Chapter Text
‘’Look at you, Daemon! Again, with this nonsense. I tire of the taste of disappointment on my tongue.’’ His father grouses, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
‘’It wasn’t – ‘’
‘’Silence! I will hear no more of your lies. There were witnesses, Daemon. The tourney was meant to unite our borders and strengthen our bonds. You were knighted for God’s sake – how could you bring shame upon our house like this again?’’
Daemon keeps his words firmly behind his teeth.
It does not matter that the boy from the Riverlands had attempted to rape a maid. It does not matter that Daemon had beat him into unconsciousness and left him naked for all to see in the training yard when he awoke. No one would listen to his words. It has been like this since his mother passed and it would continue to be as such for all his days.
He was a second son. A spare to the heir. A necessary child for the line of succession, but not necessarily wanted. He can only recall snatches of warmth, of hugs and songs in the firelight from his childhood – all from his mother who no longer walked amongst them.
Through the years as he was teased and tormented by his peers, a Prince yes, but a second son all the same - he had learned quickly that should he wish to rise above that title – he would need to be ruthless to do so.
He had perfected the art of provocation, instilling fear, and trepidation into the voices and souls of those who dared to utter his name with contempt or mockery.
Having established a clear and concise network of spies, of loyalists; he kept himself well-informed of the realms affairs, gathering information on all those high enough to take a seat at the table in the game for the throne.
He coveted the crown. Yearned for it relentlessly as he watched his father, King Baelon, instruct his first-born son from atop his throne.
Viserys was a simpering fool. Lax in all studies apart from the history of his family. Lazy and weak when taken to sword, his training and discipline lacklustre and unworthy of any acknowledgement.
Daemon has spent hours training with his sword, countless more leaning the different ways one could rule a kingdom and yet never, not once has his council been sought. Never have his opinions been heard or considered. Only outright denied or ignored when he had been bold enough to share them.
‘’This is a matter for the future King.’’ His father, the Spring Prince would comment before dismissing him with a wave of his hand.
Daemon had slowly begun to burn within. His pride, his confidence festering into a pool of inky-black sludge which had spread to all other aspects of his personality. Naturally, now as a man of three and twenty – he could scarcely recall the boy he used to be.
And he was glad for it.
He was reckless, cruel, persuasively manipulative in all his calculated decisions and those who were misfortunate enough to come across him - did not leave unscathed.
‘’I cannot allow you to act as you please. It is time you found a wife, Daemon. Perhaps a few children will settle the fire within you. Make you cease this atrocious need for validation and recognition.’’
‘’I do not seek -!’’ Daemon shouts, indignant with rage but his father simply rises from his chair and shakes his head. Coming to a stop beside him, Daemon bristles as the old man lays a hand upon his shoulder.
‘’Why can you not be more like your brother? The people love him, Daemon. You would do well to learn from him. You will always be a second son, and I am sorry for this, but you are unworthy of the throne as you are now. You always will be, I fear.’’
Baelon sighs, leaving Daemon agape and shaking with rage.
He laughs softly, eyes filling with tears which he refuses to let fall. Dark Sister trembles in his shaking, clasped grip. The Kingsguard have all followed their King, and he is left alone in the hall where once again his words have gone unheard.
Too long has he been dismissed and cast aside.
He glares at the Iron Throne, cursing it, yearning for it in equal measure - before his eyes narrow.
If he cannot be King, he would ensure his children would sit the throne - and if he brought no children into this world – he would ensure that no Targaryen, no Dragon would ever again rule the seven kingdoms.
****
Rhaenyra – Kings Landing
As she enters the room with shaking hands, nausea within her bringing bile to the back of her mouth - the words she had just overhead repeated endlessly within her mind.
Rhaenyra closes her eyes and stifles a sob by biting down on her tongue.
The Queen is with child.
Rhaenyra clutches the lapel of her dressing robe as the satin softly glides against her skin with each step. Something is building inside of her, a feeling of intense rage and betrayal.
On behalf of her father who has been shamed, on behalf of her own withering and broken heart which has been betrayed by two of three of people she has loved the most.
Once, long ago when her Septa’s had explained the concept of marriage, of her duties as a wife – whenever she was asked who she wanted as a husband – she would point to her uncle. As child of two and ten she did not understand the wry and smug smile of her uncle, the aghast spluttering of her father or the knowing smirk upon her mother’s mouth.
How she had once longed to hold a babe in her arms from his seed - but all of her dreams had crumbled in a matter of moments.
Alicent sat before her now, brushing her hair until the mahogany locks shone and shimmered in the candlelight. The lengths of her locks brushing the small of her back and curling at the edges. Once, Rhaenyra had called her sister - but those feeling were long dead and forgotten.
