Chapter Text
It vexes him.
Almost beyond belief, if truth be told. This damnable tugging of his heart strings.
She was one and ten and the most innocent, gullible, waif of a girl he had ever encountered.
He snorts as he watches her skipping along the garden route, pausing to stop and pick flowers that were to her liking, as he meandered slowly behind her with his hands clasped behind his back.
“These are beautiful, Uncle! Don’t you agree?”
She sniffs the red tulips she has plucked from the moist soil and he knows they will be dead by days end, but affords her a soft smile in agreement.
“They pale in comparison to you, my niece, for surely there is no flower that could surpass your beauty.”
The compliments are glib, running off his tongue automatically, so used to court pleasantries, the fake smiles and words which are forced from him when in a lady’s presence.
And so it vexes him that the compliment is genuine, that he finds himself at odds with his usual inclination to lie through his teeth.
He has nothing to gain from being nice to her, no advantage other than to be instantaneously rewarded with a smile that broadens and brightens his own when she looks up at him with utter adoration.
He feels her affection like a tangible thing in the air. He can grasp it, move it, alter it into something unrecognisable if he so wishes – warp this sweet, gentle child’s smile into one of despair.
He was a cunt.
He would be the first to admit it.
And yet...
“Thank you, Uncle.” She beams, a rosy flush to her cheeks and he softens - reluctantly, unwillingly so, and bends down to one knee before plucking a thin stem from her now green and muddy hands, placing a tulip behind her ear.
Why does he feels this fondness for this girl?
Yes she was kin, a dragon, a Targaryen even - but she was but a slip of a girl with no value beyond the fact that someday her father would marry her off to secure his reign and garner more favour with the Lords of Westeros.
“Uncle...can I tell you a secret?” she dramatically whispers and he chuckles as she cups both her hands over her mouth as she leans forward, her breath ghosting over his ear.
“I think you’re beautiful too...and you’re my favourite person in all the Seven Kingdoms.” His heart stutters and his eyes narrow at the girl when she pulls back – his instant disbelief at her words has him opening his mouth to scold her, rebuke her, push her away – for when was the last time anyone had spoken to him with such kindness, such affection and not wantedsomething in return.
He knew he was considered handsome – beautiful even, by those who were transfixed by the Targaryen silver hair and purple eyes - and many a whore had screamed his name and complimented his looks - and he had done nothing but sneered, spilled his seed and sent them off without further thought.
But now – he closes his mouth and watches his little niece turn a startling shade of red the longer he stares at her, head cocked to the side, silver braid falling over his shoulder.
“Your favourite in all the Seven Kingdoms?” he queries softly and he feels the beginnings of a grin, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his lips split over his perfectly straight white teeth, and something deep in his chest is fit to bursting.
His niece nods enthusiastically, afraid that he doesn’t believe her – and some broken part of him doesn’t- but as her deep purple eyes gaze earnestly at him he huffs out a breath and laughs gently – pinching her cheek between forefinger and thumb.
“More than your Papa?” he hums, eyebrow raising in question.
“Yes.” She giggles when he releases her cheek, stepping closer to him and planting a wet, sloppy, childlike kiss on his cheek.
He growls in irritation at the spittle he has to wipe off and plans to tell her to keep her germs to herself - but when she wraps her little arms around his neck and all but squeezes the life out of him - he chuffs at himself as he stands and cradles her tightly against him.
“You’re my favourite as well, little niece.” He slips into Valyrian and impossibly, her arms tighten.
####
He is not amused.
The small council meeting has dragged on for half an age, an eternity he feels. Otto Hightower had pulled his brother into a long debate about the state of crime within the capital and Daemon rolls his eyes as he snorts in derision.
“You have something to add, Prince Daemon?” Otto’s hatred for him is clear in every enunciated vowel within his question and Daemon smirks, leaning back on his chair, two feet lifting off the ground as he rocks back and forth.
“Give me a hundred men and two weeks and I can rectify this matter for you.”
