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i.
Tell me, Rhaenyra asks, she demands, she begs. He looks at her, her lips a fine line, her eyes a blazing tornado. Tell me, she commands again, with all the poise she can muster, with all the calm of a soon to be queen. Confess to me, she says, her eyes full of tears, tell me you didn’t say those things. Please, she whispers, this time in valyrian, only for him to hear, only for him to interpret, please don’t be like they say you are.
Daemon rises his head, his chin standing out, defiance clearly in his pose. I can’t, he replies, his voice strained. Your grace, he adds, and a single tear falls from her left eye, lonely and shiny.
Rhaenyra’s hand meets his cheek before he can realize it. It burns through him in the same way fire could burn any ordinary person, in the same way hearts bleed when a sword pierces them. She looks as surprised as he feels, his own hand reaching for the place she hit him.
His eyes locks with hers, her brow furrowed and her mouth agape with incredulity. Dragonsteel shines in her neck, silver glint against rosy skin. She looks every bit a Targaryen, the spitting image of the conquerors who once united the land.
(He looks at her and he sees a reflection of himself, the very same image of who he is. Half human, half god, commonfolk say, but he knows better. Targaryens aren’t gods, they are men, they are unburnable but not unkillable. Theirs is the glory, the acclaim of common people, but theirs is also the rage, the all-consuming madness that fire entices, and she has the both of it in her eyes, half glory, half rage.
Just like he has.
He wonders if she sees himself in the same light, if she feels the same deep aching melancholy as he does, if she savours each word in high Valyrian like she’s tasting the finest of wines. He wonders if she often dreams of impossible things like he does, if she longs for Viserys to look at her and see her, not the careful image his council has crafted of her.
He wonders if, one day, she’ll look at him and comprehend the profoundness and the sacredness of it all.)
Rhaenyra opens her mouth, in an attempt to say something, anything, but no sound escapes her lips. She closes her eyes, gathering her thoughts, and opens them again, looking at him with a clarity that wasn’t there mere moments ago. She sighs and, with a last look at him, proceeds to leave the room.
He watches her leave, her hair a silver river flowing down her neck, her echoing footsteps getting more and more quiet with every step she takes in the next direction. He tries not to look at her, tries not ache at the absence of her.
He tries and tries.
But fails.
ii.
At the very core of who they are, not who they try to be, they are both dragons, Rhaenyra and him. Equals amongst the eyes of the gods, equals amongst the eyes of the mortals. Their souls were made from the same burning coal in the beginning of times, he’s sure of that.
He knows her and she knows him, and nothing helps him calm himself but the realization that, no matter what or who, she’s going to go back to him soon enough. All he has to do is wait.
After all, they were destined to be close, destined to be intertwined.
iii.
(But waiting was never his strongest suit.)
iv.
Rhaenyra doesn’t come to him.
It shouldn’t drive him crazy, he should be capable of restraining himself. But in the end bloods run thicker and his is the blood of Old Valyria, the blood of dragons.
(And dragons aren’t merciful creatures, nor are they amiable. They are powerful and vengeful, possessives in their wants and greedy with their needs. Dragons do not ask, they take and take until there’s nothing more to give.)
So that’s what he does. He takes.
v.
“I’m right here, the object of your ire, the reason you were disinherited.” She says, in front of everyone. Her eyes don’t leave him, too fixed in him to notice anyone else that surrounds them.
(Insignificant, he thinks, that’s what they are to them. It somehow pleases him, to be the one she keeps her eyes on, just like he’s the only one that matters. Because even dragons feel the need for reassurance, even dragons feel the need for belonging. And he, who is every bit a dragon, can’t phantom himself above those things.)
“If you wish to be restored as heir, you’ll need to kill me. So, do it. And be done with all this bother.”
He looks at her, his brow furrowing slightly at the thought of ever laying harm on her. I would never do that, not to you, he wants to say, you are my family, my blood.
(I’ve been so lonely, so alone, I’ve been waiting for you for months. What was I but a spoiled child in the realm of tyrants, trying so hard to catch your attention, was my sin so evil must I be punished with the worst damnation known to men? Loneliness has always called for me, but since you arrived to this world, I can muster the courage to drown her voice. You and I were made of the same star, the same coal that gave warmth to the universe.)