Now she sees the woman who was carrying the child of the man she has loved for most of her life. As a woman grown of seven and ten she was now at the age to wed and provide heirs - but the man of her dreams had disgraced himself and torn her heart asunder.
The harlot, the adulteress, the woman who warmed the Kings bed before her mother’s ashes had even had the chance to drift with the breeze across the sea – hums to herself as she continues to brush her hair.
Intense fury overcomes Rhaenyra the longer she observes her former friend smile at her own reflection. Hatred warps and twists the princesses heart as she sees how the Queen caresses her belly and exhales softly and happily at the slight roundness beneath her robes.
Rhaenyra steps partway around the partition separating the bedchambers from the sitting area – and Alicent’s scream is stifled by her own hand as she startles at the Princesses sudden appearance.
‘’Rhaenyra, gods be good, have you lost all sense coming here this late at night?!’’ The Queen abruptly stands, her eyes narrowing.
‘’Is it true?’’ Rhaenyra steps forward, the white hem of her robe dragging behind her on the stone floor. ‘’Is it true that you carry his child? Daemons child?’’ she utters darkly and Alicent pales.
‘’It … it is a blessing, Rhaenyra. Your father has long tried to bless me with a child but no amount of prayers offered to the gods have been heard or rewarded.’’ Alicent picks at the skin around her fingers and Rhaenyra watches the beads of blood pool at her incessant scratching.
‘’You dare – ‘’ Rhaenyra breathes ominously ‘’ – You dare to carry my uncles child and pass it off as my fathers.’’ The princess glowers severely, the features of her finely carved face shrouded in shadow and flickering flame.
‘’He… he loves me, Rhaenyra. Daemon… he told me so himself.’’ Alicent snaps and Rhaenyra’s laughter is nearing the edge of hysteria as she snaps.
‘’You stupid cunt.’’
Alicent gasps, a hand flying to her mouth at Rhaenyra’s vulgarity but the Princess releases a savage smile. ‘’You think he loves you only because that is his wish. To make you believe it so that he may manipulate you whichever way he pleases to achieve his desires. My uncle is incapable of love, my good Queen.’’
‘’Lies! He has told me. I have felt it, in the way he kissed me. In the way he held me when we conceived our child!’’
Rhaenyra’s smile vanishes instantly, eyes narrowing dangerously as she is forced to relive the last time she saw her uncle.
Him, holding the Queen against the wall, fucking her, moaning as he spends himself inside of her.
‘’Leave my chambers immediately or I shall summon my guards.’’ Alicent sniffs, hands protectively cradling her lower belly and Rhaenyra feels the hilt of the blade within her hand dig into the palm of her flesh as she keeps it hidden from view within her pocket.
‘’You intend to keep it?’’ The princess cocks her head, neck craning long and willowy, pale flesh on display as her long golden locks cascade over one shoulder.
‘’This is a blessing.’’ Alicent insists once more. ‘’You have no business prying into my affairs – your foolish infatuation with your uncle, your kin, is sickening. You should attend the Sept on the morrow and pray for your soul - as it will surely be tortured for the sin of lusting after Daemon if you do not repent.’’
The way she utters his name – as if Daemon belongs to her somehow – whites out all sound, forces the blood to pump harshly in Rhaenyra’s ears – and she closes the distance between them in two swift steps.
The blade plunges into the good Queen’s belly and the righteous fury she feels shakes her very soul.
Rhaenyra’s hand which clasps over her former friends mouth is harsh and bruising as she watches the Queen’s eyes widen in fear, a guttural grunt leaving her chest, a trickle of blood flowing from the corner of her rapidly paling lips.
The princess removes the blade – and plunges deep once more.
Another pained gasp, another shudder beneath her palm and Alicents knees buckle. Her body sinks to the ground and Rhaenyra keeps her grip on the hilt of her blade steady, and determinedly in place. The wetness which covers her hand is a mild distraction, the copper tang of blood in her nose as the Queen gurgles in shock, an errant, distant thought.
All of it is separate, apart from her.
Happening yet not happening.
Real yet unreal.
The princess lowers the limp form of Alicent to the ground completely, cradling the back of her head as she lets it rest on the stone-cold floors.
Rhaenyra leans over her, hair brushing through the crimson pool of blood around the Queens belly, dyeing the edges of spun wheat a vibrant red – and places her lips on the forehead of the woman she has just murdered.
Rhaenyra removes the blade part way, the shredding sound of flesh and the squelch of blood overly loud above the roar in her ears. The Princess is entranced as she observes the light drain from Alicents eyes and she recalls her memories of the childhood and secrets shared, of late night whispering and laughter which made them ill and inevitably into trouble with their Septas.
