Of Blood and Shame - MissMeeeow (2024)

Chapter 1: Wicked Dreamer

Chapter Text

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Ｏｎｅ

𝓌𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓇

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖗 candlesticks on the table, lit with a warm glow for each of the family set to arrive. They illuminated the soft cream tablecloth, the flute of a swirling glass of champagne, and the long fingers holding it up. The last vestiges of sense had dissipated with the second glass of wine. She was reminiscing, checking tabloid scandals on the news, but her eyes were always drawn to the stock markets, plummeting with the announcement that she would still succeed her father, despite the rumours of another child. Her jaw clenched, lips pressed so tightly together that they merged into one. She was going to discuss that with Viserys, going to bring up many things that she had seen him avoid, but low and behold, he was not here.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was not being stood up. She refused to even consider the possibility that they would dare, that she was to drink herself into a stupor all on her lonesome. Her eyes were on her phone, facing up with no sign of a single text or notification. The minute hand changed from 48 to 49 in the seconds she stared at the ticking clock.

Her heels clicked impatiently with each bounce of her leg, her lips pursing in gathering irritation as she made awkward eye contact with the server who refilled her water. She rested her elbows against the table and a rush of cold air brushed up her naked back, not unlike a chill of awareness.

She sat up when her uncle pulled the seat out from across from her. "Where's Viserys?" Daemon's first words did not bother to include Alicent Hightower's name in the sentence. In just one short year, Alicent had gone from her closest friend to a homewrecker.

The words weren't exactly fair, since her mother was gone, but neither was her finding out about their engagement through Daily News.

Rhaenyra shrugged, trying not to stare, trying to appear some semblance of normal. Her uncle had dressed in black and red dress clothes and a dark wool coat that smelled of pine and spice from his cologne. She felt her entire body shiver as he leaned over the table and his hands gripped her head.

His lips were against her hair, his palms cupping her ears and forcing her to hear her own thumping heart. She inhaled him, her eyes fluttering shut as he leaned away.

"I've been waiting an hour," she said, hating that the words were breathless. She was a foolish little girl with a self-destructive crush that threatened to knock her over like a delicate house of cards—if she was that fragile. She was battling the awareness of her flush and the chill that swept up her naked back.

The menu lay open in front of him, its words untouched as he assessed her with a glance over the leather-bound booklet. She noticed his eyes tracing the contours of her dress, the red fabric modestly draped over her chest from the front, while the back remained alluringly exposed to any wandering eyes.

She wouldn't deny that she fantasized about his hands as the fabric had slid over her skin that morning. She wouldn't deny that even the memory of her imagination brought about a slick heat in between her legs. She fidgeted in her seat, trying to force away those wicked thoughts, thoughts she shouldn't be having about her uncle. She thought about mould, about hairy legs, about anything else.

She moistened her lips with a quick flick of her tongue, masking her unease with a forced, nonchalant smile as he remarked, "Good thing I showed up." She noticed he had already ordered a glass of wine, a Westerosi speciality at this establishment, prior to joining her in the secluded back room. "Your father is dreadfully dull these days."

"Is that why you nearly get yourself disowned at every gathering?" Rhaenyra had never met a more chaotic man, a more unpredictable man, and she loved even that wildness about him. She wanted to climb him, slither under his skin, and rest there until they became one. The intensity of her desire made her fidget, and she considered excusing herself for a few minutes to regain her composure.

"I do not know what you are referring to," Daemon said with a scowl, but they were both highly aware of his nature. Last winter, on her father's birthday celebration, he had crashed his helicopter through the roof of the venue, drunk and with a woman on his arm. To this day, Rhaenyra was certain that had been a call girl, and the media had most definitely speculated the same.

"How is Mysaria?" Rhaenyra kept the jealousy out of her voice, even if it was blazing from under her skin. She could still remember the girl's caramel skin, wide hips good for dance, and lips that had been smeared with lipstick when she had pried her tongue away from Daemon's neck. She had been delectably stunning, a woman grown, tall, proud, and everything Rhaenyra had never been. Certainly, the Targaryen was no prude, since she was 21, not 16.

However, she wondered if she'd ever get the chance to show her family that she wasn't a 'girl' anymore. She didn't play with dolls or catch butterflies, except the ones in her belly when Daemon met her eyes from across the table. He was amused by the question, and perhaps he mistook her jealousy for dislike of the girl from Lys.

Rhaenyra wasn't so petty. The jealousy had nothing to do with Mysaria and everything to do with herself. She was envious of the freedom anyone else had with their desires—it was always simple for them. Rhaenyra had no such freedom and something in her must have been broken and irreparably damaged, making her imagine straddling her own uncle and claiming the fantasies that had been plaguing her for the last two years. Desire and lust had doomed her—it had no place in her life, yet it pushed aside her priorities and filled her mind with thoughts of him.

"She's well, from what I hear," Daemon said carefully, and his eyes were slanted, his head tilted. Bits of silvery hair had escaped from behind his ear, and it hugged the sharp edges of his cheekbones. He was leaning back in his chair now, one leg over the other. "Do you not approve?"

"She had gathered a reputation," Rhaenyra said, her fingers clenching into fists above her lap. She unravelled her hands from one another, lifting the champagne flute to her lips. "Twitter mentioned she was seen outside a planned parenthood."

"Children are a bother," Daemon remarked, his tone carrying a casual nonchalance that gave no hint of remorse. Rhaenyra didn't believe he had anything to be guilty of, but she was well aware of the fuss her father had made. Viserys had been irritable with his brother ever since learning about the insensitive remarks that still lingered, piercing Rhaenyra's core with their sting.

