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Tusk!
Everybody left Dragonstone.
The first person to leave was its founder. Aenar Targaryen built the ranch to the far northwest of Adelaide with railroad money, but his attempts to break into the cattle business floundered in the face of little experience and littler patience. His son, Gaemon, took over within the decade; stubborn resolve would only keep him at Dragonstone for seven years before he, too, hung up his reins. Aegon Targaryen would return to the abandoned ranch a generation later with a title and a bank loan. For a time, Aerys Targaryen ran a successful horse farm to supply the cattlemen with stock and quarter breeds before turning his hungry eye to ore mining. It was there his wealth was won, and his son Daemion used the ol’ man’s iron money to reopen the ranch in the 20s. But the Great Depression hit three years later, and by the time Australia declared war on Japan in 1941, there was only one horse riding at Dragonstone.
And so it went. With every decade, with every colt and spur, Dragonstone loomed on the horizon of a family tragedy. An empire, a city in ruin. Dust on the heels of boots left at the back door for the last time. Rhaenyra Targaryen was born at the peak of another impending fall, when her father still had hope they could salvage the remnants of Jaehaerys’s venture into horseback tours and show business.
“You can put a man in front of a green screen, but you can’t put him on top of one. People need our horses.”
Except they didn’t, at least not the way Viserys dreamed and the bank demanded. Daemon knew it and said as much; that was the first time he was run off the ranch.
“Why do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Rile him up like that?”
Daemon smirked, the setting sun turning his silver hair cool gold. He led Caraxes by the reins to where Rhaenyra hung over the corral.
“Your ol’ man has a lot of people in his ear, and they all want one thing: their next paycheck. They’ll tell him whatever they think will get them paid soonest and most.”
“But not you?”
“Not me, byka kipagīros.”
He’d always called her that: byka kipagīros, little rider. Rhaenyra might have objected to the diminutive – saccharine, condescending, intolerable coming from anyone else. But Daemon was Daemon. The prince of the plateau, her favorite cowboy. He showed her how to mount and took her on her first ride when her father refused because “she’s only five, and so small.” He could call her bootstrap for all she cared.
Rhaenyra’s uncle left more times that anyone, sometimes on his own, sometimes dragged by the scruff with her father spitting mad above him. But he always came back. Weeks, months, years. He was the one who came back.
Until he didn’t.
***
Viserys had been sick for a while, but he got real sick on the eve of Rhaenyra’s nineteenth birthday. She barely caught him on the way to the floor, his limp head cradled in her hands and cake batter splattered up the wall in soppy confetti flecks. The ambulance took over an hour to make it out to the ranch, but by then he was mumbling again, slurred apologies that made Rhaenyra cry harder than the sight of her daddy crumpled to rags in the middle of their kitchen.
“I’m gonna get better, sugar bean. I’m not leaving you.”
Rhaenyra stood on the porch steps and watched the ambulance bump down the dirt road; beyond the house, the horses saluted the Lord of Dragonstone with solemn neighs.
***
They had the funeral in the pasture under the eucalyptus trees. Rhaenys held Rhaenyra’s hand the entire time, but it was Daemon she felt at her back. It was Daemon who found her in the hall that night when the house was quiet and empty. It was Daemon who woke up first, and slipped out by sunrise.
Everybody left Dragonstone.
But Rhaenyra stayed.
***
By the time Daemon stepped out of the truck, Rhaenyra had already cocked the shotgun. Her finger grazed the trigger, and he laughed.
“Hello, Rhaenyra.”
She jolted, but was slow to drop the barrel. “Daemon?”
Rhaenyra’s uncle smiled. “Was that warm welcome for me, or are you expecting someone?”
She wouldn’t tell him about the collectors, or the property sharks who came sniffing around with sharp teeth and cash offers. “What are you doing here, Daemon?”
Another smile, this time tucked to his chest. On anyone else it would look bashful, but Rhaenyra knew better.
“At least get me out of the sun first.”
***
“You need help, ‘nyra.”
“You sound like Rhaenys.”
“Rhaenys was the one who called.”
“Nice to know you pick up for her.”
Daemon sipped his iced tea, expression inscrutable. His teeth clicked on a swallow, and Rhaenyra felt the bite in her own throat. “Let’s not poke that one today.”
