her own hand trying to work its way in his trousers as she managed to do so, caressing his swollen tip. Daemon bit her lip, adding another presence inside of her again, her dress now a muffle of fabrics, whilst he explored her, back and forth, at a different pace. The silver-haired prince was learning, being taught how to please his beloved cousin the way only he could do. And he’d adapt if she clenches, going faster or slower. Her own arousal now reached the end of his index and middle finger. 

He left her lips, letting her take a breath from his reckless attacks, and kneeled, hiding his silhouette underneath her skirts. Maegera nearly whimpered at the sheer coming from his cousin’s lips near her own. “Daemo-...” but a kiss on her inner thigh made her shut. Abruptly covering her chest again just as she did her mouth, she clenched her fist around itself when Daemon kissed her most precious intimacy and explored her. She could feel herself burn. For him. A knot in her stomach slowly formed itself, as the Prince was devouring her most intimate place, his tongue coming back and forth, up and down, left and right. She closed her eyes, her back arched, as she worked her way to hide him completely beneath her dress. He was tasting her, eating her as if she was the best of a feast. She could only hold herself together, as much as she could. His fingers slid inside of her again, pushing the nectar from her mouth. Her cheeks flushed, she bit her lower lip, trying to hold on as she could not retain a moan any further. Her voice slipped from her throat, his name as well, as he grabbed her soft flesh. 

“I-... I can’-... Daem-... This… This is…” she could not even speak as she felt him smirk against her warmth, she could soon come undone on his tongue, if he didn’t pull back. But the Prince didn’t wish to, he wanted her. His appetites bigger than his sense of reason.  Just as she did for him. Thus, he pursued, until he didn’t stop, and Maegera had no choice than to let go and moan in the Red Keep to hear. After a short while, he raised again on his legs, kissing her with relish so she could taste herself on his tongue and lips. 

“Take me. Take me,” she begged of him, trying to drag his length out of his breeches, but he stopped her, holding her cheeks together as she stared into his violet eyes, nearly desperate for him. Daemon refrained himself, and it took nearly everything from him to do so. Instead, he approached again, his breath clashing with hers, panting. He adored seeing her like this, disheveled, her skin flushed and reddened, lips swollen because of him. 

“If it were only for me, I’d do it here and now,” admitted Daemon, his voice laced with untamed desire. “You’d be a delight, wrapped around me.” 

He kissed her forehead, almost tenderly. “But I can’t. If I do, I won't stop myself. And it wouldn’t be a moan or two, that your pretty voice would let out,” He pursued, holding her by her waist. He pushed the cabinet a bit more on them, hearing the sounds of boots coming for them, thus hidden furthermore. “And I’d rather take you in a bed, laid clothless before me, with those curls, and this flesh exposed to my eyes, cousin.” 

“Why did you do this, then?” she asked abruptly, her head nearly in haze. Daemon smiled at her curiosity, how visceral she was at that moment. “ Nyke jaelagon ao, avy jorrāelan, issa jorrāeliarza (I want you, I love you, my beloved cousin).”

She didn’t answer with anything else but a kiss, tasting the reminiscence of their sin. Her cousin didn’t wait enough for an answer, as Daemon carefully did not make a sound or say a word, for the last group of guards passing by to walk away. Afterwards, he asked her to pursue in the corridor, reaching for a staircase. Taking his hand, they both climbed until the next floor. The Royal Quarters. A safety passage, to protect the royals. “How did you know of this path ?” she asked him, trying to forget she was merely breaking into his arms a few minutes earlier. He turned around, his silver locks falling freely on his forehead. “I used to sneak out to Flea Bottom, two years ago. I know all the secret paths of this castle. I could lead you even to the sewers, but firstly, your chambers.” 

“Keep the sewers away from me, would you,” she started, her voice steadying as she listened to him. “Why my chambers ?” 

But before she could insist, Daemon locked the two of them inside of her rooms, the lock falling abruptly behind them, Maegera furrowed her brows. The Rogue Prince He kissed her again, and again, until she had almost no breath in her lungs. “There is something else I wish to give you.” He mumbled between two encounters. He roamed around, inside one of his discreet pockets before drawing a little box out of it, opening it before her. A dragonhead, its mouth half opened in a “D” shape. She smiled at him, as he attached it underneath the lilac stone. “The necklace came in two parts. Though… I had thought I would've given it to you in the presence of our family.” 

“ Kirimvose (thank you) , ” she quickly gasped whilst Daemon attached it to his first present. “Do you… regret what has been done ?” 

Daemon scoffed at her, arranging her hair as she breathed hollowly, almost feeling stupid as she stared at him, seeking an answer. He wrapped his hand around her neck, lifting it to  her jawline and kissed the sharpest part of it. “The only one I bear is to not have removed this dress from your body and make you call my name,” he bit a portion of her flesh, heaving a whimper from her swollen lips. his passions igniting again. “But I can’t.” 

Maegera opened her eyes, her slit pupils struck in his. “Why ?” 

Daemon hovered over her mouth, like a cat on its prey, his words nearly opening the contact between them two. She lingered in it, diving into the sin of their incest. A mandatory conception for Targaryens, Blood of the Dragon. “You are now suitable for marriage, for your fourteenth spring, and I have no doubt the Old King will want to draft you away. Whether to Old Town, Highgarden to be next to your Lady Mother, or even wed you to a suitor of his choosing. You might be a bastard by blood, given your father’s doings, but you have been legitimised, and therefore, your maidenhead is precious to the crown. You are alliances, power, wealth. Our Grandsire wants to persevere in that.” 

Maegera swallowed hard, her saliva barely getting past her throat as Daemon was making a meal out of her skin, but it was she who had hunger for him. Therefore, she pushed him back, until his legs met the edge of her bedding and she climbed atop of him, straddling the Rogue Prince, his hands travelling around her hips. He smirked, she leaned in. Her teeth grind upon his ear, the line of his neck, until the corners of his mouth and lips again. Nearly unable to detach herself from her cousin. “Yet, you have hid yourself beneath my skirts to taste me, and explore what my Lord Hubsand should’ve. Wouldn’t that be enough for my maidenhead to be taken ?”

Daemon shook his head left to right.  “No, only the contact of this,” he lifted his bossom up, now stuck against her warmth. “Can be counted as such. As of now, you remain a maiden, cousin.” 

The white-haired woman ran her finger on his cheek, her lezard pupils, slit like Starfyre’s, meeting him. “I do not want to be, I want you .” The Rogue Prince felt his chest tightened just as he had become in his breeches again, ignited, though he ultimately decided to ignore it, he pushed his body up, warping Maegera in his arms as he removed her. “ Gaomagon ao daor jaelagon issa hae olive hae nyke gaogamon, Daemon ? ( Do you not want me as much as I do, Daemon)” She stood, her head high and fierce, nearly offended by his refusal to give in. He laughed again, nearly a spark in his throat, as he pulled on her long white locks to force his gaze into hers. “ Ao issi skoros nyke jaelagon, Maegera. Olvie , (You are what I want, Maegera, Most)” He whistled between his teeth, unphased by the princess’s sudden surge of impetuousness.  “ Se ziry iksos hae vazigi bona nyke daor gūrogon ao (And it is as such that I refuse to take you). ” She closed her eyes, understanding this wouldn’t turn the way she’d wish it’d be. 

“ Pār, māzigon naejot issa (Then, come to me).” Without further insistence, she departed, opening the double doors of her chambers to walk back to the feast, the music still chanting. There, she sneaked between the guests and quickly met the gaze of her uncle, ever so suspicious. She looked slightly disheveled and perhaps a dash of disappointment. He walked forth, sitting next to her. “Viserys and Aemma have claimed to see you and Daemon walk out,” he began. “I will not speak sweetly, did something happen ? The King has sent guards after you didn’t come back for a couple minutes.” 

Maegera tried to find an excuse, she could be as disappointed as she wished, but she wouldn’t denounce the moment of passion her cousin and she had shared. “No. Daemon wished to give me his present personally, and therefore take a moment away from court. We… Hastened due to me panicking. I didn’t think my departure would cause such a fuss. Viserys and his…” 

He cut her short. “Yes. He doesn’t hold much value for his brother. They don’t share the same… Temperament. In fact, he is much closer to your father than me, when it comes to personality.” 

Baelon smiled at her again. “What did my son give you ?” 

She grabbed the Dragonhead with the necklace, handing it over to him. “This. He has found the stone from a Valyrian shipwreck near Lys and salvaged it, to say his words,” she paused, taking a moment to see the reflection of herself. “The stone came this afternoon to wrap itself around my neck, the dragonhead hanging, tonight.” 

“It is, indeed, quite a jewel.” 

The Spring Prince didn’t wish to speak it aloud, not here, not tonight (he wouldn’t put all of this to a waste) but he knew Daemon, he knew his boy, and as such, he wasn’t a fool. A man he was before being a father, and a young male he had been as well. He understood, fast and swift, that didn’t tell entirely the truth to him, that she would simply not. Something tilted in his mind, a sharp sting whispering he could not trust the entirety of the girl’s words. No matter how much he adored her. He had seen, many times, how his second born would sometimes look at Aemon’s girl, how his eyes lingered on her waist; the days they’d spare, when he’d teach her swordcraft. it was not the gaze of a cousin, or even a suitor. It was the way Aenar the Exile might have looked at his sister-wife as they fled Valyria. After all, the Rogue Prince was a man of ten and six years. Sixteen summers, breaking the laws. The silver-haired prince knew it well. He had the same look for Alyssa, and from this, came Viserys, Daemon, and Aegon. 

And it had destroyed her. He closed his eyes briefly. From guilt, and grief. No, what he felt now was a far older grief — the kind one inherits with a name like Targaryen . It sat in the bone, in the blood. In theirs, in a dynasty that could only be destroyed by one thing : themselves.

But, Baelon knew the poison would linger for long, before ultimately killing its victims. 

It was just a matter of time. 

Chapter Text

Since the feast, the Seven Kingdoms had been relatively calm. Peaceful even, in fact, none of them would have proven themselves bold enough to provoke the wrath of the Dragonlords. Gifts were piled up, conflicts handled with care, and the master of whisperers were almost rendered useless thanks to the lack of open hatred between two houses. However, where the horses don't neigh and the iron doesn’t meet, only whispers could be heard between the stones. The days people had nothing to talk about but the mundane actions of those alike, whose words would ultimately meet their last listener. Since the feast, the Seven Kingdoms had been relatively calm. Peaceful even, in fact, none of them would have proven themselves bold enough to provoke the wrath of the Dragonlords. Gifts were piled up, conflicts handled with care, and the master of whisperers were almost rendered useless thanks to the lack of open hatred between two houses. However, where the horses don't neigh and the iron doesn’t meet, only whispers could be heard between the stones. The days people had nothing to talk about but the mundane actions of those alike, whose words would ultimately meet their last listener. 

And the latest nameday of Aemon’s legitimised bastard had made enough of a noise to keep the Red Keep awake. Nothing was better to maintain the constant nagging than whispers and rumours. Rhaenys had known this all too well, that her sweet (she could not call her that, for she was more an ember waiting to be ignited) half-sister, would be a subject of many of those discussions. Since that night, her name passed from hand to mouth like a coin warmed by too many palms. Maids discussed the pearls in her hair. Knights argued the angle of her smile. The Lords—especially those with sons— had measured her from afar, for her fourteenth spring had been the start of their hunger to marry the bastard away to one of their best boys. Rhaenys was two ten and three, and she had lived though and through the dangers of society enough to know it was just a matter of time before their Grandsire would soon look into the prospect of wedding his granddaughter. 

“She curtsied to Lord Borros Baratheon,” whispered the cook’s boy, “but not as low as to Lord Tarly.”

“She danced with her cousin but refused the son of the Vale,” answered the seamstress. “ I sewn the dress myself with a few golds from her uncle and her sister,” she could hear within the servants quarters she would walk by to reach for the old way to the Dragonpit, but stopped nearly when she met the whispers of Lady Ornella, Maegera’s main maid, jacassing over her mistress. With the least of a care, Rhaenys nonetheless listened, her curiosity getting the best of her. “I have heard some wineboy heard whimpers within the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast and it was the name of the Rogue Prince, the Princess had moaned. I asked Ser Rosemond, he had told me Daemon and she left after a dance amongst the guests. No one knows where they’ve gone, but the Princess sure had a look of disappointment after she had come back.” 

Rhaenys leaned against the wall, carefully treading with the linings of her gloves around her wrists. The Princess never trusted Lady Ornella, for she was too easy to blabber, and therefore to unleash the best of nagging amongst the Keep. But she was competent, and as such, Good Queen Alysanne didn’t wish to see her back to the streets. Their forefathers were perhaps too kind to the worst beasts. “When I helped her undress and wash, I saw reddened skin, bites, and marks of fingers around her pretty neck, aye, I can promise !” 

She furrowed a brow, lifted the other. Rhaenys didn’t flinch, though the bile rose bitter in her throat. “Fool,” she murmured under her breath, not sure if the word was meant for Ornella or the girl herself. She closed her eyes for the length of a single breath, steadying the flood of thought before it could crash against her reason. And, there was a piquancy in her heart that could not deceive her. Ornella was a speaker, but never a liar. Sometimes, it had even proven useful to keep her inside of their walls and wash away the dirt from her board. 

She had passed a few hours within the Dragonpit, next to her adored mount. She’d speak to Meleys, and Meleys would speak to her back. The Red Queen looked ever crimson under the old stones of her cage. Rhaenys didn’t wish for her sweet girl to be kept there, but the only thing she could do was to stay by her side and to take her on a flight occasionally. Nonetheless, her thoughts swirled into a maze as inevitably, her purple eyes had visions of the night back then, and indeed, something felt odd. Perhaps too much for her own liking. 