Viserys laughs, amused, folding his arms and leaning back himself, rolling his neck to release the tension of sitting at attention for so long.
“The city needs to fear the law, brother. Which they currently don’t- let me create a city watch – of sorts, separate from the white Knights which roam your halls. I would train them, teach them - and together we would rid Kings Landing of the rapists, the cutthroats and thieves.” Daemons eyes, usually the palest lilac, darken in intensity.
He has never been more serious in an endeavour.
His brother allowed him the pitiful courtesy of attending these council meetings, an olive branch per say, to keep him involved and quiet. Placated into silence and behaving as was expected of him.
But something had begun to burn in his core, a raging fire of discontent at his idleness. There were no wars to fight, too many faceless and nameless whores to fuck and he grew tired of watching for a dagger in his back at court.
“And if we gave you this...this power...can we have assurances that they will only be used in the good name of the King?”
Otto stern remark causes his brow to lift – Otto frequently steps over the threshold of his patience and today was no different.
“Careful, Otto...you almost sound as if though you believe I would raise an army to usurp my brother and take over his throne...” Daemon growls menacingly and Viserys holds up a hand with a heaving sigh – knowing full well the outcome if he allowed them to bicker.
“Two weeks you say? I’ll give you three because I’m generous – “ his brother points at him and Daemon feels a swell of excitement brimming beneath his skin.
“However – I want a weekly report and I will put an end to this if it brings me trouble, Daemon.”
He leaves the hall feeling victorious. He stalks the corridors back to his chambers, a hum from a bards song low in his throat but as he passes one of the empty libraries he hears a familiar laugh and pauses outside the door.
He quietly moves inside, the rows of bookcases and shelves keeping him obscured from her sight and he leans against a dusty column.
She is two and ten now, her nameday having been passed with all the pomp and circumstance of being the firstborn child of the King – not as lavish or extravagant if she were to have been born a boy – but it was a jubilant celebration nonetheless.
He had gifted her a bracelet of rare white gems, the sigil of their house on a pendant which now dangled from her wrist.
She laughs again quite girlishly, a trembling excitement in her frame and he snaps his attention back to her as she bites her lip. Her feet still can’t reach the ground and as she reads, following the words with a finger across the pages, her feet kick in a melody only she can hear in the air before her.
She giggles this time and her whole face erupts in embarrassment, eyes widening and he can barely contain his snort of amusement as her eyes shut tight and she claps a hand to her mouth.
She snaps the book shut, but not before doggedly earmarking the page, and she discards the dusty tome to the side as she looks around – looking all for the world as if though she had just been caught fornicating in the high septum’s presence.
“What has my niece so devilishly charmed?” he drawls and she shrieks in fright, a high pitched squeal which launches her off her chair and he roars with laughter, head tossing back as he supports himself with an arm out stretched against the column beside him.
“You shouldn’t spy on people, Uncle Daemon!” she squeaks, a tiny finger pointing at him as she attempts to reprimand him but he has yet to catch his breath and he surreptitiously wipes a tear from his eye.
“I am not spying. You were simply so lost in your own thoughts you didn’t hear me enter the room.”
He smirks as her face reddens once more and she crosses her arms with a pout. He finds her endearing in this moment and he mimics her movements, crossing his arms and waiting her out – waiting for her to babble and explain but she says nothing. Her eyes flit back and forth between him and the book and he grows curious.
“What could possibly be so entertaining in that dusty old thing?” he queries and she squeaks, bolting the four steps back to the book but he snatches it out from beneath her hand and lifts it high above her head.
“Give it back, Uncle!” she demands with all the haughtiness only a princess can produce but he shakes his head tutting at her.
“As your uncle I feel its only right that I find out what has you so red faced and flustered, my niece.”
He sees a spark behind her eyes, a deepening, a darkening which flickers deep within him – something akin to recognition when her lip curls and a sneer turns her usually pretty and smiling mouth into one of anger.