"The heir for a day!" Sources heard the millionaire tycoon, Daemon Targaryen announce to the bar in Luxembourg two years ago. Just thinking about those harsh words made Rhaenyra go as dry as sand, anger replacing lust. Both had no business here.

She knew he'd never change. In fact, he never even apologized for the words. "He is who he is dad," Rhaenyra had told her father, aware that even in her ire, she still made excuses for him.

"Is it true then?" Rhaenyra wasn't sure if she wanted to know. She wasn't ready to test her feelings, horrified at the possibility that even if he were to marry or have a family, she would still want him.

His expression softened, and slowly he grabbed her hand, his thumb pressing against her knuckles. She felt herself stiffen, the heat coming back from a simple brush of skin. She couldn't help herself from leaning forward, thankful that her life in the spotlight had taught her how to hide behind a mask of indifference.

"It was a media stunt," he said, and if he noticed the full-body shiver she had felt down her spine, he likely disregarded it as the AC's chill that had filled the dim room. "Was he furious?"

The words her father had uttered would have made even sailors blush. They were uncharacteristic of him, coming from a long and honourable family with English roots. Rhaenyra had never heard her father curse like that before. And it only aggravated matters when Daemon seemed to swim effortlessly in those rumours, showing no regard for how they tarnished the esteemed Targaryen name.

"I believe you manage to infuriate your brother on a daily basis," Rhaenyra observed, her fingers involuntarily tightening around his. She noticed his body stiffen when her leg brushed against his pants. The room bore a palpable tension, underscored by the soft sigh that escaped his lips. Dimly lit, it carried the lingering aroma of burning candles. The texture of his hand, warm and calloused, provided a stark contrast to hers. She could feel the rapid thud of her heart against her ribcage, the moment stretching out in suspended stillness.

"I brought you something," he murmured, leaning in, his voice a delicate whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. Her face brightened with eager anticipation, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"What is it?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone insistent.

With a subtle motion, his leg brushed against hers before he withdrew it. The tactile sensation sent a jolt of electricity through her body. Her senses heightened, she could nearly feel his skin, slithering against her own.

"Jewelry, of course," he stated, his words carrying a hint of mischief.

The privacy of the backroom had made her lax. It had her drunk off him, and she nearly wondered if he thought anything of it when she rested her heel near his, touching him just barely. It wasn't enough. The little touches that might have satisfied her, just enough, two years ago were becoming harder to sustain her. Now she realized that all this time she had just been feeding indulgences, nourishing her addiction, instead of trying to rid herself of it.

"You and your gifts," she remarked, her voice tinged with a mixture of amusem*nt and anticipation. He reached into his coat, retrieving a small box, and swiftly unlatched it with his free hand. The hinges creaked softly as the satin box opened, revealing the exquisite necklace nestled within.

Her eyes widened, dilating like a cat's, as they fixated on the shimmering gemstones. The colours danced in the light, captivating her senses. She found herself gazing up at him, intense and unguarded, a vulnerability coursing through her.

His lips curled into a smirk, a necklace swaying lazily from his fingertips as he extended it towards her. Daemon might have been a master thief or a magician if born without access to the largest pool of wealth in the world. She certainly made his sleight of hand easier, unable to divert her attention away from his face like a desperate bitch. Her eyes fixated on the necklace, and she noticed the intricate weaving of steel strands. With a longing gesture, she reached out and cradled the pendant between her fingers. To her surprise, despite the thickness of the chain, the necklace felt weightless in her hands, as light as a feather. It was the delicate ripple pattern etched into the steel that caught her attention, hinting at its unique craftsmanship.

"Do you know what this is?" Daemon asked, now switching to their ancestral language, his voice so soft that she nearly did not hear him. The words were hers alone.

"Valyrian steel," she whispered, her fingers gliding along the sleek chain of the pendant. Her gaze traced the contours of his suit, seeking the pocketwatch that always clung to his person. It swung gently at his waist, catching her attention. But as her eyes honed in, a realization struck her—the chain had been severed, its links now adorning the brilliant chain that warmed her skin.

Her voice quivered with a mix of curiosity and astonishment as she voiced her question, "You had it made for me?"

"This way you can have a piece of your forebearers," he whispered back, a conspiratorial smile that disappeared the moment he said, "Stand."

Her senses seemed heightened, the touch of her leg brushing against his sending shivers down her spine as she stood and circled the table towards him. Gratitude swelled within her for the privacy of the empty room, once a symbol of Targaryen opulence, now a potential venue for her shame. His gaze bore into her, a smirk playing on his lips as he reclined leisurely in his chair.

Struggling to find the right words, she turned away, mustering the courage to reveal herself fully. With a deep breath, she lifted her hair, baring her vulnerable back to him. Her fingers moved to unclasp the necklace adorning her neck, but before she could act, Daemon was already on his feet. His touch was gentle as feathers, as he unclasped the golden necklace she wore, allowing it to fall gracefully into her awaiting hand.

"A piece of old Valyria," he murmured, alluding to their ancestral home lost in the devastating volcanic eruption centuries ago—a place she had only known through stories. "A connection to your heritage, befitting of your rightful place," his voice caressed her ears, while the necklace's cool touch sent a shiver down her spine. The disconcerting nature of it all lingered, unsettling her, as his fingertips lightly grazed her skin before receding. By the time she pivoted towards him, he had already taken three steps back.