Do you believe me to be capable of ever harming you? He wants to ask her, I thought you knew me in the same way I’ve always known you, he wants to say.
But, in the end, he doesn’t say anything, his lips drawing a fine line. In the end he tosses the egg to her, turning around. In the end he manages to take a small peek at her, he manages to see the way her eyes light up.
In the end, he thinks, this amounted for something.
vi.
Rhaenyra comes to him in the most unexpected of times, her eyes glassy and her hands trembling.
(Loneliness, he realizes, isn’t an emotion that suits her. He can survive her hatred, her rage, her apathy. He can even withstand her sadness, only when he’s not the culprit of it. But never loneliness, never the emotion that has tormented him all these years.
Never the emotion he has sworn to eradicate for her.)
He hears her before he can see her, hears the deep growl of Syrax, the only disadvantage of dragon riding. He also hears Caraxes take flight to greet her. Daemon takes a look from his window, admiring the view, their dance. In some way, Caraxes feels like an extension of himself and, in that moment when he sees him greeting Syrax and Rhaenyra, he’s sure of that.
He waits for her in the room, too impatient to sit down. He almost jumps the moment the door is opened, turning so quick to her he fears it’s going to scare her away. But she looks at him, teary eyed, so much pain in her face he feels his insides turning to melting lava.
(A dragon does not forgive, and he was never the best of the both of them. He’ll kill whoever did this to her, dismembering them slowly and with intent. Anger blossoms on his fingers, his tongue reeking of venom.
He has never felt closer to a dragon than in that very moment.)
“Rhaenyra.” Daemon whispers, closing the space between them.
He raises a hand, trying to touch her face but she turns her head away, pressing her lips into a thin line. Her rejection stings and he feel the hurt reflecting on his face. He’s never been good at concealing his emotion, blessed with eyes that let out every single one of his feelings. And this time is no different.
“I don’t know who’s on my side anymore.” She mutters in Valyrian, her voice broken.
“There could never be the possibility of me not ever being on your side, haven’t I proved that already?” He says, his hand brushing her arm. Rhaenyra visibly relaxes at his words, her whole demeanour changing in a couple of seconds. “What happened?”
“My father.” She replies, her gaze adverting his. “He remarried.”
“Who?” He asks, afraid of the answer she’s going to give him.
“It doesn’t matter.” She whispers.
“Of course, it does. Everything does.” He tightens his jaw. It must be really bad if she does not want him to know. “Tell me, was it the Velaryon girl?”
Rhaenyra looks at him, silence becoming the vessel of the room. Her eyes are big and bright in a way they never had been before.
“It’s Alicent. My friend.” She lets out, her voice mumbled by a sob.
He sighs, cursing the idiot he has for a brother, once again.
“My brother… He may act like a fool sometimes but he loves you. He wouldn’t do anything to harm you.” He starts to say. “And I wouldn’t, not once, not ever, be your enemy.”
Rhaenyra laughs, loud and unhinged, and he sees the edges of something dark in her eyes. Familiarity runs through him, the thrill of discovering another part of him in her.
“Prove it.”
“What?”
“Prove that you’ll be at my side, prove that I can trust you. Prove that you’ll be the one to never betray me.” She takes a step towards him, her eyes never leaving his, a form of defiance. “Kneel.”
viii.
He wants to deny her, he wants to tell her a dragon does not kneel.
(But he can’t, just like he couldn’t kill her years ago, a victim of his own self-made chains, and she knows that. Knows him in the same way he knows her, in the same way they know themselves.
In her he sees reflections of his own soul, shards of a broken mirror which once was whole. Killing her would be like sentencing himself to the loneliest existence a man can suffer. He wants to refuse, to deny her, but there’s an ache so deep in his soul he cannot ignore it.)
“Kneel.” She says again, this time with something akin to tenderness in her voice, her eyes, a mirror of his own, pleading. “Please Daemon.”
And so, he kneels, slowly, one knee at a time. Rhaenyra watches him, her breath almost inaudible. He takes a moment before whispering the words that binds him, the words that she longs for. He says them, one by one, with intent, with feelings, with care. He says the words, his eyes not leaving hers, not for a second, not for a moment.
It feels sacred, it feels holy. A vow made for the gods, an oath made for the men. Except that this time there are not men, there’s only a woman, a girl.
Rhaenyra.
His queen.