The firstborn daughter of Aemon, had never trusted Daemon. Rhaenys had been raised among the clever ones. Not even a mere second : he was too versatile, too unkempt, with no bounds or limits. Little concern for anything if not in his best interest. Thus, she had made her way back to the Keep, her clothes smelling of Dragonscale shared with the heat of the, almost, useless torchlights set within the walls. She didn’t change nor wash, she didn’t need to. Where Rhaenys headed, didn’t urge for such casualties. No matter if the milk boys were stopping their breaths at her sight. Perhaps they should only be taken aback by her beauty. 

Rhaenys didn’t bother to knock, instead she pushed the doors of Maegera’s chambers. Across the Keep, the girl at the heart of it all sat before her mirror. Silent. Still. As though carved in glass and flame. Maegera’s hair had been let down, white strands tightly curling at the ends, their scent of rose oil faint but lingering. Her gown hung loose around her shoulders. Faint purple lines marked her collarbone, and something softer still was written across her face. “Shall I fetch you warm milk, my lady?” asked Ornella, voice unusually gentle.

Maegera’s gaze lifted to the reflection of her maid and lingered there. “No, ” she coldly replied, swallowing her previous drink already down her throat as she observed her half-sister head-to-toe. She dismissed her with nothing more than a blink, and Ornella curtsied with all the grace of a cat stretching itself, retreating without comment. The door shut behind her, and with it, the mask dropped. Rhaenys’s eyes naturally wandered around her soft skin, but aside from the few visible veins, there was nothing that could tell her the mumbles of the maid were truthful. Maegera did not speak at first. She only turned slightly in her seat, angling her body toward the light of the fire, her hair shining like snow caught underneath sunlight. The flicker of flame cast long shadows against her white skin, dancing over the flush that still lingered high on her cheeks. But it was her eyes that struck Rhaenys most— 

Almost nothing in them, but boredom. “You came to scold me?” Maegera’s voice was low, cool, but far from childish. Her tone was not that of a girl newly turned fourteen, but something between her usual pride and near defiance. A rather strange mix for a girl born from a Tyrell, and their too-soft father, Aemon. Rhaenys crossed the chamber slowly, letting her gloves slip off one finger at a time. She tossed them onto a chair, her own gaze never leaving the younger girl’s. “I came,” she said, “because I would prefer the truth from your lips rather than a servant’s.” She paused. “Or his .”

Maegera’s eyes snapped for a mere second, before locking on Rhaenys again, feeling her body stiffen as she bent herself backwards, her body now half-laid the red and gold ottomane near the window. “Did you fuck Daemon when you were away from the Feast, a few weeks ago ?” the Princess’s jaw twitched ever-so-slightly at her half-sister's bold question, a scoff leaving her plumped lips as she crossed her arms around her thin waist, almost in auto-defense. Rhaenys stood tall, she was from far the tallest of them two. “What kind of… idea is that ? I am ten and four. He is ten and six and betrothed, I would rather not do our way with my cousin without knowledge of the mistake it’d cause.” 

But Rhaenys was cleverer, and slier than Maegera was, more experienced and she had been bold enough at times herself. Daemon had a talent, both of his hands and his silver-tongue, to get what he yearned for. A flame flickered in her little sister’s lilac eyes, and Rhaenys knew she had offended Maegera above reason. And the line had been crossed, already thin. Her shoulders were pushed back, her brows furrowed inwards on her face, the creases showing. “Whispers tell me otherwise. That he has taken you during your little… Escape. That you have said his name with pleasure in the voice, and that you have come back nearly disappointed. Your position is already fragile within this court, and as women in this family it is already enough of a hardship to keep position. Moreover, a bastard,” pursued Rhaenys. “You cannot expect to do what you wish without consequences to happen, any one would speak with a bit of zeal, if that could help them raise. You are not the most liked dragonborn in this court and you know it, I repeat my question : have you fucked Daemon ?” 

Maegera’s voice blew in a laugh, dismantled, and fragile, as she clenched her fist inside of her palm, nearly drawing blood from her soft flesh. “I didn’t. It is unthinkable that you’d even have thought I’d give up on everything I have earned for years, for some… debaucheries with our cousin,” she lied. “We need the Vale, I would not break away from the efforts made by Grandsire to secure our alliance with the Rhoyce and the Arryn.”

Rhaenys’s silence was heavier than any accusation. It hung in the space between them like smoke from the hearth, warm but suffocating. She did not look away from Maegera, nor blink. Her jaw, tight as a drawn bow, loosened ever so slightly at the word lie. She had heard it too often to miss its particular strain—the glint behind Maegera’s eye, the slight tremble in her fingers, the precision of her speech, suddenly too rehearsed.

“You didn’t,” Rhaenys repeated, slowly, each syllable testing the taste of the words as if unsure whether to believe them or spit them out. “Yet your face burns with shame. Or is it rage?” Maegera stood then, bare feet soundless on the polished stone floor. The fire caught on the silk of her gown as she stepped forward, making her seem more apparition than girl. The flush on her cheeks deepened, but her mouth held a firm, practiced line. “It is an insult, Rhaenys,” she said. “You know me. You know what I’ve given, what I’ve bled, to be seen by them—by you. And you would think me foolish enough to trade it all for—” Maegera snapped, her first encountering the edge of the window, against the warmed-up stone of the window frame. Loss for a loss, she didn’t mind going deeper in her madness.

“It wasn’t Daemon who touched me that night. Rhaenys. If you want to hear it all. But it is surely easier to accuse him whilst he was the one to save me and my honour.” 

She blinked thrice. “What ?” 

“ He forced me, and I screamed for our cousin’s name. I begged for him to come. I wasn’t pleased, nor whimpering for his touch, sister. I was asking for help, and none of the maids nor servants came to me to help, not even look. Daemon heard, he wasn’t too far yet not to. He did nothing wrong.. And if he ever held me differently than a cousin ought to, then I assure you it was no more than a moment's solace and kinship. Daemon never touched me, I promise you that.” 

Perhaps it was because Maegera’s eyes had become teary, full of water and trying so hard to keep it all in, but Rhaenys approached, hastening her pace toward her sister. She held her by her shoulders, her stomach twisted. “Who, Maegera ? Who forced you ?” 

She opened her mouth, stuttering, her own thin hands on her sister’, shaking, sniffling ungracefully in Rhaenys’s arms. “I didn’t wish to speak of it, I didn’t mean to make a fuss during my nameday. But this… malemaid, he told the servants had prepared something for me, and… Naively I choose to follow him, sister. Perhaps, I had too much wine,  but he took advantage of me. And he knew that I was with Daemon just a moment ago, and he…” 

“Did he…?” 

She shook her head abruptly, mumbling a few negations, Rhaenys breathed out. “No, no, he didn’t have enough time. Daemon was searching for me. He came across and made her boy run far enough. He comforted me and brought me back to my chambers to take a moment to myself. It is all sister, I haven’t been bedded by Daemon. Not even touched by his hands nor lips.” 

Rhaenys’s hands remained on her shoulders, firm but trembling. She had heard Maegera lie before—but not like this. Not with her lips shaking like a leaf in a summer storm, not with saltwater brimming in her proud eyes. This was no performance. She wasn’t a girl who shed tears. She didn’t for their own father. “You should have told me,” she whispered, voice cracking like thin glass. “ Gods , Maegera, you should have told someone.” Maegera exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound closer to a sob than breath. “And what, Rhaenys? Watch them turn on me? Ask what I wore? How much did I drank? Whispers would spread like wildfire. ‘Targaryen whore,' they’d say. A bastard grasping above her station, caught by a male maid, taken by his fingers.” Her face twisted as she swallowed hard. Emphasizing shame. “I told Daemon I’d keep it silent. For his sake and mine. They already hate me enough in this court—they wouldn’t mourn my fall, only enjoy it.” 

Rhaenys released her shoulders and pulled her into a fierce, grounding embrace, her chin resting atop Maegera’s head as the younger one shuddered against her. The sun had lowered behind the stained-glass windows now, the red glow bleeding across the floor like spilled wine. She noticed the bruise at her neck. Not the shape of a blade or fist. Lips. Teeth. Fingers tips imprinted to the very skin, slightly purple. And the tremor in her voice, yes, but not always at the right places. No fear when she said Daemon’s name. No stutter there.

Rhaenys turned her face away.

“ She’s just a child ,” she told herself.

Maegera had always been a difficult thing to love—bright, cold, unpredictable—but she was her blood. Rhaenys had sung to her in the cradle. Had cradled her feverish body through childhood illness. Had covered her mistakes, her moods, her cruelties, time and time again, because if she didn’t protect her, who would?

“I believe you,” Rhaenys said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Maegera’s cheek. She was crying again.“I won’t let you alone,” Rhaenys pursued into her hair. “And you are not to carry this in silence any longer.” Maegera shook her head gently in her sister’s arms, a bitter breath escaping her. “I don’t even remember his name, Rhaenys,” She shook her head, in quick reply, cutting like the edge of a Valyrian sword. “We will find him.”

Maegera simply nodded, trying to catch her breath as her tears coiled against her cheeks like wax. Rhaenys took a few steps away, almost unsure of what to do now. She felt oddly hollow, almost devoid of all wrath if not the one she bore of her sister’s newlycome nightmare. The Rose blinked a few times, looking away, fidgeting her fingers as she once again spoke to her half-sister. “Please, leave me a moment. We’ll speak about the matter… I just wish for a moment alone.” Rhaenys nodded right after, already stepping back, approaching the double doors. 

“Of course. My apologies, sister. May you rest enough, we will speak about the matter when you will come to us.” 

The doors shut behind her, as she fastened in the halls, leaving her sister alone. Maegera dried her tears in a wipe, her expression becoming blank again as she looked straight at the exit. She smiled then, her lip corners lifting in a smirk. She now needed to be quicker than Rhaenys : to find someone to blame. Therefore, she changed, quick, fast. Boots with a coat, gloves, and hastened toward the nearest exit until her mouth mumbled, and she rejoined Starfyre, her immense wings whipping air like the cruelest of an enslaver, and her eyes meeting those of Maegera soon enough. She bent, letting her rider climb. 

She’d need to find Daemon. 

And he couldn’t be far, 

Caraxes’s smell would certainly lead the way. 

… 

The door shut behind them with a muffled thud. Alone now, out of sight and earshot, Prince Baelon turned toward his niece with a frown already forming between his brows. His hands were clasped behind his back in military habit, his pale violet eyes steady and expectant.“You said it was urgent, Rhaenys. Speak it plainly.” 

She hesitated. That alone made him narrow his gaze. Rhaenys Targaryen was not a woman known for hesitation. Although, this time, she had been more than she ought to. 

“It concerns Maegera,” she began, her voice low and measured, but strained. “There was… an incident. She was attacked. Amidst Maegor’s Holdfast, I wager you have heard the whispers yourself, uncle.” 

Baelon’s jaw tightened, his fist tightening. “By whom?”

“A servant,” Rhaenys said, too quickly. “One of the scullery boys. Young. She claims he forced his way in. Threatened her. And—”

“And?” His tone sharpened. Baelon didn’t move. Not at first. But something subtle passed through him—a flicker, like the shimmer of heat over stone. He studied her in silence, the way a dragon only might watch. He had heard the whispers, yes, how could he not ? Walking with a smile on his face, ever so bold and welcoming. The Spring Prince knew better than to not listen to the mumbles of their servants, for they had little to protest but much to look at. He then wondered, When did it happen ? Daemon had been with her, giving away his second present and then… ? He shook his head, carefully listening to his firstborn niece. 

“I believe you have knowledge that Daemon and Maegera are not to be trifled with when it comes to their… loyalty to each other. Since childhood, if not mere babes, they have always been… rather protective of one another. How can you be so sure Maegera does, indeed speak truthly ? I bounced the girl on my knee, whilst she’d tell me enough stories for a lifetime, so I would not scold her.” 

Rhaenys stepped forward, grabbing the wrist of her uncle, her gaze straightening as she stared right into Baelon’s eyes. She understood plainly his doubt, as she had herself lived through the lies of both Maegera and Daemon alike. “I have seen bruises, marks only done by fingers, lips and teeth grinding on skin. It was no lovemaking, it is still laying on her skin, light, but visible. She had broken down into my arms, crying. Uncle. We can only see to that.” 

He sighed, he doubted. Highly. Baelon spoke rarely, but he saw much more than the keenest of all ravens. “I will see my son questioned then.” 

The Princess nodded, “Then, myself I will send a search for the boy. And will see each servant sharply asked if necessary.” Baelon’s jaw twisted silently as he looked past her, his mind turning. 

“Have her guarded,” Baelon recommended at last, his voice low and sure. “Not to cage her, but to ensure no more gossip stirs. We cannot afford another scandal. Not now, not while the King’s health fades and succession tongues wag like dogs at meat. And Gods knows they are starving for more. I wish for both the safety of my niece and my nephew. King Jaehaerys might as well be spared of all of this… bother.” 

Rhaenys nodded, but there was tension in the line of her jaw, as if she fought not to press her lips too thin. “She will be guarded. Quietly. I’ll see to it myself. But Maegera is no fool. She’ll know, and she’ll resent it.” 

Baelon shrugged it off, he was well-aware the girl had enough of a keen eye. However, what was necessary must be done. The Spring Prince knew this, for better or worse, perhaps. Rhaenys exhaled slowly, the words not quite a relief, not quite enough. Not yet. “Do you still think she could be lying.”

“I think I’ve seen both of them spin tales when it suited them,” Baelon admitted, his tone neither cold nor cruel, but brutally honest. “And I’ve seen both stand for one another when no one else would. Loyalty can make fools of clever children. Those two are born from the same vine, and poison each other in the same root.” Rhaenys strengthened her grip around her waist, her arms crossing, uncertain. “You think Daemon—”

“I think nothing yet,” he cut in gently. “Only that I will look him in the eye. And I’ll know if he hides something. I always have. And if Maegera speaks true—then there is a man in this castle who touched a dragon’s blood. I will not suffer from that. Neither will she, nor my boy. Or this family for that very matter.”