His palm pressed against his chin, his thumb tracing a path down his lips, barely concealing the mischievous smile that danced in his eyes. "Beautiful," he whispered in Valyrian, the ancient language rolling off his tongue with a seductive allure.

"Are you bribing me, uncle?" Rhaenyra said after a brief pause, but her voice came out staggered, her breathing hitched, and her heart racing so loudly that she nearly forgot her own language.

"What could you possibly give me?" Daemon's words dripped with calculated amusem*nt, his gaze lingering on her dress as she stood before him, the revealing slit teasingly exposing her thigh.She shivered again, and this time he was looking at her much as he had that night two years ago, from across the terrace. Most of that night was a blur of white noise, but there were a select few memories that doomed her, engraving these feelings into her veins.

She could give him many things—and when her inhibitions lowered, she wondered if he'd take them."My love and affection."

He made a sound, light and airy, that told her nothing of his thoughts."And what would I do with that?"

"I'm sure you'd figure it out," Rhaenyra retorted, the words slipping out without restraint, and she inwardly cursed her lack of control, wishing she could just erase the humiliation. Whether he caught the innuendo or not, Daemon chose to gracefully overlook it.

His fingers were wrapped around the chair, the knuckles white, and his irises dilated. She was going to say something, something she imagined would be clever, but that was when her phone finally began to ring. She was snapped out of her stupor when she saw her dad's name fill the screen, followed by his contact photo her family pre-Alice-Hightower.

She turned away from Daemon then, but noted he had slumped down on his seat and drowned the entirety of his glass. She made a point not to look at him, look at his muscles outlined through his button-up as he eased his coat off him. She stared ahead, fiddling with the pendant when she answered the call.

"Rhaenyra?" Viserys Targaryen said, and she felt irritation replace the lust she had begun to feel cloud her at her father's voice. He had the same tone, same inflexion, in his voice as he had the night he told her that Daemon had crashed her new Rolls-Royce into another Rolls-Royce.

"Papa," she greeted, already feeling the words coming as she leaned into her seat. She was doing well, already going a good few minutes without being a dumb bitch, but the moment she congratulated herself, her attention snagged on Daemon's rolled up long sleeve, exposing his forearms. His muscles were displayed, his Rolex resting against his skin, and she had to look away again before he finally caught where her mind had wandered and be disgusted by her. "You're not coming?"

"Sweetling," Viserys said, using his most patronizing tone. "You know how much I wanted to be there, but there were some issues with the baby. Nothing serious I hope, but she's getting an ultrasound."

The very mention of the oncoming baby brother with a woman who was her age, not to mention her best friend, did nothing but dwindle her barely put-together mood. Her nose wrinkled, but she was not about to argue over the phone in front of the one person who showed up. Most of all, she didn't even know what she'd argue about, only that she'd wake up feeling like a bitch in the morning.

"It's okay," Rhaenyra said, and she saw her uncle stand, leaving the room. She tried not to watch him, tried to make it subtle, and she wondered if her efforts were worth anything.

"It's not. You know how proud we are of you," he told her, and she wet her lips.

She was about to drag out the words 'It's just Yale', but that didn't sound right. It wasn't 'just' anything. "We can celebrate anytime. School isn't for another couple months." She was going to say that Alicent needed him, that she needed the support, but it was hard to battle against her own bitter resentment. "Make it up to me another time."

"When you see what I have planned, you'll forget about today," her father replied, his voice dripping with honey. "I will call Daemon, tell him it's my fault."

"He's already here," Rhaenyra said carefully, and the shame settled in her gut again as it always did when she was forced to face those feelings in front of the reminder that he was her uncle.

"Well, the entire night is on me," Viserys told her, and a spark of dangerous amusem*nt eased its way through her. "Spare no expense."

"I love you," Rhaenyra said after a moment, she heard it returned, heard Alicent in the background, hating that concern melded into the resentment. Deciding she had reached her limit, she ended the call with final words of affection as she saw Daemon re-enter the room with two bottles of liquor and a smirk.

"So it's just us two," Daemon announced, closing in and allowing his cologne to wash over her like a blanket when he leaned forward, hip against her arm, as he blew out two of the four candles. "If I knew that they weren't coming, I might have shown up an hour ago."

Rhaenyra felt a fond smile of affection slowly reach her as he sat across from her.

He poured her a shot, scooting it toward her and she stared down at it as if it were a physical manifestation of all her bad decisions. They must have won out in the end, and she grabbed it with her thumb and pointer, holding it up to him. His eyes were burning her as she held his gaze, watching him give that dark half-smile.

He dipped back his head, and they both drank the poison.

Chapter 2: After Midnight

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｏ

𝒶𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓂𝒾𝒹𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

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Once upon a time, there was a princess locked away to rot on a high tower. The firstborn, but treated no better than an incubator. She was rescued by a golden knight who fought off dragons in order to reach her.

Excuse me while I vomit, Rhaenyra thought with no short span of disgust. If she was to be anything in that story, she'd rather be the dragon. She'd rather be anything else but a dumb bitch waiting for some gallivant knight who'd rescue her one day, then force her to pop out his little lords and ladies to solidify his line.

Perhaps once she had been into the old tales of gallant nights who would climb mountains just to rescue the helpless girl. Now, even if she squinted and tried to cram feelings into her body, nothing stirred in the mixture. Her uncle leaned back in his seat to her right, looking bored at the display of the knight of old who proclaimed undying devotion to the princess.