She snorted. Outside, the summer winds kicked up dust and shook the brush tufting the acres, but all Rhaenyra saw was a hallway stained dark blue and a shadow on the wall. If she tried, Rhaenyra could still smell leather and eucalyptus, could taste the rye and salt of an open kiss—
“I don’t need any help.”
Another not-so-bashful smile. Daemon drained the rest of his tea. “In any case, you’re getting it.”
***
Dragonstone used to have over fifty horses. Now, there were three.
“Syrax is doing well,” Daemon turned the toothpick between his canines, “Coat looks good.”
The last time Daemon had been at the ranch, Rhaenyra’s mare was down with a bad case of mud fever. He held Syrax steady while Rhaenyra applied ointment to her raw legs, whispering in that way of his. Soft assurances and gentle commands, the kind that coaxed absolute surrender.
“Otto says there’s a buyer in Adelaide who wants her. Told him I wasn’t selling.”
“Fuck Otto.”
Rhaenyra bit back a grin.
“How are the tours?” Daemon turned against the corral, elbows resting on the top rung.
“Haven’t had any since March.” There was no point in lying.
“Five months,” Daemon whistled through his teeth, “How you paying the bills, baby girl?”
“I leave them in the mailbox.”
Daemon’s laugh made Syrax snort and shuffle.
***
It was disconcerting how quickly they settled in, most of all because they didn’t skirt the truth. Despite his initial insistence they ‘not poke that one,” Daemon was the first to bring up the night of the funereal.
“Rhaenys says the Strong boy has been coming up to help with the ranch.”
“Harwin?” Rhaenyra set the sandwich on the table as Daemon jumped up the porch steps, “Yeah, he drops in sometimes.”
“He’s a good-looking man.”
It was silly enough to make her pause. “Daemon, are you jealous?”
“The opposite,” Daemon snatched the sandwich from the plate and took a full bite. He swallowed first before speaking again. “I’m glad you’re kissing people other than your uncle.”
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes and handed Daemon his beer. “Did you turn out Seasmoke and Vhagar yet?”
At night they played cards and smoked weed Rhaenyra bought from the aforementioned Strong boy. Daemon made dinner because he was better at it, and Rhaenyra tried to tamp down on the girlish gratitude that bloomed in her chest every time he set a plate in front of her, but to no avail. The curl of his lips told her Daemon knew what it meant that she didn’t have to feed herself, or eat alone.
Two weeks into his stay and seven bottles into the beer stash, they stood in the middle of the living room slow dancing to Dire Straits. Rag rug under bare feet, sweaty palms gently clasped and her head on his chest, Daemon bent to whisper, “Do you miss them?”
Rhaenyra didn’t like to talk about her parents, least of all Aemma. Her father’s death was fresh, but her mother’s was first. A loss without precedent, or reason (it was a macabre oxymoron to die in childbirth, felled by a life that perished in the womb and still insisted on taking another.)
“Sometimes I wonder if dad got sick the day mom…it doesn’t make me sad when I think about it that way. He loved her, and when she left, he found a way to follow.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
Daemon guided her through a spin in the circle of his arms, tucked her back to his chest. “I think your father wanted to stay for you.”
Well he didn’t, she nearly snapped, but her lids were heavy and Daemon was solid against her cheek. Rhaenyra shrugged and let him lead her through the music.
Juliet…when we made love, you used to cry…
That night, she touched herself to thoughts of her uncle for the first time in eight months.
***
Rhaenyra knew it would fall apart; it was a matter of when, not if. Turns out heartbreak would strike on the heels of a perfect day.
Daemon woke her early with hot coffee and fluffy pancakes. The sun had barely risen and he was already dressed in his jeans, quicksilver hair braided down his back.
“Wake up, and get your riding clothes.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He took them on the Stepstone trail. Daemon had Caraxes brought up from Adelaide the week before, and Syrax snorted and shuffled until they put the two in adjoining stalls. Every morning, Rhaenyra found them at the stables with their faces pressed together against the bars.
They called it Dragonstone for the red rock that burned the horizon with every setting sun. But at high noon the blue sky overtook the earth, and the eucalyptus tickled the thick underbelly of cotton clouds. Rhaenyra goaded Daemon into a race, but it dissolved almost instantly. Side by side, more than a trot but not so fast that the scene blurred before her. Just enough wind on her face to make Rhaenyra feel like she was flying.
“This way, kipagīros.”