Rhaenys nodded, slow and measured. “And if she does not speak true ?”

Baelon’s gaze shifted, unreadable now. “Then, I’ll do what I must.” She agreed with him, before hastening to the exit, opening the double gates. Without a goodbye, leaving only the Heir to the Iron Throne, sat on the small council’s chair. He massaged his temples, his own head hurting by the twirl of thoughts. the carved dragons at its arms cold beneath his fingers. The chamber was silent but for the rustle of his breath and the slow churn of memory and instinct alike.

He had not lied to Rhaenys. He had always known when Daemon was hiding something. Even as a boy, Daemon’s eyes would flicker just so, a tilt of the head, a touch too slow to respond. And he had become worse over time. Perhaps, knowing his mother would've helped the poor boy to be more like his brother, or even his father. 

He rose, smoothing the front of his tunic, and moved for the door. “Ser Randal,” he called softly into the corridor.

A lean knight stepped forward, blinking from his post outside. “Your Grace?”

“Daemon. Have you seen him?” Baelon’s tone was calm, but laced with a warning edge.

Ser Randal shifted, his expression becoming uncertain. “Not since midday, my Prince. He left the training yard with Ser Guston, but when I asked the yardmaster, he said they split ways soon after.”

“Has he returned?”

“No, Your Grace. I sent a page to check his chambers. Still cold. He’s not in the castle.” Baelon’s jaw clenched slightly. He hated uncertainty—especially when it involved Daemon. His secondborn was all but predictable, even for him, and perhaps he had lied himself when he told Rhaenys he always had known whenever his boy would lie or hide something away from him. “Summon the Kingsguard. Quietly,” he ordered. “I want riders sent to the Street of Silk, the Dragonpit, the stables, every wine sink and pit house between here and Flea Bottom. No alarm. Just eyes.”

“And if we find him?” 

“Tell him his father wishes a word,” Baelon said darkly, “and that he is not to make his father wait.”

He descended the stairway, his stride long, sharp. Yet inwardly, his thoughts clawed at him. What had he missed? Daemon had been quieter of late, true—but no less mischievous. And Maegera… he could still remember the little girl she was, trailing after Daemon with ink-stained fingers and scraped knees, with too much fire to tame for one. He passed the guards at Maegor’s Holdfast, nodding once. Still, his mind raced. Bruises . Bite marks . Fingertips . The words lodged in his chest. He had been a soldier, a man, long enough to know what that meant—and what it might not. Maegera crying in Rhaenys’ arms… he could believe it. He could also believe Daemon playing at some dangerous game neither of them yet understood. And if she lied? He turned and signaled one of his personal guard. 

“Check the Flea Bottom brothels. All of them. If you find him, say nothing. Return to me,” he muttered. 

Then why cry?

Baelon exhaled sharply, emerging into the dusk-lit courtyard. The girl would indeed not be seen weeping as often as one may think. If not ever. She was impulsive, and proved herself to be multiple times already. The Spring Prince could remember the day she had vanished, gone from the surface of both Dragonstone, Driftmark and Westeros. He had searched, roamed for her until he fell to his knees before his father, apologizing over and over. The Silver-haired man had thought her suffering the same thing as Aerea, driven back by the Black Dread right to their roots : the Ruins of Valyria. And yet, she had been back, a few months later, from Lys. She had fallen down into his arms, and cried. It was the only time Baelon witnessed it. No, Maegera was wrathful, prone to offense and anger, frustration even, but she barely had any tears to cry. He walked the long path down to the practice yard, where the clang of swords still rang. His shadow stretched ahead of him like a serpent. Baelon did not feel like a prince, nor an heir. He felt only like a father—and a man caught between his own duty and his love for his family. 

…

All meanwhile, east of the city. Far away enough, still too close. 

The moss-draped boughs above creaked with the wind, soft and damp, hiding even the moonlight. Smoke from a dying fire whispered into the air, curling around the ankles of the red dragon dozing between trees—Caraxes. His crimson scales gleamed dully in the low light, one eye half-lidded but watchful over his rider. A second shape stirred on the ridge: purple and gold, proud, and sleek—Starfyre. Her nostrils flared as she growled low and restless, her long neck bending to nudge the trees aside. Her rider was already sliding down the saddle.

Maegera hit the ground running. She barely remembered unbuckling her gloves, let alone the long, sharp journey through air and clouds. She darted between the trees, her boots silent over roots and leaves until the golden light of Starfyre’s glow found the shadowed figure practicing his talent regarding swordsmanship. Daemon turned his head slightly, a sardonic smile flickering into place. “You always find me.”

“It is not hard. Starfyre is quite used to Caraxes’s odour. I just asked her to follow him,” She halted just shy of the flame, her chest rising and falling. Her cheeks were pink from cold and flight. “What are you doing here on your own, cousin ? Shouldn’t you be sipping wine with your men, or with a whore on the Silk Street ?” 

Daemon didn’t answer, he continued to spare, Dark Sister swinging in the heart of the tree he was aiming for. She sat nearby, playing with the leather of her gloves as she watched him do. She grew quickly bored of it, and herself drew the dagger he had offered her, out of its holding. She faced him, and he pointed the peak of his weapon at her. A few steps apart. “I told them it was a servant,” she said, without preamble.

Daemon’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did. A tension coiled there, in the tilt of his shoulders, the stillness of his hands.

“And that I was attacked,” she added. His lips parted slightly, then curved again—not quite into a smirk. “Well. That’s certainly… dramatic.” He lunged in, Valyrian steel against the iron of her weapon, her hold way weaker than his as she tried to bear with his strength. 

“I had to say something.” She strode toward him, lowering her voice as her jaw set. “You left bruises on me, Daemon. They asked questions. Rhaenys was the one who pressed. I didn’t mean to say it at first, I didn’t plan it, but once it was out… I kept going. I made it worse.”

His eyes flicked to her neck, where a faint mark had not yet faded. She took the occasion to grab his arm and to swing behind him to make his skin bite the cold steel, but Daemon didn’t waver, his breath didn’t become quicker. It was often a game between them. No wounds intended, if not unbothered lust and humiliation standing not so far from one another. 

“Did they believe you?”

“Rhaenys did,” Maegera whispered. “She said she’d seen the bruises. She was angry. She thinks I’m protecting you.”

“And you are ,” Daemon murmured. “As I would you .”

They stood in silence for a moment, the forest around them quiet save for the far-off huff of Caraxes’ breath and the shifting of dragons’ wings. They didn’t move for a while, and she lessened a bit of her hold upon Daemon, which he used at his advantage to sneak behind her. However, he wrapped his arm around her neckline, his breath nearby her ear, his breath hot as dragonfire near her skin. “Now there has to be someone, doesn't it ? Your lie alone cannot be covered, beloved cousin. A maiden’s virtue is much hovered upon, and if it is known that you have lied, we couldn’t know how the Old One would act, do we ?”  Maegera shifted her face a single each away from his, her breath smashing with his as Daemon would not look away. Even if he would've wished to, he could drift his gaze from hers. Not for very long. 

“How could you find someone ? There was not a soul within the Holdfast that we met, if not for those who pretend to have heard us. I do not think you can find a folk who’d accept to give out his life willingly for the sake of our doings.” 

Daemon shook his head right after she doubted him, his free hand now tracing her jawline. “Who said that ?” He chuckled darkly. “I’ll see to find one of my friends from the Keep, pay enough gold so he’d find me some servant to use to reinforce your words. I’ll wound him enough so it would be believable. How could they believe a servant of some if no one can defend him ?” He stroked her cheek, her lips parted, but he kissed them afore she could even try to answer, as if he asked her to let him continue to speak. 

“What did you tell your half-sister ?” 

She kissed him back, trying not to lose herself as his skin against hers made her almost step away from her original intent. Maegera swallowed, trying to recollect the exact words she had told Rhaenys mere half an hour earlier. “I told her you offered me your gift, and then we parted and you left me there to walk on my own. I was called by this ‘boy’ to see their present for my nameday, and he touched me and I screamed for your name. You weren’t too far, and you ran back to help me. I didn’t remember his name.” 

Daemon’s mouth curled against hers, the kiss barely ended before he laughed softly, a breath in her throat. His hands held her face now, steadying her, warming her. His tone, though still touched by amusement, was laced with seriousness beneath. Oh, he adored her. She was the only one to keep up with him, with his pace. And he loved it. Daemon’s fingers trailed down her neck to her shoulder, tilting her head to the side and brushing lightly across where the fading bruise still marked her. “Then we must ensure they believe it beyond question. No cracks. No pause. I will say I found you near the scullery hall, we were close to it.” 

He turned, withdrawing from her just enough to pace, a thoughtful drag of fingers through his hair. “I still have men in the Keep. Ones who know how to be quiet. One of them—Torgan—he’s stupid, but loyal enough when gold is involved. He’ll find someone. A servant boy, likely from the kitchens. One they can’t trace too far back. I’ll talk to the boy myself.” 

She followed a few steps behind, like his shadow. “And he’ll go along with it?”

Daemon’s eyes flicked over his shoulder. “He will. Or he’ll lose a tongue. Possibly both hands. His cock even, for all I care.” Maegera pinched her lips together. Mayhaps she should feel ashamed, but she wasn’t. All the white-haired princess could admit to herself was that she felt protected by her cousin, and wished she could never let go.  “We’ll make sure he says he was in the hallway before you went with him. That he called you to see this ‘present’ we have never seen, and stammed you against the nearest breech he could find. You 'll swear he saw someone flee. Sandy hair. Coal in it. Crooked jaw or not. Half a cloak. Doesn’t matter if it’s true. It just has to sound close enough that they stop looking further.” 

Maegera stood still, letting her arms drop, letting the wind cut across her exposed skin. “What if they don’t stop looking?” Daemon turned again, stepping close, his hands returning to her waist. He dipped his head until their forehead touched. “Then I’ll drag the boy out myself and will kill him before our kin and any one who’d dare watch,” he kissed her temple, letting his lips hover her complexion whilst a white curl wiggled against his chin. 

“You’d kill for me ?”  Daemon laughed softly again, almost like a hum. A growl coming from the depths of his throat. She pouted, against his neck, he could feel her mouth move around. With a finger, he lifted her delicate features up to his. “There is barely anything I wouldn’t do for you. Ask me for twenty kingdoms, I would find you forty. Ask me to kill a man, I would kill ten or a hundred.” 

She blinked, her heart nearly racing in her chest. “Even if you’d die from it ?”  

“I would take the odds.”  Maegera didn’t speak. Her breath caught between her teeth as if any sound might crack the fragile edge they stood on. His words clung to her skin more tightly than the cold, more dangerous than the trees watching in mute silence. Somewhere behind them, Starfyre let out a low, rumbling sound—unsettled, as though the dragon could feel what swelled beneath her rider’s breast. “Don’t say that unless you mean it,” Maegera whispered, one hand rising to rest against his chest, over the black leather where his heart beat. “Because if you die… there’s no one left, I'd ask for anything.”

Daemon tilted his head, eyes flickering with that passion that lived behind his gaze. “Then you must pray I live a long time.”

She laughed heartily. “I already do,” a pause stood between them. “What will you say if you are questioned ? You will be for sure, you might be a rogue, but you remain a Prince to the Crown,” Maegera pursued. The silver-haired man nearly purred against her skin. “I’ll say I found you distressed, bruised, sobbing. I didn’t know what happened, only that someone touched one of ours. I could not just leave you here. Every living soul within the Keep knows I would not let you be on your own.” 

Maegera leaned her forehead against Daemon’s chest, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her fingers tightened on the lapel of his coat. The wind shifted again. Caraxes stirred behind the trees, claws digging into the soft earth, his eyes watching. Somewhere far, a wolf howled in the dark beyond the moss and mist. Daemon leaned closer, so close she could see every faint line around his eyes, the flicker of heat in them, the hunger, the possession. A gust of wind made her shiver. He pulled her against him, wrapping the thick cloak around her shoulders, and for a moment, it was easier to believe the world beyond the forest didn’t exist. That there were no consequences.

Just them. 

Chapter Text

Night crashed over King’s Landing in less time than its inhabitants thought. It didn’t even take an hour for Daemon to sneak out again in the streets, covered in a brown hood, hiding his silver-locks underneath the fabric. His clothes were exchanged for near-rags not fit for a Prince. He walked forth, decided not to go back to the Keep before this bother could be done with. Just an inconvenience, nothing more, nothing less. The Rogue Prince travelled the streets well, he knew them as well as he knew his sword, Dark Sister, fleeting like sand between fingers. He could not be caught. Some streets were illuminated by torches, given for the little space there was for whores to make a coin out of their bodies, charlatans to read the cards and soldiers to best the next bloke who’d try to sell them a poorly done wine. He had flickered through the streets, avoiding the Kingsguard searching for him, apparently for his father. 

He was aiming for the brothel, there, he knew he could find Torgan. The man was known for his appetites, and to spend his gold rather in the soft slit of a woman, if not several, instead of buying himself enough food to last the month. Daemon was familiar with pleasure houses, perhaps too much. He had often dragged Viserys down the Street of Silk, thus when he noticed the sign “The Soap House”, carved weakly in the molded wood, he pushed the door without an issue. When he stepped in, his ears were invaded by moans, chatters and laughter. Flesh slaps, singular sounds that could not be mistaken. The Prince didn’t have much of a time to linger on the swell of breasts, or the gleam of a warmth nearby, instead, he pushed away the multiple benefactors who attempted to gain his attention, before searching for Torgan. 

The air shifted, thick with heat, perfume, and the faint coppery tang of wine-stained velvet. A sultry haze hung in the dimly lit room, swirling with smoke from braziers burning scented oils: myrrh, sandalwood, and something sweeter beneath, like crushed rose petals steeped in sweat. Silks draped from the low ceiling in languid waves, their edges frayed by years of grasping hands and careless flames. Pillows—red, gold, and violet—lay scattered across the floor, some stained, some sunken, all well-used. The walls were lacquered in faded murals of half-naked gods and moaning goddesses, their painted mouths parted in eternal pleasure. A harp strummed softly in the background, almost drowned by the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, giggles soaked in wine, and breathless curses spat between thrusts.