She couldn't remember what the play was about or how they got here. Her head was in the clouds, aware of every movement as if she was moments from falling off her own seat. The private box was a distance from the crowd, but that didn't mean they were safe from the press. All anyone had to do was look over their shoulder and they would be seen over the ledge. They would see the dark red curtains with the Targaryen insignia of the three-headed dragon, courtesy of the sizeable donation she had her father make to expand the theatre. The velvet seats were a luxurious and deep scarlet, and she sunk into them further.

Daemon was significantly less tempting when he spent a good portion of the night flirting with the coat boy. If that only got her to order another co*cktail, she wouldn't tell him. She looked at him now, only to meet his amused expression as she fell to the side, over the armrest as the room spun.

In the dimly lit theater, the scent of aged wood and velvet curtains clung in the air, swirling with the anticipation of the performance about to unfold. The room swayed with an intoxicating blend of emotions and alcohol, distorting her senses and blurring the edges of reality. As Daemon's touch found its way to her trembling arms, his hands sliding up her bare skin with a deliberate steadiness, she felt a surge of disorientation mingled with desire. The world around her swayed and danced, a dizzying symphony of lights and shadows as he guided her down o the plush seat.

"You were the one who wanted to see a play," the timbre of his voice reached her ears, its clarity contrasting with her muddled state. A smile emerged on her lips, as if painted by the ethereal brushstrokes of her swirling thoughts. Her hand rested against the firmness of his chest, her fingers curling instinctively, seeking an anchor amidst the disarray of her senses. His hands remained on her exposed arms, the warmth of his touch creating a delicate friction that only deepened her temptations. Yet, even through her intoxicated haze, she could discern two versions of him, a mirage that tested her resolve. Two versions to resist. "And now you're not even watching."

Her gaze fixated on a strand of hair, defiantly out of place, resting against his chiselled jaw. The desire to touch it, to trace its path with her fingertips, consumed her thoughts. Imaginary sensations of his skin beneath her own surged through her, promising warmth and intimacy. It was beckoning her and nowher hand was moving.

As her hand ventured upward, his gaze remained fixed on her, observing the slow dislodging of her grasp on his top. Her fingertips traced a deliberate path, gliding over the fabric of his shirt, ascending his neck. With each movement, she felt the tension in his hands on her shoulders, the muscles tightening against her skin. The desire simmered beneath their surface, his eyes dark and lips pressed tightly together as her hand cupped his face, gently brushing aside the wisps of silver hair that had strayed from their place. His eyes closed, a controlled exhalation escaping through his nose, hinting at a hint of impatience.

Did he not see it? Rhaenyra wondered, her own eyes fluttering closed as she succumbed to a bout of hysterical laughter. The line between intoxication and infatuation blurred, leaving her teetering on the edge of sanity. You make me f*cking crazy,her thoughts were a confession, escaping in a breathless, silent murmur.

Daemon's voice broke through her tumultuous thoughts, his hand gently cradling hers, guiding it to rest against his face. His head tilted, his lips finding solace on the tender skin just above her racing pulse. The gesture, a bittersweet caress, both tender and calculated, ignited a surge of desire and vulnerability within her. "Perhaps we should get you some water," he suggested, his voice carrying a note of concern amidst the heady atmosphere that enveloped them.

"I don't want water," she said slowly, feeling her body go flush, wondering if it was only her intoxication that made it seem like he was reciprocating her advances. She held up her empty glass in between them, watching as he trailed his palm over her upper arms, now shivering and unable to help it. Feeling the weight of her own vulnerability, she slowly rested her head on his shoulder, her movements guided by a mix of intoxication and an unspoken longing. The fabric of her dress clung to her curves, leaving nearly nothingto the imagination. She had briefly considered wearing pasties earlier in the morning, but had discarded the idea, finding them too conspicuous under the unforgiving light.

Dumb bitch award goes to me, she thought with no small amount of regret.

"Okay kid. Time to go," his voice resonated in her ear, his warm breath causing a tingling sensation against her skin as he gracefully rose from his seat. Displaying his unwavering concern as an uncle, he knelt before her, cradling her face gently in his hands as she struggled to maintain the weight of her own skull. Did he notice the seductive glimpse of her leg through the daring slit in her dress? She wondered if he noticed how she spread her legs. She tried to get the will to close them again, but her body wanted him between them. She wanted him tonotice.

Perhaps he was the anchor of normalcy between them, viewing her as he should—a beloved niece and nothing more. Could it be that she was the one tainted by an unspoken sickness, consumed by feelings she shouldn't harbour? A mischievous laugh escaped her lips as she whispered, "I thought you never got on your knees." His raised eyebrows likely betrayed his understanding of the reference, a lingering wound that remained unaddressed, festering between them. "The heir for a day, expecting me on my knees—to yield and submit," he had said, only days after both her little brother and mother had passed.

"That's not how a lady of your stature should speak," he gently reprimanded her, his hands now resting on her waist, guiding her upward. In her intoxicated state, she made a feeble attempt to stand, a laugh bubbling forth as her body defied her, threatening to send her tumbling backwards. His hands steadied her, gliding along the length of her spine, intimately pressed against her skin, their lower bodies fitting together in a provocative embrace, enfolded against him. A groan escaped her, a conflicted mix of sensations that was too pleasurable to be forbidden.

"I'm not a lady," she declared with another playful laugh, allowing him to assist her in finding her balance. Her vision swirled with a hazy fog, yet she could discern the fading amusem*nt in his eyes, replaced by a hint of irritation.