The watering hole technically sat beyond the Targaryen property, but no one else seemed to know about it. Daemon dove off the tallest rock to wolf whistles and an applause of one. Sneaky as a minnow, Rhaenyra shrieked when a large hand shot out of the water and caught her ankle, pulling her under.
By the time they got back to the house, the sun had dried their clothes and Rhaenyra’s skin shown gold with a fresh wash of freckles. Daemon shooed her towards the shower, shirt unbuttoned, braid loose, barefoot with a dish towel in hand and mumbling about dinner. She left the door open, and maybe not for the right reasons, but all that came up the stairs was the sound of Daemon singing in the kitchen.
It was a perfect day, and like all perfect things, its end came far too quickly.
“…Few more, I think. I’ll probably need to come up occasionally, but Rhaenys exaggerated. She’s getting by, things are just slow…Saturday? No, I don’t think so. Because they’re boring as fuck, Mysaria, I told you I don’t like Jayne’s parties—”
Rhaenyra watched Daemon’s back through the crack in the door. He cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, hands busy dicing onions for the steak stir fry.
She waited for him to end the call. Stepped away from the door before he turned around. Sat at the table with her napkin in her lap and the tips of her damp hair staining her t-shirt. Daemon carried two trays and an oblivious smirk into the dining room.
“Here we are…do you want a beer or—”
“Were you going to tell me?”
Daemon frowned. “Tell you what?”
“Probably not,” Rhaenyra grabbed her knife and stuck a piece of steak, “Easier just to leave in the morning. Maybe a note.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re right, that’s a bit much,” She lifted the knife, considering the bleeding meat, “Last time you just slipped out by sunrise. I woke up and the pillow was already cold.”
Rhaenyra popped the steak in her mouth, teeth catching on the tip of the knife, and Daemon sighed. He settled into the chair at the other end of the table before he spoke.
“You didn’t want me here before.”
Of all the things he could say, it was probably the worst one. Her jaw locked, lungs frozen on a burning breath. Rhaenyra stared at her uncle from across the stretch of unvarnished wood and wondered how deep her knife could go.
“You can’t be serious.”
Daemon didn’t get uncomfortable, but the subtle fidget in his seat was as close as he would come to the feeling. Sea glass eyes held hers by tenuous resolve. “You greeted me at the end of a shotgun, Rhaenyra.”
Rhaenyra stood slowly, knife in hand, heart on fire. Daemon followed, and when she stepped left, so did he. He watched her grip tighten, and his wariness turned to intrigue.
“You fucked me at my father’s funereal,” Rhaenyra dragged the tip along the tabletop, “You might say I should have pulled the trigger.”
“Is it pain you want, little girl?” He nodded at the knife, “Revenge?”
“I want you to tell me why.”
Why did you do it? Why did you leave? The first time and all the times after? Why did you come back if you were never going to stay? Why did you kiss me in the hall and take me to your room and slip inside of me if you weren’t going to let me keep you?
Daemon took another step, and Rhaenyra lifted the knife.
It happened fast. He struck. She ran. He caught her at the edge of the table, and she aimed for his face. His fingers around her wrist, her knife falling to the floor. A struggle, a hiss. His hold flirted with force, but Daemon wouldn’t hurt her. Rhaenyra wasn’t sure she could say the same.
“I hate you, Daemon,” she sneered through bared teeth, “I hate you!”
“I know, sweetheart, I know.”
She’d started crying somewhere between the knife hitting the carpet and Daemon pulling her closer. Rhaenyra shuddered, fight bleeding from her body, chin tucked to the hollow of his throat where he still smelled of leather and eucalyptus. She opened her mouth against his skin with a little cry; his exhale lifted the curls at her temple.
“You deserve more, Rhaenyra.”
What a throwaway line. Didn’t she already know this? Did anybody deserve an empty home haunted by dust and the long departed? Daemon’s lips skimmed her hairline, an apology that made her skin prick with sick wanting, and Rhaenyra wondered if she was the loneliest girl in the world.
He kissed her on the cheek at first, like he was asking permission, but Daemon Targaryen never did that. Rhaenyra’s stomach turned in dual parts glee and dread – she was special, but she didn’t want to be. Special girls got put on shelves where no one would play with them. She would have what everyone else got even if she earned it with claws and teeth.
He didn’t pull away when she turned to catch his mouth, let her tongue pry him open and go searching. His arms were still fixed fast around her, but this wasn’t the embrace of a lover. It made Rhaenyra snarl and fist the collar of his open shirt, pushing close until every inch of her molded to every inch of him. Daemon stiffened, a beat between breaths that ran endless. If he stopped her now, Rhaenyra wouldn’t recover from it.