“It is none of your business, Uncle.” She says sternly, a fire and authority in her voice he has never heard her use before and he growls appreciatively.
The blood of the Dragon flows strong within her.
However – the accompanied foot stomp ruins his pride in her and brings forth another snorting laugh from him as she continues to glare at him.
He clears his throat and flips the tome open to where she has marked it and she once again shrieks in indignation at his audacity.
She attempts to pry the book from his hands but he places a hand on her head and keeps her at bay as she flails, small arms just out of reach of him.
She was so small, barely reaching the top of his navel and he smirks as he begins to read the words upon the tea coloured pages.
“Oh fair maiden, you have bewitched me, stolen my heart. How I long for you, for your loves sweet kiss...”
Daemon loses himself in laughter as she suddenly freezes beneath him, her lower lip wobbling in mortification and he continues to read despite her discomfort.
“If I could just have but one chance to prove my love, here beneath the stars, your body and mine –“ Daemon chuffs as he looks down to his niece, the only visible part of her skin being the bright red tips of her ears as she stares down at the floor.
“My niece, I am shocked at your choice of literature.” He pretends to disapprove and he feels a small shudder from her.
“Do you desire a Knight to sweep you off your feet?”
She mumbles something beneath her breath and he tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he asks her to repeat herself.
“I would prefer a prince to do so!” she snaps in Valyrian and if he pales and releases her instantly at her intentional and knowing stare - there is no one to see how fast he snaps the tome shut and steps back several paces in confusion.
He can see her mind twisting and turning, how she regrets the truthful and hastily yelled words, as well as their true meaning, as she looks at up him with an intensity that nearly makes him squirm.
Him, a Targaryn Prince of eight and twenty, a warrior.
Beaten back and cowed by a little girl and her words.
She has yet to break eye contact and the longer she stares at him with those soulful, yearning eyes the more he believes himself to be in danger of encouraging this startling revelation...that she fancies herself bewitched by him.
He growls, suddenly irritated beyond belief at her words, at how they had travelled further into his core than he cared to ever evaluate and he lifts her chin gently with two fingers.
“I may be a Prince, my niece, but I am no Knight in shining armour. I am a dragon, and if you are not careful, I will devour you whole.” He warns releasing her and stalking back to the door.
Throwing her a last look over his shoulder, he nearly gives in to the damnable tugging again as he observes her.
She is crestfallen, shoulders low as she wraps both arms around her torso, a slight sniffle revealing her wounded feelings and he grips the door – wholly and undeniably now riddled with an emotion he has never before experienced.
Guilt.
Guilt that he has hurt his favourite person in all the Seven Kingdoms.
He leaves.
He will not encourage something which could destroy them both in the end.
No, he would sink himself into as many whores as his body could withstand and wipe the look of longing from his nieces eyes - out of his mind.
The very thought unsettled him – if only because he yearned for the look in her eyes and words that tumbled from her mouth with every fibre of his being.
####
He is second in line to the throne now – or so he hears when he catches wind that Aemma is to birth a babe by months end.
A boy, Viserys promises the world.
He drinks himself into a stupor with his men, his Gold Cloaks and their laughter soothing the bitterness in his heart.
He has kept himself occupied these last years, away from court, away from prying eyes and in doing so - had ingratiated himself with the people of Kings landing to the extent where they had now dubbed him the People’s Prince, the Lord of Fleabottom.
The Protector.
His Gold Cloaks had swept through the city with the clear purpose of wiping the underbelly scum into the sea.
If he had been a bit more violent, a touch more barbaric in his methods – well, not even the King had troubled himself with stepping in once reports had showed his success.
He cut the cocks off rapists, dismembered those that stole and beat defenceless women, beheaded those that murdered.
All in the Kings name.
Most nights as his hands clung onto the slim hips of Mysaria as he fucked all misery out of his system, chasing that brief moment of joy upon completion – all he could see was the blood staining his hands.
This was his life now, his sole purpose.