He snorted, supporting her weight as he guided her arm over his shoulder. His right arm encircled her waist, his fingers brushing against her belly, holding her tightly against him as they made their way out of the dimly lit room. "No, you certainly are not," he remarked with ease, shouldering most of her burden effortlessly. "Even if you made an attempt to dress the part tonight."

Rhaenyra's laughter spilt forth, her head drooping forward as her muscles turned feeble, weaker than a blade of grass. Amidst the muffled voices, she strained to focus, her vision clearing just enough to catch a glimpse of her uncle struggling to slide her coat back on.

"Need any help?" The young man couldn't have been more than a mere twenty-something, yet his handsome features were impossible to ignore. Bitterness seeped into Rhaenyra's thoughts as she observed the boy's eyes darting back and forth between the Targaryens.

"Careful with that," Rhaenyra whined as her uncle all but smashed her arms into her cream coat. "It's Chanel, for the gods' sake."

"Excuse me, princess," Daemon interjected, amusem*nt lacing his words. The young man extended her uncle's coat, his smile radiating innocence, tempting her to smack it away. Daemon redirected his attention to the boy."Don't suppose you can keep how obnoxious she is between us?"

"Well, I guess I'll have to delete my tweets then," the coat boy joked, and Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed on his nametag that read Effran. A surge of warmth washed over her, though she could barely remain upright. Daemon was left with no choice but to support her once more when she nearly stumbled over the waist tie of her coat. He let out an exasperated sigh, compelling her to face him, and she teetered forward, her face colliding with his chest.

He smells good enough to eat, Rhaenyra thought, her fluttering lashes betraying her inner desires. A deep hum escaped Daemon, surprising them both. It was a resonating sound that awakened her most primal instincts. She chuckled at the notion, while Effran snorted in response. At her. "Did you just bite me?" Daemon inquired, steadying her by gripping her shoulders. Their eyes descended to the lipstick imprint on his garment. A tremor coursed through her shoulders as she erupted into obnoxious laughter, fully aware that she would cringe at the memory tomorrow.

"I'm famished," she declared, her voice laced with a hunger that extended far beyond a craving for food.

One of his brows arched in response, his hands tracing a path downward as if afraid that releasing her would cause her to stumble and fall. With a determined focus, he reached for one of the ties adorning her waist, their lengths uneven, one end trailing along the ground from his clumsy attempt to secure it over her arms. She offered no assistance, her indifference evident in her demeanour. Through half-lidded eyes, she watched him, longing for his gaze to meet hers. His clenched jaw and robotic movements revealed the effort it took for him to draw nearer and adjust the ties. As he achieved balance, she tilted forward, her face finding solace against the warmth of his neck. The intoxicating scent of his cologne invaded her senses, permeating her mind and replacing any chance of sobriety with an overwhelming longing.

A trembling breath escaped him as he implored, "Could you stand straight for just one minute?" Her fingertips brushed against him, their touch a frail anchor in a sea of distorted reality.

Her laughter danced against his bare neck, her lips tracing the rhythm of his pulse as she spoke. "You're the one who did this to me."

Daemon, unable to comprehend her intended meaning, reminded her, "You're the one who ordered the last five shots." Rhaenyra chuckled self-deprecatingly at the irony of her thoughts. He made an attempt to tie her coat in an elegant bow, only to inadvertently suffocate her in the process.

"It's a coat, uncle, not a corset," she gasped, her words punctuated by his laughter that vibrated against her lips, which rested against his neck.

"I'm better at taking them off," he told her in Valyrian. As if to prove his point, he effortlessly loosened the tie, causing her to fall backwards once again. This time, he scrambled to catch her, his touch clumsy yet intimate, one hand upon her back and the other gripping her exposed thigh. She exhaled, teetering on the precipice of complete surrender, her intoxicated state freeing. Waves of unbound hair cascaded around her face, tangled and dishevelled, mirroring the chaos that roiled within her.

"Sir, the limo has arrived for you," Effran interjected, serving as a stark reminder of their audience's presence. It was akin to a sudden plunge into an icy abyss, forcing her to confront the reality of her situation. In a feeble attempt to regain sobriety, she fought to resurrect the version of herself from three years ago, the niece he knew. Such thoughts should never have arisen within the confines of family.

"Come on, you heathen," Daemon whispered against her ear, guiding her arm back over his neck and assuming the role of her support once more. His touch was gentle as they traversed through the front doors of the theatre. "Targaryens always exit through the back," her father used to say, for paparazzi lurked, ready to emerge like vultures, hungry to feast upon their very bones.

"Daemon," she murmured, uncertainty etching her face as a bright flash caught her attention. Dishevelled and unsteady, she stumbled, his hands skillfully finding their way to the appropriate places to steady her. Against the cool breeze that lifted her dress, his touch ignited a fire within her. She attempted to maintain composure, to appear normal, but her own heel betrayed her, causing her to trip. He caught her roughly, his hands lingering upon the places she yearned for them to remain. Steadying her against the car as if she were a mere slab of wood, he opened the door and endeavoured to guide her inside, where she practically collapsed onto the lavish cushions of the limo. He stumbled in after her, closing the door with a chuckle as he inadvertently collided with her, a reminder that he too was not entirely sober. The interior bathed in a soft white glow, illuminating the mini bar of the spacious Hummer.