Women with painted mouths and kohl-lined eyes prowled molted boots over plush carpets, barefoot glistening with oil and desire. Some wore nothing at all; others were wrapped in translucent gauze that hid nothing and teased everything. A man groaned behind a curtain that barely covered his rutting, while nearby, a girl with silver bells in her hair laughed as she poured wine into the open mouth of a lord already too far gone to thank her.

He pushed past a woman with honey-colored skin and heavy-lidded eyes who reached for his arm, whispering promises that might have interested him on another night. Another grabbed his hood with a drunken giggle, but he ducked beneath her hand, hissing a quiet "Not tonight" before slipping further into the haze of scented oils and sweat.

Daemon’s eyes moved with purpose. He knew Torgan by sight: wide-shouldered, ruddy-cheeked, and balding at the crown, with a mouth too quick and hands too slow to stay out of trouble. The man fancied himself a swordsman when drunk, a lord when fed, a man when solicited. Daemon’s eyes moved with purpose. He knew Torgan by sight: wide-shouldered, ruddy-cheeked, and balding at the crown, with a mouth too quick and hands too slow to stay out of trouble. The man fancied himself a swordsman when drunk, a lord when fed, and a ghost when caught—but Daemon had no intention of letting him vanish tonight.

He caught sight of him in the far alcove of the brothel, nestled between two women with their legs draped lazily over his lap. His laughter was thick with ale, head thrown back as he slapped the thigh of one and reached for the wine goblet with his free hand.

“Torgan,” Daemon called slowly.

At first, the man didn’t react. Then his laughter ceased, and he blinked toward the voice. Recognition dawned slowly, as if cutting through fog.

“Who’s—?” Torgan began, but the words died on his tongue as Daemon stepped closer, lifting his hood just enough for the man to glimpse the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of violet eyes under shadow.

The women shifted, uncomfortable now, sensing something had changed in the air. One of them muttered something and slid off Torgan’s lap, while the other narrowed her eyes at Daemon, perhaps thinking to demand a coin. “Leave,” Daemon ordered, not raising his voice, but not needing to. The command worked. Both women scattered, and Torgan, now exposed in every sense of the word, scrambled to adjust his tunic and wipe the wine from his chin.

“My Prince—Daemon—I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t,” Daemon cut in, tone quiet but edged. “That’s the trouble with you. You speak too quickly and think too late. There’s a word for that. It starts with ‘traitor.’” Torgan swallowed, knowing well this could’ve been his last day if he didn’t act as ought to. Daemon approached his face, well enough for the Targaryen Prince to be now entirely noticeable. And he had anger and determination, both intertwined on his features. Settled in the sharpness of his noses, and the slight shine in his eyes. “And that’ll be what you will be called, if you do not act as I say. Do you wish for more coins to spend on whores, Torgan ?” 

Daemon smirked, the appellation of the pleasures of the flesh should've been enoughly convincing from now on. It wasn’t too hard. The man just had to find a scullery boy to accuse of the aggression, assure his fellow men they wouldn’t slip a word from their tongue, neither his. “What does my Prince wish for ?” At his reply, Daemon’s expression shifted to something more peaceful, no less threatening as Torgan knew the man could change in a matter of seconds. Daemon sat on a stool, bending forward he crossed his fingers before him, hands tied. 

“I have matters on hand, Torgan, see, words have been spread. I have been unfaithful to my engagement toward Rhea Royce. Now, we wouldn’t want any of that to happen, surely, Torgan ?” the latter nodded, immediately, listening carefully to the words of the Prince. “I wish for you to find a servant boy. Likely from the kitchens. One they can’t trace too far back. I’ll talk to the boy myself.”

Torgan blinked, unsure. “You—you’ll—” Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “Did I stutter?”

“No, my Prince.”

“Good.” He stepped back, just enough to let Torgan breathe. The prince’s expression didn’t change, but his hands unclasped. “Your task is to assure they can easily believe he has assaulted my cousin.” 

“Princess Rhaenys, your Grace?” 

“No. Princess Maegera, have I asked you to satisfy your curiosity, Torgan ?” The knight nodded left and right. Of course, he had heard the whispers, but he didn’t think any. Perhaps for the Prince to fight, was enough proof that the rumour might be true. That he, and the bastard of Aemon might've shared a night. That, the Rogue Prince might’ve had sullied the girl, and disrespected his future Lady Wife already. Torgan always wondered why Princes could slip inside the cunts of streetwalkers, but never the ones of the blood as high as theirs. Even those born from bastardy. “How does the boy need to look like, your Grace?”

“Bruised. Doesn’t matter as long he looks disposable. Pay enough his fellow servants for their silence if necessary, but never seek to give them information about our discussion. If the accusations are not believed enough, I’ll take care of the matter myself. But, as of now, I need you to follow orders,” he handed him over a small cloth, tied by a gold string. “Put this in little the boy owns. His pocket, perhaps, and discard the rest.” 

Torgan grabbed the soft object, sliding it in his own pocket as Daemon lent him a bag singing the chants of coins. He handed it over, but at the moment the knight went to take it, the Prince removed it. “You’ll make yourself discreet afterwards. It needs to be done when the Castle will be fully asleep and not afore, do you understand ?” 

Torgan nodded quickly, his face flushed with nerves and sweat, though whether from the heat of the brothel or the weight of Daemon’s command, even he could not say. “Yes, your Grace. When the castle sleeps. I understand.” 

Daemon removed himself from his seat, and as he started to turn around he grabbed one of the ‘dancers’ to push onward the direction of Torgan and made her impale herself on his length as the latter grabbed the hips of the woman right away, like a snake, Daemon moved around right to his ear. Throwing away the bag of coins as well. “If you fail, I will assure you won’t get neither your hands to touch, eyes to look, and cock to fuck.” 

Torgan gave a strained grunt of acknowledgement, already half-lost in the sensation of the woman’s body against his. But even as he gripped her, the heat of Daemon’s breath at his ear lingered far colder than the sweat on his brow.

The Prince’s words carved deeper than any blade. They echoed in his skull, sharp and uncompromising, leaving no doubt that mercy would not be offered twice. Daemon did not speak in jest, for all his threats were truthful. The woman moaned, oblivious to the danger that had just passed like a storm cloud overhead. Torgan's hands faltered for a second, distracted by the aftertaste of terror, before instinct kicked in and he resumed the act, as if it might drown out the dread crawling up his spine.

Daemon was already gone.

Torgan would do what was asked of him.

Because he valued his hands.

Because he valued his eyes.

Because he valued way more the very thing now sheathed inside a stranger’s warmth.

… 

Swiftly, the Rogue Prince had walked through the secret passages leading into Maegor’s Holdfast, walking to his chambers as he changed thoroughly, sliding into his night garments, washing his hands quickly into a bowl full of water and then his face. It was too late to bathe, he could just hope to remove himself from the discomfort of musk coiled on his skin. Daemon liked the sensation of sin as much as he loved to dissociate himself from it. As half an hour full of scrubbing thanks to soap and water had passed, he hid the cloak and the rags. The Prince laid a knee upon the edge of the bed, he heard his door open before seeing the door open and the light flicker in, in an instinct, Daemon cussed and grunt between his teeth, before seeing the silhouette of his father. Arms crossed under the threshold as he then closed his. Baelon’s expression was fatigued, his lips pinched into an emotionless smirk as his purple eyes were set on his son’s bothered face. 

“Where were you all day ? We haven’t seen each other much, as of late,” Daemon scoffed at his father. He removed himself from the edge of the bed and walked around his room to strip a chair for his father to sit in, and one for himself. He grabbed the nearest cups he could find to pour both of them wine. Baelon didn’t take the invite, sitting indeed but drinkless as his son sipped the grape juice with little thirst for it. “On dragonback, hunting shortly after midday. Caraxes needed to eat, and he prefers the stags and the pigs. I thought to spend a moment of bonding with my mount,” Baelon nodded, it explained why Daemon hadn’t been found by the Kingsguard until night came.  

He sighed loudly, his muscles sore from the day he had spent, as he cast aside his silver-gold hair. “I have searched for you. I needed a word with my son. But you were not here,” Daemon squinted slightly his eyes, wary of the next sentence his father might tell him. They weren’t as close as he was with Viserys, the latter wiser, married, and a newly-made father of Rhaenyra Targaryen. They could understand each other way easier than the Rogue Prince with the Spring one. “Now I am. What might I be of use, Lord Father ?” 

Baelon hesitated for a few seconds. To speak with his Prince, was to walk on a very thin line. Unlike Maegera, Daemon was sure, quick to anger, but cunning and slow in the way he avenged, and the Heir to the Iron Throne didn’t wish for his son to take offense upon need. “Boy, do you know how hard your uncle Aemon has worked for his bastard daughter to be legitimised before your Grandsire, how much he had to prove the babe was worthy to be as much seen as the Blood of the Dragon as Rhaenys might be ?” 

Daemon’s jaw tightened faintly, his cup lingering near his lips though he didn’t drink. He met Baelon’s eyes over the rim, unblinking, as though weighing the danger of the conversation. He expected this to happen, although perhaps not this late. 

“I suppose I know well enough,” he replied, voice even but sharp-edged. Baelon nodded once, slowly. “Yes. And yet, even with all his devotion, even with the evidence laid bare and her beauty beyond question, he could not keep the whispers at bay. Not entirely. The realm still sees her as the daughter of a Tyrell whore, a stain on his legacy, because her blood was mixed, and because she was born behind a closed door. Out of wedlock.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, resting the cup against his thigh. “And what of it, Father?” he asked, tone cool. “Maegera’s been legitimised. Her place is hers to keep or lose. What weight does her mother’s house bed have now, when she sleeps in silks?” Baelon’s gaze hardened slightly. “You forget that blood may be legitimised by decree, but not in the hearts of men. And not in the mouths of courtiers. Even those who like to gossip.”

Oh, Daemon knew where this was going, he could keep a smirk to dress up his mouth. Baelon pursued, leaning forward and looking away right after. “The whispers are that you sullied the girl during the feast of her nameday,” he admitted. Daemon scoffed, his teeth showing as he smiled, a curve as witty as his known persona. 

“And you believe them ?” 

“You have proven yourself often loyal to those who dared say under the breath such slanders, my boy.”

The Prince’s grasp around the cup tightened, a spark of anger flashing before Baelon’s eye and he knew it was already too late for him to avoid the inevitable. He could only keep at hand the damages of his carelessness. He seated upright, this time, hands on his lap, clutching on his trousers. 

“Daemon, man to man, I have known what lust was for your mother as you and your brothers were born from it,”  He began, reminiscing the older days with Alyssa, whilst grief installed itself in his heart again. Baelon shook his head slightly, wishing to put it aside for a short while at least. He’d cry later. “Thus, I will be stead : have you fucked Maegera that night, my son ? Is it true ?” 

Daemon did not move for a long moment. The silence between them thickened, heavy as the smoke that clung to the low ceilings after a fire had burned low in the hearth. The candlelight caught the curve of his cheekbone, sharp as a blade, and shimmered against the faint traces of water still clinging to his collarbone. His violet eyes remained fixed on Baelon’s face—calculating, unreadable, and yet, just beneath the still surface, storm clouds rolled. Baelon blinked. His back straightened, but he did not answer at once. He studied his son with the caution of a man unsure whether he was speaking to flesh and blood, or to the viper curled behind it. 

Daemon stood slowly, the motion deliberate, unrushed. The chair creaked behind his knees as he stepped away from the table and approached the tall windows, cracked open to the night. The chill of the air slipped through, brushing across his still-damp skin, a welcome contrast to the heat roiling inside him. Boiling, menacing to burst as he contained himself before his father. 

Vivid images came forth in his mind. The soft swollen lips of his cousin on hers, the way her dampness almost wrinkled his fingers, her taste on his tongue or the softness of her breast. Daemon held himself to the back of the chair. He could still hear the rustle of her silks, could almost taste the cool press of her mouth against his throat.

“That night, I took her out for a walk into the Keep, so I could give her her present. Then we departed, running because Viserys and Aemma could not keep to themselves. I found her after she screamed my name for help, disheveled, sobbing, bruised, distressed. I could not leave my cousin there, you know better that we have much… shared, she and I. Would you have me let her be raped by that lowborn of some ? And ruined for good, Lord Father ?” 

Baelon’s jaw tensed at the image Daemon conjured. He had not expected such a vivid defense, nor one laced with as much truth as venom. For a moment, his lips parted as if to speak, but he said nothing. His fingers curled tighter around the arms of his chair, knuckles whitening.

“Who?” he asked at last, his voice low, nearly a growl. “Who laid hands on her?”

Daemon turned his head slightly, eyes still cast toward the stars outside the window. “A scullery boy, born to pour into our cups. Yet, eager to draw his cock out before the drinks.” He looked over his shoulder. “Do you think I would not punish him for such insolence?”The words hung in the air, heavy, foreboding. Baelon stared at his son, and in Daemon’s eyes, he saw a flicker of that terrible pride, the kind only a dragon could afford. His son. 

He then thought back to Rhaenys, perhaps he owed his niece an apology. It was still too early to determine. “Is he dead?” Baelon asked, though he already knew the answer. Daemon turned fully now, stepping back toward the ignited embers. “I just scared him away, he took fear when I grabbed the nearest sword I could find to cut off his own weapon.” 

Baelon closed his eyes for a heartbeat, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he exhaled long through it. Relief did not come. It could not, each time he looked at Daemon, the Spring Prince would hold his breath until air would have grown thin into his lungs. 