Fuck, fight, cater to his brothers whims and that of fucking Otto Hightower who constantly dogged his steps and kept watch on his comings and goings within the city.
His ambitions for the throne had not waned nor disappeared – but he could do naught about it with his sister in law about to shatter his dreams of sitting upon the Iron Throne.
He could do nothing but fervently wish that she would birth his brother another daughter.
In his darkest moments – he fervently wished for her death.
“Are you taking part in the tourney, my Prince?” Mysaria drapes herself over his shoulders, her breasts warm against his cool back and he grunts.
“Yes, I believe I will.”
He shambles over to his chest in the corner and curses as he hunts around the depths for the token he seeks.
He lifts something which sparkles, a steel that glistens in the moon beams which pierce the trellis fencing through his balcony.
“A gift? For me?” Mysaria grins but he frowns, a small scoff leaving his lips.
“This is meant for a dragon.” He rebukes as her hand withdraws and he rumbles deep in his chest as he turns the necklace around and around within his palm.
“Your niece, then?” Mysaria smirks as he glares at her.
She saunters over to him, small breasts peaking in the cold wind and wraps her palms around the back of his neck.
“Do not think I have not heard you whisper her name in your sleep. Rhaenyra...” she laughs almost cruelly and he snaps.
His hand clamps around her throat within a heartbeat, and his grip tightens.
“Do not ever...ever...dare to think you can utter her name.” He growls darkly, eyes the colour of obsidian as the women beneath him begins to gasp for breath.
He drops her to the floor in distaste and she coughs , clutching at her throat.
“I..I am sorry, my Prince.” She chokes and he sneers at her, donning his clothing with angered haste, strapping Dark Sister to his hip.
“Will you come back?” She asks with only the sweetness of a whore looking for her next gold coin dripping for her lips can - and he turns just before leaving the door.
He smirks viciously and leaves her with her thoughts.
####
He sees her again for the first time in years as she approaches the Iron Throne. She scolds him for his audacity, a brow high and cocked.
They speak, but he barely pays attention to the words leaving his lips.
The sight of her is troublesome.
She is five and ten and unfailingly, the most beautiful creature he has ever beheld.
She shines, glistens in the pale yellow dress before him, long silver locks cascading half-free down her back and he can scarce breathe at the surprise of the vision in front of him.
Small rounded breasts jut out alluringly from atop her trim waist, a flare at her thighs as the dress envelops her tightly, hinting at toned legs – it all makes him bite his tongue as his gaze travels unwillingly over her slender form.
“I have something for you.” He purrs, almost seductively so and he breathes deeply to dispel the fluttering of his heart.
“Turn around.” He says softly as he flips the necklace just out of her reach and a blush raises high on her cheek bones as she hesitates.
She does turn, removing her jewellery, brushing her long hair over one shoulder and as his fingers glide over the silken skin of her shoulder his breath hitches in his throat.
He hates that he feels.
He hates that she makes him feel.
The urge to bend his head and bestow a kiss on that pale white skin of her neck consumes him but as she turns the moment is lost and he is unendingly grateful that he did not disgrace himself with such foolishness.
“Gevie.” He murmurs in appreciation at his token of affection which now hangs just above her collarbones.
She is beautiful.
Absolutely resplendent, and when she opens her mouth as if to say something in return - which would no doubt cause another fluttering of his blackened heart – Daemon breathes a sigh of relief as she decides to keep the words to herself, and thus shows him some small mercy.
“I will be fighting in the tourney.” He mentions as they stroll side by side back towards the door and she hums.
“Try not to die, Uncle. Your feelings on the matter may have changed but I would be most put out if something horrible befell my favourite person.” She says with a small smile, an airy laugh leaving her and he growls, placing a hand on her shoulder to stop her and face him.
“I don’t believe I’ve given you any indication that my feelings on the matter have changed.” He glares at her, his ire sparked that she would dare to presume to know his feelings.
She has yet to meet his eyes and he curses softly as he places two fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him.
He cannot find the words to convey what he feels.