Her gaze was fixated on the ceiling of the car, captivated by the line of fluorescent blue that traced the trim of the limo, its ethereal glow weaving its way toward the obscured figure of the driver behind the soundproof partition. Her vision swayed with each movement, blurring the edges of the space. Swirls of vibrant colours merged into a dizzying kaleidoscope, dancing before her eyes like ephemeral spectres. The flickering lights overhead cast surreal shadows, distorting the faces and figures that surrounded her. The taste of liquor lingered on her lips, its fiery warmth spreading through her veins like a reckless wildfire. It fueled her reckless abandon, eroding the barriers of inhibition that she had so carefully built. Daemon lay sprawled on his back, his chest rising and falling in rhythm as he stared into the abyss of his thoughts. Rhaenyra shifted onto her side, the swirling light casting a dizzying spell as she took in her uncle's dishevelled appearance. His partially untucked button-up shirt hinted at his disarray, contrasting against the black, slim-fit slacks. The top buttons were left undone, offering a glimpse of his chiselled pecs.

His silver hair, tousled and wild, mirrored the state of his attire. His coat draped open, enveloping him like a chaotic embrace. When his gaze finally met hers, she abandoned any pretence of sobriety. "You can't handle your tequila," he uttered, his voice devoid of amusem*nt. There was a darkness lurking in his expression, something dangerous yet alluring. She rolled off the cushioned seats, her unsteady limbs betraying her attempts at gracefulness as the animated atmosphere of the limo intensified. In her haste, her forearm collided with the sharp corner where plastic met flesh, leaving behind a bruised reminder. Resting her cheek on his arm, she savoured the softness of his wool coat against her skin, her hand finding solace upon his chest.

"Thank you for being here," she murmured, striving to inject seriousness into her words as the haze of intoxication gradually lifted. Time seemed to crawl, and her heart threatened to escape her throat when he turned his gaze downward to meet her eyes.

His palm cupped her cheek, cradling it with tenderness, and if he detected the tremor in her breath, she hoped it would be attributed to the alcohol. "What family would pass up the opportunity to express pride in your accomplishments?" His thumb traced the contours of her cheekbones, his warm words enveloping her in sensations she had not sought. Fingers delved into her hair, their touch entwined as his smouldering gaze scorched her being. He lay on his side, guiding her forehead to his, where it lingered in a timeless moment that could have stretched into eternity without protest from her. His hand caressed the back of her neck, a touch so familiar and yet frivolous in its intimacy.

Her eyelids fluttered shut, her racing pulse and his proximity threatening to push her over the precipice of desire. She yearned to explore him further, to let her teeth graze his chest where the undone buttons beckoned. But then he withdrew, retreating as if she were hot coals or repugnant sh*t. She couldn't discern which. As she watched him crawl toward the mini bar—his movements strained—he began to pour himself another glass of wine. She rolled back over, engulfed in a sense of isolation and solitude, feeling like a foolish captive of emotions she had once deluded herself into thinking she could overcome.

"Alright kid, time to go," Daemon said, sometime later into her misery. She was still curled on the ground when he attempted to lift her.

"Where are we?" Rhaenyra asked and by this point, she was starting to cling to the rising sobriety as her uncle hauled her up. She was able to help him now, realizing that the limo had stopped.

"Your penthouse," Daemon said, but something had changed in his expression. He seemed so far away as he helped her out the doors and onto the empty street where a new pair of hands took over. "You'll help her up?" Daemon was no longer talking to her, and the hands on her were colder and restricted by gloves. She looked over her shoulder to see who was gripping her arms so she wouldn't fall. She let out a groan.

"I can make it up myself," Rhaenyra defended, watching both Daemon's brows rise as he leaned his back against the car.

"Has she gotten any water?" Criston Cole asked, ever the perfect little bodyguard. Mostly he was employed for big events like MET galas or fundraisers, not for wild nights out with the uncle she wanted to f*ck.

"Ah," Daemon muttered, letting out a sigh as if the entire thing inconvenienced him. He entered the limo again and came back out with a glass bottle of water. She went to grab it, but her coordination was terrible and she punched his pectorals. His beautiful, delicious pectoral,Rhaenyra thought, irritated with how horny she was.

A small smile of amusem*nt escaped him, and he grabbed her wrist and guided her hand to the water where he tightened her fingers around the base. Her eyes fluttered open and shut. "I'll take it from here," Criston said, and Daemon's eyes snapped to his as if he had forgotten he was there.

"Where are you going?" Rhaenyra said, getting the sense that Daemon wasn't headed home. She watched her uncle run his hand through his hair. Judging by the reluctance in his hesitation, he had no desire to answer her questions.

"Come on little princess," Criston, ever her white knight, said as he asked for permission to touch her waist. She nodded absently, noting how different it felt with his hands on her. He was certainly attractive, with tan skin that must have come from Indian heritage. He was positively delectable even when he touched her like a gentleman. His hands never strayed as her heels clicked against the cement sidewalk.

"Sleep well, Rhaenyra," Daemon said, and retreated back into the limo. He didn't look at her again and maybe he had screamed at the driver to go since the moment the door was closed, the car took off.

Criston helped her through the lobby, an immaculate thing alit with gold, and led her to the silver elevators with dragon borders. Her family had dabbled in many businesses, but real estate had gotten them millions in New York. She let Criston guide her into the brightly lit box, the embarrassment now settling over her like a weighted blanket.

"Oh my god," Rhaenyra muttered, covering her face with a palm as she began to replay the night in her mind. She was replaying her longing looks, her constant near flashing of her panties when she sat, the long brushes of contact. It was no wonder her uncle abandoned her. "Oh my god."

"You alright, Ms Targaryen?" Criston asked, ever the white knight again.