She would have never permitted the Queen to fool her father, to make a mockery of the misguided love the King held for his false and traitorous wife.
She could not allow the babe to be born.
Rhaenyra brushes the mahogany strands which had fallen over Alicents forehead back with trembling hands, smoothing them down and tucking them neatly behind her ear.
Real and unreal.
I will hang for this she idly thinks and yet there is nothing inside her at present which could summon the fear she should surely be feeling at the thought.
It was a price she was willing to pay to prevent her uncles seed from flourishing within a belly which should have been hers.
Rhaenyra releases her grip on the blade and rises slowly, vacant eyes unfocused and unblinking as she stares at the veritable pool of red surrounding the corpse in front of her. She observes how the liquid swirls, encounters cracks and crevices and diverges from its predetermined path until it reaches her feet.
The cream slippers she had donned when she had initially set off on her nightly walk - were now unrecognisable - as the blood begins to dry and stain the material black. She has no conscious awareness of how long she stands towering over the body on the floor – until she hears the creak of a door in the silence enveloping her and she slowly turns her head to greet her fate.
‘’This is not the sight I expected when I entered these rooms and yet - I am pleasantly surprised nonetheless.’’ Lord Larys chuckles softly, beady eyes glinting menacingly as he circles her, club foot scraping behind him and the hairs on the Princess’ neck prickle at the sound.
Rhaenyra stares blankly at the snake before her. She has no words of defence, none which would absolve her of her sins, or make right the wrongs committed by her own hand this night.
‘’I know why you have done this.’’ Larys remarks gently, hovering beside her left shoulder as his lascivious eyes roam over her form, lingering over her breasts, smirking at the sight of all the blood drenching the front of her robe.
‘’This is all Daemons doing is it not?’’ The snake coos softly, carding his fingers through the red-tipped strands of her hair over her shoulder. He palms the locks and brings it to his mouth, breathing deeply and inhaling with fluttering lashes.
‘’I can fix this Princess. All you have to do is say the word – and promise to grant me a boon when I require one.’’ He sniggers quietly and the Princess shakily lifts her hands and stares at them, fingers coated red, nails grimy and full – her breathing quickens as her chest rises and falls and Larys hushes her gently with a pat to her lower back.
The full force of her actions slam her back into awareness and she gasps for air, clutching at her throat –but Larys places a hand over her mouth and she batters at him with tiny fists as she struggles to flee his clutches - yet he catches her effortlessly - and holds her murderous hands within his own gnarled clasp beneath his chin.
‘’Calm yourself lest you wish to bring the entire castle to the door with your panic.’’ He hisses, teeth flashing in a snarl and Rhaenyra’s mouth closes, nostrils flaring instead as her mind crumbles in increments.
‘’If you so wish it I can make this seem to be an unfortunate accident. A kidnapping gone awry… is this what you wish?’’ he grips her chin harshly, oily black eyes demanding an answer.
‘’I – I wish to disappear.’’ Rhaenyra stutters, hoarse and frightened.
‘’Disappear? You, the heir to Iron Throne? There would be an endless search for you, Princess. The Realms Delight is known to all.’’
‘’I wish for it to end.’’ Rhaenyra raises her eyes to his, pleading for his aid. ‘’Will you help me?’’
‘’Anything for the Realms Delight.’’ He palms her jaw and smiles widely.
Daemon - Dragonstone
Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Daemon inhales steadily, his opponent a seasoned warrior, sturdy and large.
The man snarls and attacks foolishly like a wild boar running through the trees intent on knocking him to the ground – but the prince has always been swift on his feet and he simply steps to the side as his opponent barrels towards him.
As the man pivots forwards, momentum the enemy of his larger frame, Daemon firmly kicks the small of his back and sends him sprawling to the ground, chin scraping against the granite dust of Dragonstones’ training yard.
‘’Is this best the Riverlands have to offer?’’ He stretches his arms wide with a grin, a chorus of laughter echoing from the stands of spectators around him.
‘’Get up, Camen.’’ Daemon chuckles with glee and the lumbering man rises slowly, cupping his bleeding chin, a smile across his own ale-weathered face. ‘’Try as I might, my Prince, you are still the victor. As ever.’’
‘’Rightly so. There is nothing I cannot accomplish with Dark Sister in my palm and the blessing of the gods upon me.’’ Daemon smirks. ‘’See yourself to the Maester. You’re bleeding, pup.’’ He mocks and Camen snarls beneath his breath, bowing low before hastily following his Princes’ orders.
Daemon walks idly around the yard, watching as his men, his gold cloaks, train and hone their skills. He is inordinately proud of them, of himself, for turning these nameless cretins into men of substance. A squire appears at his side, a pitcher of water in hand and Daemon takes it greedily, draining the fresh water and pouring the rest over his head to douse the heat of battle from his skin.