Daemon nearly growled. He crossed the chamber with that feline grace he possessed, resting a hand lightly on the edge of the fireplace. The light flickered beneath his face, catching in the strands of silver-gold hair. “I frightened him. But I let him crawl away, balls intact. That’s mercy, is it not?” Baelon’s face was unreadable, a mask carved by years of battle and loss. But behind his eyes stirred a father’s weary anguish. “You should have told me sooner,” he said, almost quietly. “Before the court knew, before the whispers began.”

Daemon bristled. “I do not answer to the court.”

“No,” Baelon admitted. “But you answer to me.” That silenced Daemon. The tension in his jaw pulsed once, then subsided. A small win, for all these years spent in near submission to the Rogue Prince. “If the boy is alive, then he must be found again and punished for his actions. What did he look like ? Do you recall his name ?” 

“No. Not his name. Do I look like I recall all of those who serve us, Lord Father ? The lights were low. But I wounded him. He must be bruised from now on.”

The silence that followed was vast, swallowing sound and breath alike, thick as the velvet curtains that draped the windows behind Daemon, barely stirring in the draft. The chamber, though warmed by the crackling fire, felt cold at that moment. Baelon sat motionless, the firelight etching deep hollows into the planes of his face, casting shadows beneath his brow and along the tight line of his mouth. His throat bobbed once, as if swallowing a question he no longer dared. His gaze clung to Daemon, searching for his lies, or was it merely Daemon’s usual defiance, slicked now with the sheen of righteousness ? The prince stood tall, backlit by the hearth’s glow, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, exposing the pale cut of his collarbone, glinting with remnants of bathwater like dew on a blade. There was no tremble in his stance, no hesitation in the way he held Baelon’s scrutiny. 

Only that infamous smirk, tempered now by something darker. Something scorched. Baelon’s fingers relaxed from the grip of the chair, then twitched anew, uncertain, as if part of him wanted to reach out, take hold of his son’s arm, shake some semblance of clarity into him. But what would he even be grasping at? Truth? Control? Or perhaps the image of the boy Daemon had once been, before blood and women and dragons had marked him ungovernable. The candle nearest the old prince sputtered as if in warning, casting a shiver across the polished floor. Baelon inhaled, slow and deliberate, and still the air felt poisoned. 

“You wounded him;” he repeated quietly, tasting the words. “But you do not know his name.” His voice was flat now, cold with disbelief no accusation could fully clothe. His mind tried to bend around the idea. 

Oh, Daemon, the spit image of his late mother. All of her wrath, all of her passion. Baelon shifted, the old ache in his hip flaring as he did, and the weariness in his bones reminded him he had no strength left to chase every shadow cast by Daemon’s tongue. Yet still, doubt slithered in, cold and quiet. Daemon had always been a liar when it suited him. This could not be decrypted otherwise than to find the accused scullery boy who became the source of all of this bother. 

Baelon rose with difficulty, one hand braced on the carved dragonhead of his chair, the other pressing briefly to his lower back. His joints protested, but his pride would not let him wince. The firelight caught in the silver of his beard, casting a grim halo about his features. Daemon’s expression unreadable in the half-dark. Somewhere beneath that smirk, beneath the noble tilt of his chin and the drape of nightclothes, was a coil of something Baelon could not name. Was it shame ? Rage? Or that cursed hunger Daemon had always carried, not for power, but for chaos. A Rogue, indeed, he was. 

Baelon walked to the door, which he opened, leaving his son to stand alone in his chambers. “I will not wake the court tonight for the search. Tomorrow will be the day we’ll find the boy. Until then, do sleep tight, my son.” 

Daemon stood still as the door shut with a muted finality, the click of the latch as cold as the space his father had just vacated. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides, nails biting crescents into his palms. He stared at the door for a long, trembling moment, then turned his face away as if scorning even the empty air. The chamber was too quiet now. The fire sputtered low in the hearth, throwing up soft sparks and the scent of singed wood. Shadows danced along the stone walls, mocking him with every flicker.

The silver-haired prince moved, quick and sharp, shoving a chair with his foot, hard enough to send it scraping backward. He paced. One turn. Two. Three. The room shrank around him with each step, pressing at his ribs, needling under his skin. He bit the inside of his cheek. Iron and salt filled his mouth. Daemon's breath caught. He sank onto the edge of his bed, knuckles white where they clutched the sheets. His chest rose and fell in ragged waves. He knew, he knew perfectly that Baelon would have never questioned Viserys as he did for him, that his words would’ve had been near prayer, already. 

And, mayhaps that was the worst of it all. But there was no such mercy in House Targaryen. Not for boys born second.

He laid back slowly, eyes open to the stone above him.

Sleep did not come easily, but dreams eventually took a hold of his head. 

… 

The castle slept heavily, bloated from feast and wine, its guards dull-eyed or missing from their posts entirely. The kind of silence that only came when every soul believed themselves safe.

Torgan moved like a shadow along the cold stone halls, bold and deliberate, the soles of his feet numb from the chill despite the boots. He knew these corridors as well as he knew his own breath; the servants’ ways, the forgotten spiral stairs, the alcoves where rats nested and secrets festered. He kept one hand tucked into the sash at his waist, fingers brushing the small, wrapped object hidden there. Not yet.

He paused outside the old passageway—where the candlelight never reached. A rat skittered by his foot. He didn’t flinch. He waited. Counted. One... two... three. No sounds. No patrols. Not even the clink of a boot in the lower courtyard.

Good.

Daemon had been clear: Not swift. Not loud. Not obvious.

Torgan slipped inside the side passage behind the old armory. In the dark, his breath came out white, but his hands did not shake. He walked forth until the poorly-decorated rooms of the servants inhabiting the Red Keep. Nothing compared to the Royal Chambers, indeed. The rooms here were small, cobbled together from leftover stone. The walls bore no tapestries, just the soot and sweat of years unwashed. Wooden pegs served as wardrobes. Beds were pallets of straw or thin linen, some no more than threadbare mats on the floor. The floor was uneven in places, worn from generations of feet, and the windows—where they existed—were narrow slits, barred in rusted iron. There was no perfume here, no incense, only the mingled scents of oil, tallow, dried herbs, and chamber pots emptied too seldom. A single iron sconce every twenty paces gave just enough light to know you weren’t alone.

 With a flick of the wrist, he looked around to catch the mouse that’ll be sacrificed for the sake of a lie. A boy, not older than thirteen. Indeed, blond hair, barely washed of the coal and the hearth of the kitchens. He was lean and thin, barely enough flesh on his bare arms, snuggling inside of a woolen, a large blanket hovering on his silhouette.Torgan sneaked inside the small room, carefully he would not wake the boy just yet. As he opened the small object given by the Prince, he discovered a hairpin. Something worth many golds, for sure. Could only be worn by that royal cunt of that bastard princess , he thought.  

He slipped the object in the small pocket of the boy’s apron. Bruised , he had said . Daemon had wished for the boy to be bruised. Without much of a thought, he was too drunk anyway, the second thin pillow covered the young man’s face,  he punched his fist right into the bloke’s nose right after, muffling the pained noises that escaped his lips. Torgan ran out right after, putting his helmet back atop of his head, and melting into the black halls like a rat that had always belonged there. His heart pounded. The boy would live. That had been part of it. A corpse would only harden the court. But a bruised and broken thing, clutching a royal trinket. The rest, if he’d remain alive or not, mattered not. He descended the servant’s stairwell two steps at a time, bloodied knuckles hidden beneath his gloves, breath steady now. He felt no pride, if not the joy to know he could now spend his coin as he wished. 

As Torgan moved past the low arches of the west gallery—where the stone turned rough and damp, carved long before the Red Keep had been polished into glory—he caught a flicker of movement. Just a sliver, the edge of a shadow where it shouldn’t have been. He froze.

A girl stood near one of the support pillars, bucket in hand, still damp at the hem with water from the cistern. Mouse-brown hair, eyes wide with sleep and fear. Her mouth opened—too quickly. “What did you—?” Torgan closed the distance in three strides. He gripped her wrist, hard enough she winced. “You saw nothing ,” he whispered, venom in his breath. “You speak, and they’ll find your body floating in the Blackwater before the first bell. Understand?” She trembled. The bucket slipped from her grasp and clanged against the stone, spilling lukewarm water at their feet.

He leaned in closer, his mouth a sneer. “I’ve done worse for less than a peasant girl’s slip of the tongue.” She nodded, breath hitching, and took two steps back. He let go. Her eyes dropped instantly, and she turned and fled down the hall with the desperate speed of someone who would stay silent.  At least he hoped. Torgan adjusted the hem of his tunic, wiped his hands on his breeches, and carried on.

It had been simple, fairly too simple to his own liking. By the time he reached the lower courtyard, the silence was still absolute. The brazier guards were dozing. The scent of meat grease from the kitchens hung in the air like a ghost. Torgan paused by the stables, hand on the gate, and looked back once. Up there, far above, the towers of the Red Keep glimmered faintly under moonlight, tonight he wouldn’t sleep at the Soap House. No, he’d go to a better place, a better brothel with no whores, but courtesans he could pay. Courtesans. Silk-skinned women with painted mouths who laughed like queens and touched you like they meant it. Who called you “my lord” and never asked for your real name. He’d buy the tall one tonight. The Lyseni with the sea-glass eyes and falsely dyed wine-dark hair. She liked to pretend she didn’t know his kind. 

At least, until he’d pour the coin, for sure. 

The rest, 

Didn’t mean anything to him. 

Chapter Text

The news had spread like smoke, despite every attempt to contain it. Riots, whispered complaints, hushed murmurs, and others barely audible. Yet Daemon could not help but smile whenever he heard the name of his beloved cousin repeated more times than necessary. Debates, discussions, and glances cast his way that were, he knew, a mixture of fear and reluctant admiration.

It was decided that the servant, brutalised that very night, would be summoned to testify—to determine whether the crime had indeed been committed. Daemon feared nothing; Maegera, perhaps, even less so—impetuous and fierce in her own right. They shared that same trait, worthy of Dragonblood. Targaryens rarely did anything subtly, and with these two, perhaps even the Seven would have wished to intervene, had anyone dared pray for such a mercy. The Prince had given a promise to his cousin, and he intended to keep it: to conceal their debauchery—no, their passion—he would give all he possessed.

The improvised Grand Council convened in one of the lower halls of the Red Keep, where stone walls seemed to trap the heavy air of mistrust. The summoned nobles whispered among themselves, voices buzzing like flies drawn to carrion. King Jaehaerys himself had not been summoned—too weary, too ill, some said—but his councillors and the ever-watchful ears eager for tales were present.

Rumours, vile and clamorous, had already begun to circulate: impiety, lust, deflowered. Daemon inwardly rejoiced: if the boy were accused in his place, and their plan succeeded, no one would dare doubt that it was indeed the Prince who had saved his cousin from the wretch whose face Torgan had disfigured the previous night. No one would know that it had been Daemon himself, between Maegera’s thighs, that night.

The unfortunate servant was brought in. His tunic, still flecked with dried blood, bore witness to the violence inflicted upon him. He moved bent low, bowed by both pain and fear. He knew. All knew what awaited should he speak the truth.

Daemon, cloaked in dark finery, watched with a predator’s intensity. A faint smile played upon his lips, as if the theatre were staged solely for his amusement. Maegera stood slightly apart, yet every fold of her gown and every blink of her lashes proclaimed insolent confidence. She did not appear accused; she was regal, untouchable, radiating certainty. Her hair, bound in elaborate Valyrian braids, and the proud carriage of her shoulders declared her lineage. She was beautiful—magnificent even—a jewel forged of Dragonblood and the Rose of Highgarden.

The boy trembled so violently that his knees seemed ready to give way. His hands, crusted with dried blood, bore the marks of Torgan’s savage strike, meted out on Daemon’s orders. He had been washed hastily, yet the fear remained. Baelon the Brave sat on one side, Rhaenys Targaryen on the other, Viserys and Aemma with their infant, all present alongside the Maesters appointed to witness and judge. Only the girl’s mother was absent, Melany Tyrell having withdrawn to her flowered chambers three years after the birth of her bastard.

The lords regarded the boy as one might a trapped beast. The Maester leading the interrogation opened his register.

“You are accused of attempting to force Princess Maegera Targaryen. What do you say?”

A pause. Then a broken voice.

“Lords… I… I did nothing, I swear it!” He dared to lift his eyes, only to meet Daemon’s predatory smile. The dragon lounged casually, fingers tracing the guard of his sword as if savouring the sentence to come. Maegera, aloof, observed with sovereign calm. She held her head high, as if she commanded the assembly itself. Her violet eyes gleamed with a mocking fire.

The boy understood she knew. This was a trap, set to ensnare him. Her pupils, slit like a predator’s, met his, and Daemon’s almost demonic grin. He prayed to the Seven, yet knew well the bond these cousins shared.

Daemon stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, shadow long upon the stone walls.

“This dog lies,” he pronounced. “I caught him upon my cousin. She cried, she screamed, her garments undone. Were it not for my timely arrival, the stain upon her would have been his alone.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. Baelon frowned heavily. Rhaenys studied Maegera with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Viserys, awed by his brother, nodded slowly. Aemma drew her child close, shielding the babe from the corruption of the world. The Maester raised his hand for calm.

“Princess Maegera,” he said. “Do you confirm your cousin’s words?”

Maegera stepped forward. Each footfall sounded like a gavel striking stone. She did not falter, did not blush. She was dignity incarnate—fiery, imperious.

“Yes,” she said. “Prince Daemon and I had gone to receive the gift of my fourteenth name day. Afterwards, we parted. This boy sought me out, luring me to the kitchens, where my dress was undone, my chest exposed. I screamed, and thanks to the gods of our lands, Daemon arrived in time to save me.”

Her gaze swept the boy, sealing his fate. She continued, voice cold and sharp:

“This boy sought to dishonour me by his attempt. He would soil Dragonblood. I demand not vengeance, but justice. My father, may he rest in peace, gave his life to see me safe, and I will not see my honour destroyed in the same breath. Rumours have been spread because of his crime, and also against my cousin, Prince Daemon, who deserves recompense, for he shall not bear the price of another’s sin.”