Something bites and claws and thrashes in his chest, an overwhelming need to scream something at this silly girl who continues to perplex him – awake or asleep.
She now reaches just below his shoulders and when she blinks, long fluttering lashes over dark purple eyes, he snarls something unintelligible to her ears and bends down to capture her face with his palm.
The kiss he places on her cheek is the most chaste, the most sweet, the most raw and vulnerable form of affection he has ever afforded anyone in his life, and the way her hands fist into his tunic, tightening, pulling and drawing him closer – leaves them both absurdly breathless.
He steps away from her almost violently as lust creeps up the back of his neck.
The small quick pants she gives raises her breasts high and he focuses on the shape of her mouth as her lips part, tongue darting out to wet them.
“I will see you at the tourney, my Princess.” As he rounds the corner he faintly hears her delighted giggle. He walks to the barracks with a preposterous smile on his face.
####
His mount is breathing hard beneath him. The power between his legs a testament to the victory he had just achieved against good Ottos son.
He raised his hands to the crowd and his name echoed off each of their lips in a litany of praise. He trotted over to the pavilion housing the Royal Family and it was no surprise to him that his beautiful niece was the first to lean over the railing and congratulate him.
“Thank you, Princess.” He beamed, a trickle of sweat running down his forehead and he wiped it away roughly before taking note of his nieces friend beside her.
Alicent Hightower was an unremarkable girl. A plain and anxious woman, if the state of her hands was anything to go by, and an idea occurs to him which may later prove to be interesting if it panned out the way he wanted.
“Might I ask for your favour, Lady Alicent..” the prince asked and watched his niece carefully for her reaction.
The sudden onset of darkening in her eyes, the thin line of her lips and the way she straightened her back all a clear indication that he had displeased her greatly with his request.
He was delighted...giddy almost, by the sight of his sweet niece overcome by petty jealousy.
The fingers holding his reigns tightened and he crushed the impulse which begged him to march over to the Realms Delight and swallow down that scowl with a vicious kiss.
Rhaenyra’s eyes followed his every movement and he preened in satisfaction, in the knowledge that he alone was the centre of her focus. As the day dragged on, one fight after another, he faced Ser Criston Cole, his nieces newly appointed Knight Guard and frowned.
The man was a lout.
A pious, steadfast traditionalist who mooned over his niece and clung to her every word as if though they were the gospel truth.
And so, to his great consternation, when he lost to the man – his rage consumed him and he dared not look at her for fear of disappointment in her eyes.
He swiped the blood from his forehead and ignored those who wished to speak to him as he made his way back to the barracks.
Entering by way of kicking the door open, he stalked towards the wine and drank straight from the source in greedy gulps.
He dismisses his squire with a booming yell, removing his own gauntlets, his gloves and helmet and throwing them into the corner of the room with a crash, his roar of rage and promise to cleave Cristons head from his shoulders echoing around the stone wall.
A throat was cleared behind him and he bristled.
“Fuck off.” He snarls, back to the door and when he hears it close behind him he sighs.
“My apologies, Uncle. I only meant to -” The air rushes from his lungs in consternation and he turns to see his sweet niece leaning against the door watching him.
She is not frightened of his outburst, nor of his temper which flares around the room with each of his breaths.
He admires her bravery and yet his ire increases.
Why does she not slink back like the others when faced with the wroth of the Dragon.
“Come to gloat have you? That your white Knight has bested me...” he spits and leans against the table, arms crossed and legs outstretched before him.
He was covered in grime, in salt and sweat and the cut above his brow had yet to stop bleeding, running in rivulets down the side of his face.
He observes her as a hawk would observe its prey...each one of her movements casting his eyes to narrow in, hone in, on each one of her shallow breaths.
She says nothing, keeping her eyes solely focused on him and she breaches his personal space, winding her arms around his iron clad frame in am embrace which rattles him deeply.
Something inside him burns and his arms come up without his permission.