"I'm going to be sick," Rhaenyra said, her hands now covering her entire face as her back rested against the cool metal elevator. The handrest dug into her spine, but she didn't have it in her to care about bruising herself. Her integrity and dignity were in pieces. Two years of composure was out the f*cking toilet. I f*cking bit him, she thought with a deeper emotion, worse than embarrassment. Shame.

"We're almost there. Two floors. Can you hold it in?" Criston was so calm, so sweet, so honourable. It wasn't what she wanted right now. She wanted someone to tell her she was a stupid bitch, but who could she possibly share her secret with? Who would understand?

Her one friend, her closest friend, didn't even know and now that friend was f*cking her dad.

Rhaenyra let out a whine, and Criston Cole was carefully moving her hands aside to cup her face slowly in his palm. He was holding the water now, and she didn't even remember him taking it. It was uncapped and he was guiding it to her lips, his hand tangled in her hair as he motioned for her to drink.

Her lips were dry, her hair dishevelled from the limo floor, and her eyes heavy. She nodded, and he brought the bottle to her mouth and tipped it back. Water trickled down her chin as they made eye contact. He certainly was attractive, with great big eyes that saw the world for what it could be. They just weren't the eyes she wanted. His weren't the hands she wanted. It wasn't just the feeling of them that was different, but Daemon had never touched her like this. His hands always rested too close to scandalous areas, held brashly, never gently.

The water certainly wasn't what she wanted in her mouth, but it would have to do. "Thank you," she whispered as he pulled it away.

"I'm not your father," Criston told her as the elevator let out a loud dingand the doors opened. "But you should have already had three of these in your system by now." She let out a laugh, letting him help her walk, down the long hall leading to her penthouse.

"I'll keep that in mind," she told him, and he held her up as she attempted to open her own door. Even the way he helped her stand was gentle as if she was as breakable as glass.

"Congrats on Yale, by the way," Criston told her, helping her inside where she practically tossed her heels off her foot, only to remember they were strapped on. One of her tan heels was left half hanging onto her ankle, the strap had mostly tangled around her foot, and her toes were left dislodged from the tip of the shoe. Criston watched with amused judgment.

"I've got the lawyer professional thing down," Rhaenyra said with a laugh. She watched Criston's cold expression morph into something warmer, as if the sun had melted him. He guided her to the love chair in the living area, motioning her to sit. She did so, a sense of confusion blending into her, cushioning the hurt she had felt when Daemon practically shoved her out of his limo.

Criston Cole looked delectable when he got on one knee before her, not meeting her eyes as he softly wrapped his hands around her ankle and began to unstrap the complex shoe that was tied around her ankle in two loops. "You have a bruise on your leg," Criston said, and she rested her palms against her thighs so she wouldn't fall over when she leaned to look. She didn't remember getting it, but it was nasty and blue. It was just on the side of her thigh, visible through the slit.

He skillfully undid the shoe and gently placed it on the ground next to her. He moved on to the second. "Do you have sisters, Ser Cole?" It was a habit to call him that since he refused to use her first name no matter how often she had asked. Due to that, he called her 'little princess'.

He finally looked up at her from untying her shoe, his lips spread into a slight smile. "Three."

She hummed. "You're a good man. You know that?"

"And you're very drunk," he whispered, not looking away from her as he undid the ties of her second shoe, placing it next to the first. "Come on, let's get you to the bathroom before you vomit." He stood, offering both his hands to help her up. She intertwined their fingers, able to use her own strength to stand now that she was without her heels.

The word was a turn-off, but not a complete deterrent. In the same motion of her standing straight, she pressed her lips to his, missing and only catching the corner of his mouth. She watched him let out a restrained sigh.

He quickly pulled away, his gaze troubled. "What's wrong?" Rheanyra had never been rejected before since she had never allowed herself to be put in a situation where she could be.

"You're drunk."

She felt herself smile. "I'm not that drunk." She still had control and would lose none of it for Criston Cole. "Did you not like it?"

Criston shook his head, helping her to her room where he gracefully opened the door and turned on the lights. "Try it again in the daylight." She let out a laugh, letting him guide her to the bathroom. "Do you have it from here?" His question was uncertain and uncomfortable, and she found it rather cute. He didn't fill her with the out-of-control passion that her uncle burned her with, but it was enough for now.

"Unless you want to bathe me?" Rhaenyra said, not meaning to sound so forward, using the door frame of the bathroom as her support.

"If you're sober enough to mock me, I think you'll be fine," Criston said with both brows raised. She grinned, lightly brushing the back of her hand against his cheek and fully entering the bathroom.

"I'll see you in the daylight," she promised and closed the door.

Chapter 3: Cozy on Broadway

Chapter Text

Ｔｈｒｅｅ

𝒸𝑜𝓏𝓎 𝑜𝓃 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝒶𝒹𝓌𝒶𝓎

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

There were small, crisp, and burned-out black husks that scattered across every chipped white portion of the windowsill. It was a wonder they could have ever been alive and breathing, so Rhaenyra wondered what it was like for them to be trapped in that space. They had been real and sentient and gone, watching the world outside go on, baked by the relentless sun, overwhelmed by it until even life escapes you.

There were many moments that Rhaenyra wondered who was the fly and what it could have been if only someone had just opened that window before it succumbed to the fate that awaited it. She thought about the fly when she sat at her mother's bedside, just four hours before Aemma Targaryen let out her last breath. Her belly was swollen, her face drenched with sweat, and doctors came in every half hour to check if she was dilated.