The hall fell silent, so heavy one could almost hear the rustle of silk, the nervous flicker of candle flames. Maegera’s words struck like a queen’s decree. The Maesters exchanged uncertain glances; some lords turned away, wary of the insolent blaze in her Valyrian eyes. Daemon savoured every syllable, every inflection. He leaned back, arms crossed, satisfied the trap had closed. Pride swelled—oh, such pride in his cousin, the half of him, his fire.

The servant fell to his knees, weeping. His lips trembled, face swollen, every movement sending jolts of pain through him.

“Have mercy, my lords! It is not true! I would never—never dare… I swear it on the Seven, on the Mother herself! My hands, my mouth, would never have harmed the Princess, no matter the reward, I swear it! I beg you!”

“Enough,” Daemon commanded.

A heavy silence settled.

“Before I carve out your tongue for your lies. Your existence has already cost us dearly enough.”

The Maester swallowed, quill trembling above the register. None dared speak over Daemon; his sentence was clear. The boy clutched the stone floor, whimpering. Baelon, stern as ever, still harboured doubts, though the evidence was plain: the boy was wounded; the testimonies aligned.

“The Word of the Dragon prevails. The crime is established.”

Rhaenys averted her eyes, casting one last, piercing glance at Maegera. But Maegera did not flinch. She drew strength from her cousin’s presence, a pillar as steadfast as her own. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, and the air in the hall seemed to ignite.

Daemon drew Dark Sister without a word, the hall holding its breath. Baelon stiffened.

“Take him away,” concluded the Maester, his voice pale. “He shall be held in the dungeons until the King himself decrees his fate.”

Daemon shook his head—no. And Viserys felt his heart hammering against his chest like the drums of King’s Landing’s grand orchestras. Daemon stepped forward again, dangerous, his tall figure draped in black looming over the kneeling servant. His golden cloak and the crimson of his garments were the only splashes of colour upon his royal attire.

“There is no need to wait,” he cut in. “A dog who dares sully the blood of the dragon does not deserve to see another sunrise. I will not suffer such a cur’s existence within our walls. Especially when my honour itself has been dragged through mud before our allies, our enemies, and the common rabble in the streets.”

A shiver coursed through the hall. Slowly, Daemon drew Dark Sister from its sheath, the Valyrian steel catching a reddish gleam, as if dragonfire itself had lodged within its blade. The servant flung himself prostrate, shrieking, begging, whimpering. To no avail.

“Daemon, stop—this is not your res—” Baelon tried to interject, but it was useless. Colour drained from his face as the seconds stretched. Viserys, pallid, pressed his lips tight, unable to muster protest. Only Aemma turned her infant swiftly away from the scene, cradling little Rhaenyra against her breast, covering her pale ears from the sound of Valyrian steel rending fresh flesh.

Greedy. Ravenous.

Maegera watched, her eyes glowing with an indescribable light. Admiring. Flattered. Unflinching before the brutality of the act. This was Daemon—her Daemon. She and he, against the world. She had not stopped him—how could she?

The stroke fell, sharp and merciless. The boy’s head rolled across the stone floor with a dull thud, his body collapsing, spilling a dark pool that servants rushed to sop up—uselessly.

Daemon wiped the blade with a slow, near-ceremonial gesture before sliding Dark Sister back into its sheath. The murmurs timidly returned, but no lord dared break the silence imposed by Daemon’s presence. Even Baelon, statue-like, remained frozen, realising his younger son had established more than mere justice. His will. His law.

Maegera advanced slowly, each step tolling like a funeral bell. She did not look at the severed head, nor at the spilled blood—her eyes were fixed only upon Daemon, blazing with a fire that belonged to them alone. The violence of his act did not repel her; she approved it, adored it. Every inch of her proclaimed that her cousin’s fire and strength were necessary, righteous—that they had earned this unleashing.

Daemon, eyes still wet with the thrill of the deed, slid Dark Sister into its scabbard once more. He turned to his cousin, their gazes locking anew. Maegera smiled, a silent smile of victory, inclining her head ever so slightly—a gesture not of submission, nor of fear, but of recognition.

“Your blood may be that of a bastard, but my uncle gave you the name of Targaryen, was once heir to the Iron Throne, and recognised you as a Dragon. And a Dragon protects their own. I have no regret in severing the head of the cur, nor in taking justice myself for your honour.” He cast a look at his father and brother, a silent warning. “For only those who share our blood and our history can understand our customs, our complications. We are born of fire, we die in fire. And we take with Fire and Blood.”

A heavy silence fell once more, thick, palpable, as though the very stones held their breath. The gathered lords dared not murmur; some wrung their hands, knuckles white at the Prince’s violence and the icy precision of his strike. Baelon breathed slowly, feeling the weight of the world upon his shoulders. He knew no words could reprimand Daemon, and no court law could rival the fire within his son. And yet… a fragment of admiration stirred in his mind. This was the essence of the Targaryens—their strength, their excess, their fire that could both purify and annihilate.

Soon after, the session was dismissed, the assembly filing out at the fastest pace propriety allowed, hiding their fear of the Prince’s brutality. They left behind only the boy’s corpse, Daemon, and Maegera.

She knelt beside him at last, her gown drinking in the red of his blood. With idle amusement, her fingers toyed with the rolling head, its eyes bulging and upturned with the last sensation it would ever know: the cold, ravenous kiss of Dark Sister.

Maegera let slip a low laugh, almost mocking, mingling with the oppressive silence of the now-empty hall. Her fingers caressed the severed head with morbid curiosity, as though to ensure every trace of defiance was extinguished. Her hair, so long, was streaked in gradients of white and crimson, the tips of her silver curls dripping scarlet, staining even her alabaster fingers and nails like the finest Lysene dye.

She lifted her fingers to her lips, her tongue tasting the dead boy’s blood—still warm, metallic on her tongue.

Daemon watched her, eyes half-lidded, a smile stretched across his lips—half satisfaction, half admiration. Her gesture did not shock him. He knew it—nearly shared it. There was a fascination in the way she immersed herself in their traditions. Anything to erase, to scour away, the legacy of her bastard birth from roses. Anything to reduce her mother’s existence to ashes upon the canvas of her life.

He raised his face toward her, and she brushed the dead boy’s blood upon his lips as well, painting them crimson before lapping it away, letting it spill down his chin as she kissed him, savouring their crime still more.

Daemon let out a harsh laugh, a sound vibrating against the cold stone walls, thick with iron and fire. His hands framed Maegera’s face, fingers trailing through the mingled blood, branding their complicity in indelible red.

“You are… perfect in your savagery,” he murmured.

He pressed a kiss to her brow before wiping himself clean and departing, leaving her kneeling beside the corpse.

Maegera pouted, then shrugged at the servant’s body. “Dispensable—that’s all you ever were.” From beneath her skirts she drew a small vial, lifting the head to fill it before hiding it away once more, leaving the scene harsher than it had been moments before.

She rose slowly, every movement measured like a danse macabre. The chamber seemed to hold its breath, still saturated with the stench of iron and fear. Her eyes roamed the stones, the glass, the traces of chaos left behind—yet nothing touched her. Her mind was already elsewhere, beyond the walls of the Red Keep. No Maester, no lord could ever comprehend how she and Daemon had risen above law, above morality, into a realm where Valyrian blood ruled above all else. From childhood itself.

As she left the hall, her heels echoing on stone, she cast one last glance upon their justice: the rolling head, the glistening black pool, the silence that lingered. A smile curved her lips. All was perfect. All had been orchestrated flawlessly.

And yet, deep within her, the thrill of their crime still throbbed, promising her this was only the beginning.

She would have the Iron Throne. And Daemon at her side. She was the most rightful to claim it.

Chapter Text

Maegera Targaryen had never been a delicate creature, no matter how she had been schooled to be, nor despite her blood: she was known for her ruthlessness, her blunt tongue, her fearlessness, and her dreadful untameable nature. The execution of the kitchen boy spoke loudly enough, stirring indignation not only amongst her companions—he had been known as gentle and kindly—but also whispers throughout King’s Landing, and more so still within the Street of Silk, where whores and their patrons traded precious tidings for a golden dragon, or else for the parting of thighs. One, or the other, or both. All depended on the client. To many, the bastard girl was a blight: a stain upon the name of House Targaryen, upon the dynasty forged by the Good King Jaehaerys and his queen, Alysanne. The commons were growing weary of Maegera, and of the price paid for her whims: from a precious coin to the most unforgivable forfeit of all—life itself. The Bastard was comely, aye, and perchance that alone spared her hide from the many plaints and strictures tied to her station, and more so still to the laws of Westeros. Laws that bore down most harshly upon half-bloods born beyond wedlock such as she. Naught but the lustful folly of a prince who might have paid with his very life for his sins.

With the passing years, even the bards—ever eager to sing of Valyrian beauty—refused to speak her name, save when well paid, and with a prayer to the Seven that the Dragon’s Bastard did not come calling to barter them for success and ascent. Nor was it the first time the princess, despite countless rebukes, had caused turmoil in King’s Landing and the Red Keep, nor the first she was accused of stirring the murder of innocents to slink away from peril. Those who dwelt amidst filth and vice began to link her more and more to things far older than Aegon’s Conquest, older than Visenya and Rhaenys, older even than their brother’s dream, but to tales told by Dornishmen, silver-haired Lyseni, and priestesses out of distant Asshai. In the council chamber the lords buzzed like flies. Prince Baelon, heir to the Iron Throne, sat at the table’s end in place of his sire, too old and weary to attend yet another session convened some days after the boy’s death. Their eyes all met, every one, even Rhaenys’s, though she held her uncle’s wine cup at his side. Heavy with judgement, no words spoken, save for the low rumble of dragons without, reminding the Valyrians of the essence of their creed.

“My lord Baelon, if you permit me,” ventured at last Lord Stancell of House Tully. “Your son, Prince Daemon, slew in cold blood a boy whose judgement had yet to be rendered by His Grace. Such goes beyond the laws of Westeros, laws fixed for years by the House of the Dragon. If I may speak plain, Prince Daemon has committed a direct affront to the word of your own father, the King of the Seven Kingdoms. The plea was not yet ended, though the crime was proven. A final audience with our sovereign should have been granted ere any thought was given to such a grim spectacle.”
Baelon was no fool, far from it: quick of wit, sharp, well-read, a shrewd commander, valiant warrior, a deft regent, and a pleasing lover, all his life. Yet in that instant his mind strayed back to the boy’s incessant sobbing, still sprawled across the cold stones, to the way his voice would never again rise in lament, Dark Sister laid across his throat.

All knew that Daemon shielded his cousin, raising her far above the station granted her at birth, even beyond the toil of his brother Aemon. Baelon knew it, aye: none dared gainsay Daemon. Not even in thought. A taut silence spread, as if each word from Ser Stancell were a pail of oil upon flames already raging. A handful of lords gave the barest nod, hearing their own fears echoed, yet none went further. For all knew that in naming Daemon, they named not only the reckless, bloody prince, but also the Bastard in his shadow, whose influence poisoned his every deed.

Baelon loved his niece with all his heart. He had fostered her, cherished her, given all he had to her, seeing in her some echo, both like and unlike his beloved Alyssa. Yet he could not deny that son and niece were poison to one another. Oil upon fire, breath upon embers. “Ser Stancell,” he began, voice heroically calm, far from losing composure, “the laws of Westeros are made for men, not for dragons. Though I grant that my son has…”

He paused. A quick glance towards Rhaenys. “Spilt blood without our lord’s command, yet only a dragon may judge another, and so Daemon shall answer for his deeds. But not to you, nor even to me. To the Regent: His Grace Jaehaerys.” A shiver swept the hall. Baelon had ever bent close to authority, most of all that of the old king. But he had ever been a man for family. And it was not First Men, least of all Ser Stancell, who might fathom the ways of the House of the Dragon—or stand fit to pass judgement upon his younger son.

Lord Stancell bowed his head, yet his fingers, clenched tight upon the table, betrayed his discontent. He knew full well that his words, drunk in and spat back out, had loosed a truth that many dared not voice: Daemon, and in lesser measure Maegera, acted above the laws. And so long as the King lived—and he had not yet chosen to die—there would be no breach through which to strike them down. None would find the strength, nor the right.

“If you permit me, my lord,” he answered bitterly, “the House of the Dragon has ever been delicate on matters of blood. Does it trouble you not, that your elder brother took into his bed and openly acknowledged a bastard, born of a woman he never wed, nor ever gained the blessing of your father, His Grace Jaehaerys? Daemon is pure Valyrian stock, born of your marriage with the late Alyssa, legitimate in every way. Maegera is the fruit of fornication, sprung from your brother and a Tyrell who could not keep her thighs closed against the charms of the Heir to the Iron Throne, while he yet lived.”

A murmur rippled like wildfire through the oak-benches. Some nodded, others scowled, displeased but too wary to upset the fragile balance still holding the court. Rhaenys set down her cup without drinking, her pale fingers clenching the metal till they left a mark. She did not look to her uncle; her gaze slid to the windows, to the city already buzzing with echoes of the sentence. Viserys, whiter than the silver service before him, clenched his fists beneath the table. Aemma, her features taut, pressed a lavender kerchief—newly stitched—against her breast.

“That Prince Daemon cleaves so close to his cousin, a bastard, I remind you, and takes such interest in her… it fouls your standing before the other houses. How are they not to see an affront in it? The laws are upheld by those who rule us. What comes, when those who rule set them aside to do as they please? The appetites of your younger son, far from the wisdom of his elder seated here, trouble us sorely. Be it his forays in the Street of Silk, or the tales of his head buried betwixt his cousin’s thighs. I say we seek remedies, for to debate, however strong our fellowship about this table, will never find conclusion.”

