Chapter Text
Rhaenyra felt as though something inside her had shattered when she heard Otto Hightower utter those words during the Small Council's emergency meeting. She knew it might be difficult for Daemon Targaryen to swallow his pride and support her cause, making such a discussion a non-starter to begin with. Yet she refused to believe he would stoop so low as to hurt her in this way. She had heard the reports from the dragonkeepers and the Small Council: her uncle had stolen the egg she had chosen for her beloved brother and had sent a wretched letter, the contents of which she chose to ignore.
This was something she would find difficult to forgive, regardless of his motives.
All her life, she had lived haunted by the prospect of a male sibling—a fact known to all—someone who might steal her father's affection and everyone's attention. Yet whenever her mother conceived, she was overcome by a profound sense of love. No matter the threat to her own claim, she loved her mother too deeply to resent a sibling. She knew those children came from Aemma and that they would be bound by blood forever. Family mattered to her.
She had always hoped that one day a little Visenya would be born. She longed for a sister, someone with whom she could share her life. But no Visenya ever came. Instead, in the agony of that long-awaited birth, Rhaenyra lost both her beloved mother and her stillborn brother. Now the egg she had chosen with such affection would have to wait for another Targaryen child. Even so, that gave her uncle no right to steal something so precious from her. Not even he had that right.
Overwhelmed by those emotions, Rhaenyra mounted Syrax, ignoring the protests of the dragonkeepers and her personal guard echoing behind her. She would catch up to Otto and his escort before they could take any action. She was the one who had to put an end to this conflict.
She was the one who would confront him.
There were so many things she wanted to say.
Daemon sensed the shift in Caraxes's threatening stance as the dragon began to emit almost serene sounds, as though welcoming someone else.
Fortunately, Otto's escort remained wary as Syrax emerged from the clouds and mist, landing gracefully on the bridge of Dragonstone with Rhaenyra astride her. He was nearly overcome with sheer delight at the look of pride on his niece's face. Not even he would have dared such a risky entrance, and he couldn't help but chuckle inwardly at how she had orchestrated such a dramatic arrival.
Caraxes and Syrax communicated with one another while Daemon inwardly scoffed at how obvious his dragon was being. After all, dragons shared the emotions of their riders, and he wondered whether everyone else would notice.
The threatening atmosphere had dissipated, though Otto and the Kingsguard still exuded fear. His sweet niece dismissed them with an air of determination and hurried toward him. He had to make a tremendous effort to stand his ground rather than run to her, perhaps even embrace her. He couldn't recall the last time he had done so. All he wanted was to hold her in his arms and tell her what a torment it had been to spend six long months apart. Yet, naturally, no such words would pass his lips, and he simply stood as tall and rigid as possible. He had never spent so much time away from Rhaenyra since the months following his wretched marriage. Seeing her there—so beautiful and furious before him—stirred feelings that ought to have remained buried.
"Kepa ñuha yne Zaldrīzdōro Dārilaroso brōstas. Kesy uglaesā luon sombāzmion ñuhon issa, kepus." (My father named me Princess of Dragonstone. That is my castle you’re living in, uncle.)
When she invaded his personal space, he could feel his own body language shift. She was like the sun, drawing everything around her in, and he instinctively felt more open in her presence. It wasn't just her beauty; it was an aura, or something that bound them together. It was a transgression against nature, yet he didn't care.
He loved how she chose to speak High Valyrian with him—most wouldn't understand their conversation, but it was also something that connected them intimately, not only because of their ancestry, but also because he had taught her when she was merely a child and he was a mere adolescent—barely a man.
"Iā sīlāvose iōrō, daor." (Not until you come of age.)
He knew her Name Day was approaching, but he couldn't resist the urge to tease her a little.
"Vēdroso dāri aōhi iqīdā." (You have angered your king.)
He hoped so. He wanted Viserys there because he knew that, as long as his brother remained under Otto Hightower's sway, neither of them would yield enough to reconcile or consider the common good. That had been his true intention all along.
"Indirarion urnion daor. Tubī manaeri. Nyke dīnilaks." (I don’t see why. This is a day of celebration. I am to be wed.)
"Ābrazȳri sīr emā." (You already have a wife.)
He could detect a hint of dissatisfaction in her tone.
"Derēptan lī, daor." (Not one of my choosing.)
He wanted her to understand what lay between the lines. Yet it was no lie that, had he been able to choose, he would still be a bachelor. The woman he wanted was not ready for marriage. Not yet.
"Se kejo syt ñuho valonqro drōmon laodigon aō bēviltas?" (And this required you to steal my brother’s egg?)
But she had decided to come all the way there to confront him about the damned egg. Part of him stiffened, for he hadn't realized that was the reason for her visit—and her anger. Would it be too presumptuous of him to think it was out of jealousy? How he wished she were angry about the supposed marriage. Suddenly, he understood that he had hurt her deeply and would have to make amends for it someday.
He felt a twinge of anger at himself for provoking such a feeling in her, but the deed was done. And, oh, the gods knew he could spend a lifetime trying to atone for his wrongs against her, if only he could.
Although he enjoyed Mysaria's company, he knew he could never have a legitimate child with her—and indeed had not the slightest intention of marrying her—yet he found it amusing to tease people about it. However, when he looked into Rhaenyra's eyes, he knew he could not keep up that charade much longer. It was as if her gaze reached right into his soul, and he knew she was truly capable of that; only she could perceive the deepest parts of his being.
He immediately denied the story about having a child, simply because he disliked that look of resentment.