He drowns in the feeling of her, of the affection she’s bestowing upon him and he presses her tightly against his armoured chest, mindful that the steel doesnt hurt her, very aware that her dress would now be stained with dirt and blood.
His chin drops down to rest on top of her head and when she angles her head up to look at him, her warm breaths reach his neck and instantly soothe the raging fires, the bitterness of defeat within him.
“What are you doing here, my Princess?” he rumbles after a time, when she shifts beneath him, when the contentment of the silence shared is broken by her sigh.
Daemon cups her face with a dirty, calloused hand, conscious of the blood speckling his hand but the contrast of red and white is mesmerising as his thumb brushes back and forth across her chin.
“My father has taken leave to attend to the birth of my sibling. Alicent has returned with her family – where else would I be if not by your side?” She asks, a shapely brow lifting and he chuckles as he moves a long strand of hair behind her ears.
“Let me...” she asks and his heart clamours in his chest...
God’s be good ... what was she asking of him now...?
Instead of moving closer, she steps back and he instantly loathes the distance between them.
She wets a towel from the basin of water on the desk and hesitantly approaches him, stepping between his legs as he shifts to accommodate her and he rumbles deeply in his chest as her scent reaches him.
He smirks as the cloth touches his face, her meticulous and slow wiping removing the evidence of his failure. She lingers over his brows, traces the shape of his nose, the pads of her fingers running softly against his cheeks and when she was satisfied with her work - she finally lifts her purple eyes to his.
He watches how her breath hitches, how her pupils dilate, the rise and fall of her breasts as she holds her breath in anticipation.
He knew what he was looking at – this gaze all too familiar, and yet he was sure beyond all doubt that the desire he saw in her eyes was reflected back at her through his own.
His hands grip the table, nails biting into the dark wood as she brings her face closer to his own – the warring desire to claim her, devour her, make her his - completely at war with the knowledge, the consequences - of what would happen if he surrendered to her.
Her lips are soft against his cheek, her nose scraping lightly against his flesh and his eyes flutter closed as he breathes in the fresh scent of her – so clean, so pure in contrast to his bloodied and ashen aroma.
His hand finds its way to her waist, his large palm splaying wide over her back as he pulls her flush against him.
He does not kiss her lovely mouth, he does not rasp his teeth against the delicate collarbones of his niece which are so proudly on display, his mouth waters as he wanders about her taste and with a growl he ducks his face into her throat.
His nose follows the hollow of her neck, the soft angular lines of her jaw, and he inhales deeply as he buries his face in her hair.
The shell of her ear is beneath his lips, his breaths coming in small pants of yearning as her hands come up to tangle in his hair and he curses softly as his body breaks into gooseflesh beneath her touch, her nails raking at his scalp, tugging at the strands.
“Uncle...” she breathes gently and the side of her thumb against his neck, the pressure of that small pad pushing into his pulse with want, has him lifting his face to meet hers.
Why can he not resist... what sorcery was this...this power...she had over him?
He needs to kiss her.
He burns for her as she does for him – even if she isn’t aware of the dangers of him doing so, even if she could never fully comprehend how he would demand all of her, forever, with this simple act – she still silently begs him for that which he is desperate to give her.
A knock on the door has her rapidly removing herself from him and he snarls, pushing off the desk and past her in irritation.
“What.” He snaps and the guard outside the door whispers something to him. He looks back at his niece and all lust drains from his body...replaced by equal parts relief and sorrow at the news that Queen Aemma and her child had passed.
Relief that his position, his claim to the throne would remain the same.
Relief that all his dreams remained unchanged... a feeling of joy that all his prayers he had dared to utter into the darkness had come to fruition.
And yet...
This girl before him – her life would now change in an instant.
He closes the door in the guards face and wraps his arms gently around his niece who shudders at his touch when he returns to her.
“My beautiful niece...” She stares up at him with those hooded eyes, purple irises shining through, adoration for him in every breath...
Today he will be the cause of her broken heart.
Someday... he be will be the one to fix it.