Baelon loathed him. He hated him, and sought for support in Viserys’s eyes, though the boy had stayed silent as long as he could bear. He was not come to speak, only to learn. The presence of Aemma lent his firstborn some fragile comfort. Yet the lords—North, East, West, and more besides—began nodding assent, heartened by Ser Stancell’s boldness. Dissatisfaction ran thick in the chamber.

“The commons will rise, if they see cracks and weakness in your firmness. It is not the first time the girl has sown discord and ill fruits, no more than your son, who trails her into mutual depravity,” Ser Stancell ended, searing his throat with wine. Baelon felt the chamber close upon his shoulders like a vice. The knight’s words had stoked already bright embers; beyond the walls he could hear the murmur swell, the tread of the mob sniffing smoke before the blaze. He pressed his hand upon the table, leaning with all his weight, as if to remind them he was still a pillar of a house both fragile and terrible.

Stancell sought the backing of another lord, a shared wrath to give his words the weight of a headsman’s axe. But the eyes he met were cautious, burdened by self-interest. Who would stand this day against the niece of a prince who might strike off heads in the council chamber itself? Who would swear that tomorrow he would not need such a sword at his side?

“I propose several remedies,” the knight continued. The chamber froze a heartbeat. Aemma, Rhaenys, and Viserys turned to stone as Tully pressed on. “The girl’s mother lives still, hale and well, and her ways are better suited to the plots of Highgarden than those of King’s Landing. Let us send her to the Roses, there to trouble only those who have troubled you. Mayhap, if fortune smiles, some lord will wed her for her silver hair and lilac eyes.”

But he was not yet done. A nod from Ser Parne lent him courage. “Lys, too, might take her in. Your sister Saera would doubtless welcome her niece in her brothels, granting her bed, work, and reputation. Elsewise, our allies in the North might profit. Her beast would serve them well in war. Starfyre would be a stout rampart for the wolves. Such a gift we ought not overlook.”

Rhaenys, pale and keen as a drawn blade, rose. Her voice, when it came, split the air like steel. Viserys shrank in his chair, shaking his head as though to ward off a doom too near. His eyes, for once, sought mercy more than triumph. Aemma, clutching her kerchief, prayed the storm might pass without more blood. Baelon knew those looks well; they birthed in him a weariness almost unbearable. He was no longer only a prince—he was the uncle, the father, the judge they all awaited.

Baelon drew a deep breath, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of words hurled into the chamber. The thought of his niece traded like coin, reduced to weapon or burden, sickened him. Yet he knew these men did not speak from whim; they were already weaving the skein of her banishment, cloaked in polite suggestions.

“You speak of delivering the girl as one would a tarnished silver plate,” he said low, each syllable ringing like a tolling bell. “As if dragon’s blood might be bartered for a petty gain or a sigh of relief. Maegera was born of fire and blood. Her name, whether you will it or no, belongs to House Targaryen. Neither Highgarden, nor Lys, nor Winterfell may lay claim to what is ours.”

A chill silence fell. The boldest lowered their eyes. Stancell knit his brow, poised to reply, but Rhaenys cut him off, voice clear and without tremor.

“And if you exile her, do you think whispers will cease? A bastard sent to the roses, or sold to Lys—shall that be the memory left in the mouths of the commons? No. The rumour will cling, and shame with it. The singers will cry it louder yet. No. If we are to preserve the throne’s authority, we must keep her close. Beneath the King’s eye. Beneath his hand.”

Viserys, his throat tight, dared at last a word, voice near strangled. “Highgarden is no dreadful place, quite the contrary. To send her there would not harm her. She has never seen her mother’s lands. My uncle Aemon—may he rest well—took her only months after birth. Perhaps she might even find joy there. A daughter is ever closest to her mother, whose form she reflects, who gave her life. Ser Stancell’s thought is not without merit. My cousin is stern, aye, but she is still only a woman among us. Perhaps the mild, floral airs of Highgarden might suit her. She remains a Rose, Father. What say you?”

But Baelon, within, detested the notion. It was Rhaenys who answered in his stead, near scandalised. “You think truly, cousin, that Maegera, so bound to our traditions and our Valyrian heritage, would trade them for blossoms and Tyrell intrigues?”

Shivers ran the chamber. Silence thickened, a veil of smoke across the council. Rhaenys’s words had cracked like a whip, and Viserys, abashed, lowered his eyes, cheeks aflame, shamed by his poor instinct. Baelon, unmoving, his gaze hard but his face carved by weariness, was more shaken still by Viserys’s insolence—his looseness of tongue against his own blood, as if all the lessons drilled into him were no more than phantoms. Indignation burned within him. Some swore the chamber stirred with a hot breath, a draught passing through the great windows.

“You forget one thing,” he said at last, voice grave, trembling with contained ire. “Maegera is no common girl to be sent off at your pleasure. She is a dragonrider. She is bound to Starfyre, and none here hold the right to sever dragon from rider. Highgarden could not keep her, nor Lys. As for the North—the wolves will recall that fire bows to none. Starfyre is wilful, as her rider, and the two were reared together. Oft have dragons returned of their own accord to avenge us, to steal us back from woe. Starfyre alone, I dread, might prove worse.”

Lord Stancell shifted uneasily, his fingers drumming on polished wood. “Just so, my lord—that is the very peril. A bastard with a dragon is threat enough to us all. She heeds no law save those Daemon tramples at her side. She is a sword hung over our heads. You love her, aye—we all see it. But love makes not a kingdom. The commons do not forgive excess. Already they spit her name in taverns. Soon they will spit upon yours. And at your gates. They will rape your daughters, beat your sons to death, seize your riches, and seat themselves upon the Iron Throne while your silver heads roll, spiked upon their forks. That is what they will do.”

Some lords nodded slowly; others closed in upon themselves, unwilling to face the naked truth. Viserys shrank further, crushed between his father’s shadow and his cousin’s blaze. Silence weighed heavy. Some nodded again, less from conviction than relief at being spared the choice. Others thought already how to profit, how to bend the storm, how to whisper in Jaehaerys’s ear that Targaryen blood had curdled. Politics were never more ruthless than when power seemed to waver.

A few shared knowing glances: Daemon’s love for Maegera was no secret, though never spoken aloud in council. Baelon stiffened, his eyes of steel sweeping the chamber before fixing upon his heir, voice low, vibrating with wrath suppressed. Viserys knew well—after this council he would fare ill. He would have to pray to gods he scarce believed in to soften his father’s fury.

Baelon’s hands clenched upon the table. Stancell pursed his lips, ambition suddenly bridled by the weight of a name he could not challenge without imperilling his head. The prince sat still, then slowly lowered himself back into his seat. His face was closed, his eyes colder than the Red Keep’s stones.

Baelon leaned back, as a man stabbed between the shoulders by an unseen blade. His fingers cracked the wood of the chair’s arms. Each of Stancell’s words tolled in the air like a funeral bell none dared silence.

“You walk a narrow rope, ser,” he said at last, voice so low many had to strain to catch it. “Dragons do not forgive. And you have just affronted one. My elder brother, myself, and—aye—in some measure, our king.”

A shudder ran the lords. Some turned away, others fixed the table, praying the Seven that this tilt would not turn to blood. Yet Baelon knew it was already too late: the poison had been poured. Maegera’s name was on every tongue now, and even buried in silence it would sprout anew, in the dark alleys of King’s Landing, in the golden courts of Westeros.

“It is the King who rules. And so long as I draw breath, it is I who sees the house endure. Let it be known: Maegera goes nowhere, save by the will of Jaehaerys. Those who would see her gone may carry their pleas to the King himself. Let them dare.”

Baelon’s eyes of steel fixed themselves on Stancell, then slid, slow and deliberate, across every lord gathered, one by one, until none dared meet his gaze. The wine upon the table lost its fragrance in the thickening air, and each man knew the session was ended. Yet in the secret chambers of their hearts, all grasped a darker truth still: so long as Maegera Targaryen lived, and so long as Daemon raised her above her station, the fire smouldered—ready to consume whatever men sought to bind in chains of law and words.

The meeting was lifted in a rustle of cloaks, the lords eager to escape the shadow of dragons. Only Baelon remained, rigid and grim; Rhaenys, straight as a drawn blade; and Viserys, trembling beneath the weight of a future he scarce wished to claim.

“Aemma. Rhaenys,” Baelon said. No more command was needed—the tension in the air was order enough. Without ceremony, and with steps near hasty, the two women withdrew, eager to place distance between themselves and the storm awaiting both husband and cousin.

Baelon brooded, mastering himself before his son, who dreaded every heartbeat spent in the council chamber. This had been but the first round; the second was already upon them. Viserys swallowed hard, breath shallow, hands clasped like a boy caught in misdeed. His father sat unmoving, frozen in his chair, but the muscles of his face betrayed the tempest raging within. The silence, heavier than any cry, endured long before it broke.

“You have shamed me today,” Baelon said at last. “The King’s Hand. Your father. The Heir to the Iron Throne. Who are you, to think such words fit to utter? With what do you reason? Your wine?”

His voice was not raised, yet the grave timbre struck like muffled thunder. Viserys lifted his eyes timidly, uncertain if he dared speak. “Father, I only meant—”

“—to betray your blood,” Baelon cut him off, palm slamming against the armrest with a sharp crack. “You would trade your cousin as a pawn upon a board. A Targaryen! Before the council, before lords who wait ever for a fissure to sink their teeth into. Do you grasp what you have placed in Stancell’s hands, and all the rest?”

The youth’s mouth opened, yet no sound came forth. His cheeks burned scarlet with humiliation. Baelon leaned close, eyes like cold iron piercing his son’s.

“The people fear us because we are more than men. Dragons, Viserys. Dragons. And you—today you spoke as if our blood were no stronger than some faded rose of Highgarden.”

He paused, breath drawn, his contained wrath trembling in the air. Viserys, cowed, stammered at last. Rare had he seen his father thus enraged, yet he felt now the heat behind those violet eyes—the fury of a man who seldom angered, but when he did, proved perilous indeed.

“I—I thought it the best course. I meant no harm. I would never send her to Lys, nor to our aunt Saera’s whorehouses, nor bargain her away to the North. But… her mother—would that be so dreadful?”

Baelon froze, jaw clenched till his teeth whitened. His fingers bit deep into the wood of the armrest, so that some swore they heard it groan. For an instant he seemed on the brink of leaping upon his own son. The insult cut him raw, and Viserys seemed blind to the ruin he had sown. One leader alone was needed for the flock to follow, and the council were but sheep. Baelon their shepherd.

“Her mother?” he said, so low the words chilled Viserys to the marrow. “You would cast your cousin into the arms of that wine-soaked harlot who betrayed her vows, her house, and her king? You think Lys safer than the Red Keep? You think Saera less greedy than the vultures who already circle us?”

Baelon rose in a sudden motion, his chair screeching across the floor. His shadow fell upon his son like that of a dragon in flight. He dashed his wine to the stones, the crash ringing in Viserys’s skull.

“You disgrace our dead and our living alike with every word. You dishonour Aegon the Conqueror. You dishonour your grandsire. You dishonour your mother, who near died to bear you. You dishonour your uncle, who fell in battle and left two daughters behind—one of whom the King himself was pressed to acknowledge. Do you count yourself beast or dragon, Viserys? Will you devour her as meat for offering, or guard her as your brother and I?”

Viserys clenched his fists, nails biting deep till his palms bled. His breath came fast, lips trembling, yet he could not answer. Each name—Aegon, Jaehaerys, Aemon—fell upon him like a hammer-stroke. His father spoke not as prince nor Hand, but as man to son.

“I only sought to soothe discord… to shield our house from further whispers.”

“Whispers feed upon fear and weakness,” Baelon spat, knuckles whitening on the chair. “Today you showed both. Remember this: men are not pacified by flesh offered up. They are crushed. Ruled. Burned, and conquered. Thus did our forebears hold their empire, and thus alone shall it endure.”

Viserys lowered his head, unable to endure his father’s gaze. It was too heavy a weight.

“From this day,” Baelon said, voice like a blade unsheathed, “you will not speak in council without my leave. You will learn to listen, to watch, and to master your tongue. For should you falter again… you will not be merely my shamed son. You will be the unworthy heir of this throne. And I will not see all I have wrought undone by an idle, thankless boy. Begone. Ready yourself for what awaits you, fool.”

Viserys lingered but a moment, breath ragged, shame and anger warring within like storm-tossed seas. The chair beneath his fingers felt cold as iron, the floor steady, yet all within him reeled. Never had he felt so small beneath his father’s power. He left the chamber, leaving Baelon trembling—struggling to master the frustration, the rage, the humiliation dealt him not only by the lords, but by his own blood.

Gods be good, at least: Otto Hightower was not there to witness it.

...

Behind the thicker, deeper-set walls of the Red Keep, Maegera kept to her chambers, surrounded by books and scattered fragments of knowledge. The scribe had raised a brow at her request: all the records that remained of Old Valyria. Yet, before the princess’s austere and unyielding mien, he had little choice but to relent. The recent events had taught him enough lessons; he knew the boy, and he dared not refuse a royal’s demand. Royal she might well be.

Seated upon her vast bed, the pale girl pored over the tomes. Some were written in the tongue of her people, others in the common speech, and still others in a mélange of dialects that left her, to her surprise, faltering at times in comprehension. Draped in a heavy gown of snowy cloth hemmed in crimson thread, Maegera let her hair fall loose about her shoulders, unbound, freed from the intricate braids that befitted her station. It was not the garb of a lady set to appear at court, but an armor of solitude of her own making: the ample folds hid her form, still slender in youth, the pallor of her skin sharpening the severity of her features, softened only at the sight of her uncle, her father, or her cousin. The fire in the hearth crackled low, her chamber cloaked in a comforting half-dark, its glow scarcely bright enough to let her read the lines before her.

Books lay stacked about her: The Flame of the First Men by septa Ysabel, a treatise on the mingled faiths of Westeros and Valyria; an ancient vellum roll, half-erased glyphs telling of sacrifices in the Age of Heroes; and even a manuscript stolen from the Citadel—or gifted in secret, who could say—detailing forbidden rites of Valyria before the Doom.