He broke in increments, like fissures running up the stone wall of a dam. The hands at her hips diverged, one driving into her hair, the other sliding lower. The turn of his tongue was swift and devastating. Rhaenyra couldn’t tell who he’d been holding back for, but the last shred of decency hanging between them dissolved under the wet slide over his mouth over hers as Daemon gave up and kissed her for real.
It spiraled fast; it was the only way these things went with them. Maybe if they weren’t always fighting the pull, holding out until choice turned to necessity and that thin veil of decency that kept them presentable burned like mesh over a flame. One moment they were kissing; then next, silverware clattered to the floor as Daemon brought her back down on the table, legs spread to make room for his hips. Rhaenyra arched into his angry touch, let him strip her roughly, let him take. That’s all she wanted, until there was nothing left behind.
“You push. You just push and push—”
Rhaenyra caught his tongue between her teeth and bit hard. Daemon laughed; it was a dangerous sound.
“Talk too much,” She tugged his shirt from his shoulders, nails scraping the scars on his chest – a brush burn gone wrong – “I don’t want to talk, I want you to fuck me.”
He had her out of her shorts now. The cold metal of his pinky ring stung the top of her thigh. Rhaenyra hissed as he shoved two fingers inside without warning, but she welcomed the pinch. This was what she needed. This was what she’d missed. Daemon was a dry, split lip and she just wanted to lick and lick until it healed.
“It’s cute, you know? How you think you’re in charge. But I know better, Rhaenyra. You want me to decide. You don’t want to worry about choice.”
His fingers left her suddenly, wet pads tapping her chin before slipping into her mouth. Her own tang on her tongue, pressing down. Rhaenyra moaned through a heavy suck as he lined up his cock.
Daemon pushed inside, and it was agony. Daemon pushed inside, and all she knew was joy. Daemon pushed inside, so full and deep it drove the air from her lungs, and Rhaenyra whimpered for the home she’d been missing since the last time he’d moved in her this way.
“No, no, don’t you start crying now,” his voice was honey dripping from a razor, “Lyka, riñītsos, you wanted this.”
Forearms hooked behind her knees, Daemon split her wide on his cock, thrusting hard enough to push the table an inch across the unvarnished floor. Rhaenyra keened, a tight sound that dissolved into sugary whimpers, wet and gritty, chattering teeth bared. She dug her nails into his chest, peppering mottled skin with crescent moons and lamenting she couldn’t leave a more permanent mark.
She didn’t need him to love her, but maybe to want her, want this – she just needed something to stick this time.
“But I do,” he rasped, and Rhaenyra knew she’d said it aloud, “You know I do.”
The cracked sound that clawed from her throat made his lids droop in sympathy. Daemon’s hips slowed, thrusts deepening and no less brutal, as he bent down to kiss up her neck. “Do you doubt it?”
“You s-say it like it’s – ah! – obvious…”
“I’ve loved you since your daddy set you in my arms, swaddled and screaming,” the hand on her face was gentle, brushing at her tears.
“You left.”
“I did,” another tender kiss.
“Why?”
He shushed her sobs like a babe, and Rhaenyra was struck with the fleeting thought (not the first time) that Daemon would make a wonderful father. She tightened around him; they both shuddered.
“Because you grew up, and my love changed,” he started moving again, “It turned…into this…”
Faster now, a burning sweetness building in the pit of her stomach. Slick skin where they met like oil on canvas – they were painting pleasure into each other. They could make something new, they could—
“Don’t pull out.”
“Rhaenyra…”
“You’ll leave again,” She scored blunt nails down his back, digging into the scars, “‘S okay. Just – let me keep…d-don’t leave me a-alone again…”
“Oh, little rider,” he had her against the edge, close to spilling, just one more push and – “You’re so funny.”
***
“I opened your mail.”
Rhaenyra plucked the blunt from the corner of his mouth. “Pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“I may have underestimated the hole you’ve dug yourself, baby girl.”
Something fluttered bright behind her ribs. Rhaenyra turned in the circle of Daemon’s arms, old couch creaking beneath them. “Yeah?”
He took back the blunt, frowning through a drag.
“Think I’ll have to stay a little longer after all,” Sly eyes found hers beneath ice-white lashes, “That is, if you’ll have me.”