Having tried to smother the sheer panic of discovering Alicent is with child one week prior with fighting and fucking his fill – he is still at war within himself at the news.
He cannot assuage the guilt which lingers in every fibre of his being.
He has betrayed his King. His brother.
He has broken the heart of his niece who he has always held dear, doted upon, and cherished.
How was he to know of her love for him until the very moment he saw it tear her apart when he was found between Alicents thighs.
Not once had his sweet niece ever spoken of her desire for him, her feelings.
He was a fool. A blind, unworthy fool.
The memory of her delicate face as she caught him buried between the Hightower wenches legs has plagued his every waking moment and tormented his nights - slumber, and rest forever unobtainable.
Sweet, sweet Rhaenyra had once looked upon him as if though he were a god of old Valeriya having descended from the skies to save her – and yet as her face had crumpled, her eyes awash with tears and horror – he would never forget how the betrayal in her eyes had pierced his soul to its core.
He has never been one to regret his actions and yet his scheme to convince Otto’s daughter that he loved her, and to bear his child so that his blood would sit the Iron Throne, would be the one decision he would forever wish he had not made.
And now the Hightower wench was with child – and he was to be a father.
And the child would never know him as such.
He would receive no congratulations, no mentions of how his boy resembled him in appearance or in deeds. He would remain a stranger to the child and watch over it as planned– and yet the feeling brought nothing but hollowness to his chest.
He has been overlooked, cast out, discriminated against, and reviled for most of his life for being a second son – all the hate, abuse, and neglect – Daemon growls as his childhood briefly appears before his eyes and he snarls again as he recalls the look on his father’s face each time he failed to live up to the Kings expectations.
Rubbing his calloused hands anxiously over his face, his hair in disarray from water and sweat – he tilts his neck back to observe the clear blue skies above him. Wisps of clouds aimlessly drift and cast his face into his shadow as they pass overhead and he desperately fights to feel but a moments peace.
‘’My Prince – a messenger from Kings Landing. He seeks you with urgency.’’
Daemon growls, sucking air through his teeth as he snaps his fingers at his squire to return his blade to his palm, and as he sheathes Dark Sister, he brushes the dust from his breeches and scans the yard for his unwelcome visitor.
The man is young, perhaps twenty summers of age. Brown curly hair frames his face, a large broad nose and frightened, hazel eyes meet his own lilac hues as he stands from his bow.
‘’My P-Prince…’’ he stutters and Daemons irritation begins to flicker and flare up his spine.
He snatches the scroll from the shuddering messenger who swiftly steps back three paces as Daemon breaks the wax dragon seal of his house – unfolding the scroll with a scowl.
‘’My dear Brother…
Calamity has befallen House Targaryen. Never before has such a thing occurred in the history of our line nor in any of the tomes I have read in relation to our old home or ancestors.
The Good Queen Alicent – is dead.
Murdered.
By the hand I once so lovingly cherished and held – ‘’
Daemons fingers tighten around the scrolls edges, his chest rising rapidly as his breaths quicken and the blood drains from face.
His child is dead.
Blinking owlishly at the scroll as the words dance about the page he closes his eyes tightly as they sting from his concentrated stare. He is reluctant to return his gaze to the scroll in his shaking hands as he is certain that his heart would not survive another surge of emotion this painful.
‘’ – and so, it is with a heavy and broken heart that I must inform you that not only has my wife left this mortal realm, so has my daughter, your niece – Rhaenyra.
She murdered my wife and my unborn child and took it upon herself to end her own life.
I am a shell of myself brother.
Please, please for my sake… return to Kings Landing and stand by my side for the funeral.
Your Brother,
Viserys.’’
Every sound around him has dulled into static, every breeze of the wind which flutters his hair is laden with ice which steals his breaths from his lungs. The warmth of the sun’s rays do not heat his skin. There is a vast and gaping void widening within him and he crushes the scroll between his sweat-slicked palms.
Sweet, sweet Rhaenyra is …
He snaps his head up; a rage-induced bellow torn from his guts as he closes the distance to the messenger and grips his collar, lifting the boy from his feet, toes dangling an inch above the ground.
His fist connects sharply with the messengers jaw.
The skin on his knuckles shreds and bleeds, the fine bones in his hand protest in pain as blow after blow lands upon his source of rage and despair.
He is on the precipice of losing his sanity - before he feels rough hands tear him away from the person who has devastated his entire world in one fell swoop. Shouting and screaming, pleading and frantic whispers fill the training yard and Daemon can do nothing but hoarsely scream the name of his niece – his wild eyes lethally and intensely focused on the boy who lies dead before him mere feet away.