And there, the thing she sought: blood magic. She had heard it spoken of only in warnings, whether from zealots or followers of the Seven. A practice recounted as near commonplace by the scholars of Asshai, oft accused of sorcery. She shook the vial of the boy’s blood in her hand, the dark fluid thinned with water to keep it liquid, usable, inviolate. Pure as it could be. If she could not take the Iron Throne by the will of the people or the law, nor by force of arms (she could never raise an army, and knew it well), then she would take it by vice. Magic, Maegera knew, was a power her kin had let wither, its practitioners few, too few. Discretion was therefore her shield.

Her gaze lingered on an illustration of a shadowbinder of Asshai, veiled in dark robes, cradling a chalice of blood. Would Rhaenys have turned away from such a page, or Baelon demanded the book be burned in the Red Keep’s hearths? Maegera instead drank it in with near-religious hunger. These forbidden arts had not wholly vanished. Their echoes breathed within these pages. Some whispered that certain Valyrian mages could bind destiny itself in rituals of flesh and fire.

Maegera raised the vial to her eyes. The liquid stirred faintly in the firelight. Her first talisman. A proof her designs were no folly. A means to bend her grandsire’s will, to claim more voice, more station, more place. She thought, bitterly, that without Daemon to serve as her sword, she would win little. He had told her himself, at her fourteenth nameday feast, that she would make a fair queen. But had he meant it, or merely sought to flatter? Daemon was no liar, she knew, yet wine could sway a man’s tongue. She pictured herself upon the Iron Throne—not by army nor by the fickle love of the commons, but because no man, no lord, no brother dared oppose her. Like Maegor.

Yes, like Maegor, she thought, and a heady thrill swept her. The fire’s flickering shadow hardened the edges of her face, perhaps still drawn taut by the trial-that-had-not-been. The very name of that hated king rang like a challenge. He had ruled by blood and fear, and history had damned him. Yet was that not the only way to hold a realm? Rule was not prayers nor honeyed words, but the certainty that power admitted no contest. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the vial. Gently, she set it down, as if it might burst and spill truths too vast to be contained. She closed the frailest scroll and rose, her heavy gown trailing in silence across the cold stone floor. Her steps carried her to a narrow window, open to the night. The breath of the Blackwater Bay brought salt and the faint smoke of dying hearthfires. Beyond those walls, thousands lived, prayed, feasted.

A brief smile, near imperceptible, touched her lips. If she mastered these arts, she would no longer be pawn to her grandsire’s hand, nor a cousin bartered to seal some lord’s pact. She would be power. Fear. Legend. Like Maegor, aye. But perhaps… more still. With a graceful motion she loosed her gown, letting it fall away, baring the light curves of her frame to the moon. Her pale skin gleamed, unearthly, and her lilac eyes seemed the clearer for it. Daemon would come soon, as she had bidden, when the braziers of King’s Landing were lit one by one, when the bells rang.

But Maegera did not wait for him to act. Her alabaster hands traced clumsy sigils upon the cold stone floor, using a coarse coal stolen from the hearth. She followed the halting instructions of a worm-eaten manuscript, its margins devoured by age. The Valyrian glyphs coiled awkward and misshapen, yet heavy with a sense she nearly grasped. She placed the vial at the circle’s heart, where the words crossed. A dozen candles burned about her, their flames already quivering as if the air itself balked at her summons. Silence thickened, broken only by the hearth’s crack.

“Vezof jin azantys vējo.”

Then cries. A boy’s cries. Pain, grief, fury. His voice in her skull. He cursed her for oathbreaker, swore he would haunt her beyond her end. She saw his shape in blood, dripping, shambling from the circle. Crimson tendrils climbed her flesh like vines, veiling breast and loins, coiling about her waist, creeping into her pale hair. Maegera staggered, throat dry, breath seared. The figure flickered—half blood, half memory, a shadow of the boy she had cast down for her design. His veins upon her skin clothed and shackled her at once. The dead still fought, crying that he had not defiled her, would never have dared, swearing that Dark Sister’s steel had been ice.

The fire leapt wildly, shadows crawling along the walls. From the hearth, a black coil hissed forth like a reaching hand. Trembling, Maegera braced her palms on the cold stone, white-knuckled with fear. The circle pulsed, an open wound. The air reeked of iron and soot. The blood-shade convulsed, shifting between boy and faceless mass, eyes without pupils judging, imploring.

“I never touched you, and you know it. I served you, and your tainted blood, with loyalty. I closed my eyes to my own faith, for yours. And you used me, sacrificed me, to hide your foul deeds with your cousin. And now you disturb my death, my rest? Are these the ways of Dragons?”

Her chest tightened. For the first time in long memory, she wavered. The words rang not as accusation, but as truth undeniable. Her fingers traced the glyphs again upon her thigh, as though her flesh itself sought to brand them. The vial drained in a sudden gasp, swallowed by the circle. The boy’s shape dissolved in red motes, then silence. One by one the candles guttered out, leaving only the faint glow of the hearth. Blood trickled from her nose. She bent low, regaining her breath. A chill caress brushed her nape. She spun—but nothing. Only the sense that something had seen her, and would not forget.

The bell tolled. Maegera lifted her head, gasping, still naked amidst smudged glyphs of sweat and blood. Her pale hair clung damp to her breast and neck, catching the hearth’s glow. A second peal, closer. She knew. Daemon was here. He wasted no time, shifting the hidden shelf by her bedside. Tall, broad, clad in his city garb, his fingers stained red. She stared, uncomprehending, until he wiped them upon her bare thigh. The smear spread like a painting of ruin. She raised her chin, lilac eyes hardening. His silver hair, tousled beneath his cape, framed the crooked smile that was his alone.

“Ever eager to startle me, little cousin.” His tone, a rasping jest edged in warmth, split the tension like silk to a blade. Maegera, standing bare and bloodied, held his gaze. The half-faded circle behind her cast shifting shadow, yet Daemon did not look away. He came nearer, his cape brushing the stones, shutting the door with a sharp motion.

“You were never shy of shedding your veils,” he said, violet eyes locked to hers. “But I had yet to see you drenched in blood.”

Maegera drew a breath, words failing. “Does it not repulse you?”

Daemon laughed, a low sound, savage with mirth. “I am a man of war. The blood on a woman’s thighs will not unman me. If it does, then he was never fit for the sword.” He studied her, half-veiled in the hearth’s ruddy glow. A thumb brushed her cheek, smearing sweat and dried gore alike.

“You are not surprised?”

“Why should I be? That you trifle with powers that would break lesser women?” He leaned close, his breath at her ear. “No, cousin. To see you cloistered and pious would surprise me. But bloodied and bare? That is a gift.”

His words brushed her like a poisoned caress. The heat of the hearth, the iron tang still heavy, wove about them. Maegera stood rigid, veins afire with glyphs yet unseen. “A gift?” she echoed, dry. “The gods would call it blasphemy.”

“The gods do not sit the Iron Throne. And I pray not to those who turn their eyes from fire and blood.”

His hand slid from her cheek to her throat, down to the hollow of her collarbone. Insolence curled his smile. She let out a thin laugh, taut yet true.

“And what do you see, Daemon?” she asked, fever in her lilac eyes. “A priestess? A queen? Or a madwoman who calls the dead to her side?”

Daemon’s gaze flicked to the circle, still faintly alive with its taint. He did not recoil. His smile sharpened, near feral, the very mirror of Caraxes. Dragons and riders ever came to resemble one another. His hand settled at her waist, fingers scratching through dried blood.

“I see a Targaryen. And that is enough.”

Without further prelude, he seized her breast with his mouth, while one hand swept away the dried blood upon her skin, rising to her throat, her collarbones, before he pressed her down to the floor, upon the very circle itself. The Princess’s hand wandered to the fabric of his breeches, feeling the seams strain. The bastard loosed a sigh from her lips, while Daemon’s were left curious—and more than that, ravenous—for the metallic taste that lingered on her fresh flesh, drifting in from the open windows of her chamber. He bit her lips, tasting her blood, cleansing her of the boy’s that had stained her before. A candle shivered and flared brighter as the Prince’s lust overtook the moment. Yet Maegera received him with great avarice. She wanted more, always more of him.

He rose, his eyes aglow with a light near bestial, as ever they were when it came to her, until her finger traced his cheek. Behind them, one candle that had not yet burned away sprang alight once more, its flame quivering, as though to remind them that the circle was not wholly broken. Daemon turned from it but a little, his eyes narrowing, aware that something uncanny lingered. Yet he delighted in being watched.

“What do you seek to do, little flame?”

Maegera smiled, emboldened by her cousin’s boldness, and reversed their places: her body above his, her hands clasping his beside the Prince’s face, her legs wrapped about his thick, muscled waist, feeling the power of him even through his clothing. A warrior he was, a warrior he would remain.

“I want the Iron Throne, cousin. And you beside me. To see our traditions reborn and carried forth, far from the pestilent rot of these Andals and First Men, revived from faiths drowned by time and abdication.”

Daemon gazed at her a moment, a flash of fury mingled with admiration in his violet eyes. The Princess’s breath upon his face, hot, near scorching, bore with it the scent of blood and flesh. He did not laugh this time, but let his fingers trace the length of her arms, slipping beneath her neck, pressing gently, as though to assure himself she would not vanish into the air thick with magic and desire. He pressed his hardness against her pale, rounded thigh.

“Revive…” he murmured, almost to himself. “Perpetuate… and dominate,” he finished, his lips brushing hers.

Maegera nodded, her lilac eyes burning like embers. She felt the circle of blood pulse beneath her. The dead, whom they defiled with their lust, were angered. Daemon’s hand slid down her waist, over her hips, his fingers sinking into the warm flesh of his cousin. He loved her fire, the way she never yielded, her resilience and her persistence in every design. Far from the fate of many women of their House, or of the Houses beyond. Ally or enemy alike. His dear cousin had all the makings of a ruler.

Maegera’s heart thundered, not with fear, but with a new, dangerous exultation, coursing through her veins like the blood she had given. She bent close, their breaths mingling.

“It will not be easy, you know that, don’t you?”

The bastard smiled at her words, and Daemon’s own grin spread wider. He seized her breast once more in his hand, rolling the mound of flesh between his roughened fingers.

“I never said it would be, least of all for a woman of my blood and station… But I know that with you, so long as you follow me, then the Iron Throne is no dream, Daemon. Avy jorrāelan.”

At that, the Prince kissed her again, full upon the mouth, their breasts pressed against each other. He drank of her sweetness as much as her peril, rapt by the heady madness of her excess.

“Then we shall make you more than a queen,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, thrumming with desire and reverence. “We shall make you a legend. Together. Seated on that chair of swords, and I shall see you climb the steps, I shall place the crown upon your head with my own hands.”

A shiver coursed down Maegera’s spine. Her fingers tightened over his. Daemon smiled, pride and hunger mingling in that simple act. His lips descended along her jaw, tracing the curve of her neck, planting burning kisses, each breath a defiance of order and of gods.

His hands, skilled, guided Maegera’s body. He had restrained himself for years, and would continue, only so long as the game amused her, his cherished cousin. Maegera let out a low laugh, winding her arms about his neck. She smelled the blood, felt the heat of flesh, the metallic tang still on her lips… but beyond all, she sensed the promise of an empire to come, forged not by law, nor by piety, but by those bold enough to seize power in their own hands.

Their bodies tangled with the wild gentleness of anticipation, and the harshness of fate, each gesture and each breath sealing their pact. And in the silence of the night, as King’s Landing slept beneath its mantle of moon and salt—

“And what of the woman you are to wed?”

He arched a brow at her question.

“Rhea Rhoyce?” Daemon laughed low, a rough sound that echoed against the stone walls. Again. “I care naught for the Bronze Bitch.” His left hand pressed against his cousin’s womanhood, gripping her with all his strength, applying fierce pressure between her thighs. “My desire has lain here since first I was old enough to feel it.”

Maegera’s breath caught beneath the audacity of his touch, yet her lilac eyes did not waver. The pain of the pressure, mingled with brutal pleasure, drove her further against him, her thighs closing instinctively over the Prince’s hand. She clutched his neck, her fingers tangling in his disheveled silver locks.

“Then you know where your throne lies, cousin,” she murmured, each syllable a challenge, her mouth grazing his ear.

Daemon broke into a low, savage laugh, as if she had roused the beast he barely sought to contain.

“My throne is upon the battlefield, atop a dragon, in the heart of spilled blood. But you…” His fingers sank deeper, a growl rumbling in his throat. “…you may well be the only realm I shall never abandon.”

Maegera laughed, before seizing the small blade she had kept close, its steel glinting in the moonlight. She showed it to the Prince as one might offer a gift. He understood at once, without need for words. Daemon had eyes only for her. He flung her to the floor once more, his lips tracing a burning path from her shoulder to the swell of her breasts. He spoke between kisses, his words both oath and threat:

“They will accuse us, they will hate us, but they will kneel. For none shall dare raise hand against two dragons.”

He rolled the blade—stolen, somehow, in that instant—between his deft fingers, until at last he seized hers, slicing gently the flesh of her palm, not deeply. Maegera arched her back, her fingers clawing at the cold stone beneath, her clear laughter ringing out, mingling with the crackle of the hearth. The Targaryen turned the blade upon himself, cutting his own palm, then brought both their hands to their mouths.

Their lips tasted of iron, of the coppery bitterness of mingled blood. A carnal, sacrilegious pact, written not on parchment but in their veins. Maegera felt warmth flood her chest, as if Daemon’s blade had opened an unseen door in her flesh, a passage where desire and power were one. He fell upon her like a beast, sharing once more the crimson draught to seal their alliance forever.

“You see?” he whispered, his lips stained red, near drunk upon it. “The world may well rend itself apart around us. You and I—we are eternal. No septon, no maester, no king shall ever unbind us.”