When she decided to cut that moment of intimacy short, she snapped in the Common Tongue: "I'm right here, Uncle, the object of your ire, the reason that you were disinherited. If you wish to be restored as heir, you'll need to kill me. So, do it."
He took a step toward her and stared deep into her eyes—eyes filled with determination, yet also holding fear. She was right, but he could never bring himself to do it. She and Viserys were all he had in this life, and he would never harm them. He wished they could understand that without him having to put it into words, for to him, it was so clear. Besides, the foolish girl had it all wrong. He hadn't cared about the Throne for quite some time.
There was only one goal.
And there she was—so close, so beautiful, irresistible. It was as if he could see the excitement in her eyes, the thrill of confronting him right there in front of all those men.
He imagined that everyone must be fearing for her at that moment, for few would dare confront him like that. Yet she could, and it was as if she knew she held that power over him. He was caught up in the moment and would have remained that way for minutes had he not possessed such good control over his feelings and actions. He was silently grateful that they were surrounded by so many people, as he couldn't say whether his self-control would have held up had she come to confront him alone.
He simply handed the egg back firmly and turned his back on her without looking back, knowing he wouldn't have been able to keep it together for even another minute.
Inside the castle, Daemon remained alone for a time.
He sat on the stone floor, his back resting against one of the legs of the large table that held the painted map of Westeros. From there, he could see all Seven Kingdoms spread out before him. It was almost ironic. He had spent his life believing that any problem of his could be solved with his sword and his dragon. He had discovered, too late, that the hardest battles were not fought on the battlefield, and looking at that map now, he felt nothing.
The silence of the chamber was broken only by the muffled roar of the waves crashing against the cliffs of Dragonstone.
Rhaenyra's words still echoed in his mind. The disappointment in her eyes weighed far more heavily than any accusation she had made. For the first time in many years, Daemon could not find an argument that placed him above the situation. He could not justify the void he had created between them.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
He had always believed that marriage was merely another political obligation; he had even warned her of this on occasion. Marriage was an instrument to strengthen alliances and produce heirs. He had grown up hearing that this was a Targaryen's duty. Love was a luxury for common folk; for his family, the continuation of the bloodline sufficed—and if that came with some political advantage, all the better.
But why did that idea—instilled in him since childhood—suddenly seem so wrong to him now?
The door opened without ceremony.
Mysaria entered slowly, watching him in silence before approaching. She knew Daemon better than almost anyone else. She knew his fits of rage, his pride, his constant need to mask any weakness with irony and provocation.
"Are you hiding here?" she asked softly. He did not answer. "I didn't expect to find the prince sitting on the floor."
"What do you want?"
The curt reply didn't make her back down. Mysaria remained silent for a few seconds.
"She looked hurt."
He clenched his jaw. "I know."
The silence between them had never been uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. Over the years, Mysaria had learned that Daemon often said more when he didn't speak. But this time, she decided to break it.
"You know... every time you showed up at the brothel..." She waited until he slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. "...I always got the impression that you sought out silver-haired women for other reasons."
Daemon frowned.
"Other reasons?"
She gave a small, melancholy smile.
"In truth, you always chose the ones who looked most like her."
He remained motionless.
He had never thought about it. Or perhaps he had, and had decided to ignore it.
Mysaria continued: "For a long time, I thought it was just Targaryen vanity. That old Valyrian pride. Men who believe silver hair signifies perfection." She walked slowly around the table. "Then I realized something else..."
Daemon did not answer.
"You never showed any real interest in having an heir with your wife."
He looked away.
Rhea. It was strange to think of her now.
There had been respect... at one point. She had wanted to fulfill the role assigned to her, but he had never stepped up to the task. And one day, she simply gave up. There was nothing wrong with her, really. She was beautiful, from a good family, intelligent, a warrior—qualities that would surely attract a man. Just not him.
The trouble was that marrying her had been Viserys's order. And he had naively imagined, ever since the day Rhaenyra was born, that she would be his. He had grown up with that idea so firmly planted in his mind that, when Viserys proposed a betrothal—a political match—he had never hated anyone as much as he hated his brother at that moment. It never occurred to him that he would have to voice the obvious. So, he was never able to feel any affection for Rhea, whether she was beautiful or not. Nothing. Never that constant restlessness. Never that almost unbearable need to stay close.
Never the fear of loss.
Mysaria observed the almost imperceptible shift in his expression.
"I thought you were just another man obsessed with blood purity." She hesitated. "But the truth is, you—"
Daemon slowly raised his head.
"I what, Mysaria?"
She held his gaze.
"You want her. You’ve always waited for her."
He stood up suddenly. The movement was so abrupt that the nearby chair toppled backward.
His gaze swept across the table until it found a wine goblet that had been forgotten for hours. He seized it without even realizing the force with which his fingers clamped around it.
"Don't speak as if you know what’s going on in my head." His voice came out low, almost a growl.
Mysaria did not flinch.
"Am I wrong?"
He didn't answer.
Because he couldn't.
Because, for the first time in a long while, he didn't know how to lie. Everything he had spent years calling obsession, possession, pride, or duty was beginning to take on a different name. And he hated it. He hated the vulnerability that came with it. He hated admitting that Rhaenyra held a power over him that nothing—and no one—else ever had; because, deep down, he had realized it all along.
In a fit of impulse, he hurled the goblet against the wall.
It was so frustrating.
Even so, Mysaria didn't look away.
"You can break as many goblets as you like, Daemon." She took a step forward. "It won't change the fact that you spent years trying to find her in other women. And I know it."
The truth was this: the only person he truly wanted had always been out of his reach.