Her mother spent much of it attempting to look okay, attempting to make it all seem like it was normal. "You should have seen your birth," Aemma had told her, clutching her daughter's hand and smiling. Rhaenyra wanted to leave, but with her father still on the plane back from Paris, she wasn't about to leave her alone. "You were just as bad."

"Yeah?" Rhaenyra had said, not certain if that was true. She had always been told she was a fighter, coming out from the womb kicking and screaming and alive. Nobody ever mentioned what it had been like for Aemma Targaryen, but despite the assurances, Rhaenyra couldn't push away the feeling of cold dread that settled over her when she noticed every breath her mom took had looked as if she were expelling life from her lips.

The fluorescent lights of the sterile hospital room cast an eerie glow on Rhaenyra's ashen face. She sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the white walls that mirrored her despair. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound that interrupted the silence. The eight hours in the hospital dripped with haunting slowness, where each sound was measured with Aemma's laboured breathing. There were spots of blood on the bedsheets, little splatters that were made visible as her mother kicked off the blankets in a haste. Rhaenyra pretended not to notice, pretended that her breath had begun to mere her mother's every pained gasp. Her legs wouldn't stay still, the points of her toes tapping against the pristine white tiles beneath as she looked out the window once more.

"I can open it. Let some air in," Rhaenyra suggested, turning to pry open the window. She sucked in the air, allowing her face to fall in the presence of her own reflection. "Do you need anything? Water?"

Aemma lay on the bed, her body sinking into the soft sheets like molten candle wax. Waves of pain washed over her in unpredictable surges, causing her to wince and grimace. Rhaenyra was itching to leave, yet her heart tugged her in place, as though she'd come back to find more blood, splattered against the bedsheets. Aemma softly patted the space just next to her, eyes distant and far away. She took the offered space next to Aemma, her hand tentatively resting on her mother's swollen belly. The baby brother, who had yet to be born, seemed to stir beneath her palm, like a tiny, restless creature seeking escape. Rhaenyra could feel the flutter of movement under her fingertips, but where Rhaenyra sought affection, she was left with only cold resentment.

Unable to bear the weight of her shame, Rhaenyra averted her gaze, her cheeks burning with the sting of disgrace. The whip of self-reproach lashed at her from within, leaving welts of remorse etched upon her skin.

Amidst the heavy silence, Aemma's voice cut through, a gentle current breaking the stagnant air. "I know," she whispered, her words a lifeline offered to her daughter. "It's impossible to close your heart to things you don't want to feel, Rhaenyra. You're not bad for thinking those sorts of things."

Rhaenyra's bottom lip trembled, offering her hand and allowing their fingers to intertwine. The squeezing of her hand was nearly enough to make them crack, but Rhaenyra refused to make a sound. "I don't mean to," Rhaenyra admitted, her voice trembling with uncertainty as she grew more agitated that her mother had to comfort her for being an awful person who was incapable of loving an unborn child.

Aemma's smile bloomed like a fragile blossom, tugging gently on their entwined hands to bring Rhaenyra's knuckles to her lips. The feather-light brush of her kiss stirred the depths of Rhaenyra's emotions, coaxing forth tears that threatened to spill like a torrential rain. Yet, Rhaenyra swallowed them down, masking her turmoil within the swirling cauldron of anxiety that churned in the pit of her stomach. The room was filled with the dim glow of the fluorescents, but even amidst the shadows, a fragile bond of love and forgiveness began to take root, ready to grow in the darkness.

"Mum, I—," Rhaenyra began, but Aemma's groan cut her off, loud and crisp with pain. Her fingers squeezed around Rhaenyra's hand as she tried to push herself up; the ragged gasp ended with a pained groan. Rhaenyra heard the door slam open, and she was turning, half expecting a nurse.

She couldn't get out another word at the sight of him. Viserys usually had a perfectly curated look — stylishly trimmed silver hair, polished leather boots that glinted in the light—but now his hair was wild and unkempt, and his face was covered in days of stubble. He flew to his wife's side as she clutched Rhaenyra’s hand with an iron grip, her knuckles white from the strength. The girl stood impassive while absorbing the full force of her mother’s grip without a flicker of expression.

Rhaenyra nearly floated away when Aemma released her hand to grip onto Viserys' shoulder, her mum's fingers digging into the coat he wore, still damp with rain. She stood by the bedside of her labouring mum, with her arms wrapped protectively around her waist, a marked contrast to the loose and airy dress she wore.

Rhaenyra could only watch as his fingers tenderly entwined with his wife's as he softly touched the back of her head and kissed her forehead. He searched her tear-streaked face before uttering reassurances that Rhaenyra could barely hear. A trembling smile passed between them before he finally broke away and pulled his wife close in an embrace.

"It's been eight hours," Rhaenyra softly, her cheeks pale, her eyes heavy and sunken, when her father turned to her and kissed her atop her head. She didn't want to fight, yet there had been one stewing under her skin since she had to do all of this on her own.

"I know," he said after a slight hesitation. "You're exhausted. You should rest."

"I'll stay. I want to stay," she had said in return, despite the unsteadiness of her feet and her severe lack of balance, her dehydration, and her need to pee.

Her mother was breathing heavily, her lips parted in pain, her face glistening with sweat and tears, and her dad was telling her to go? It made no sense to her, so she planted an unsteady foot firmly where she stood. "My sweetling," Viserys said, shaking his head. "You've been so brave, but if you don't get some rest and some water, I'll have Harwin drag you out over his shoulder."

The very notion of anyone, no matter how tired she was, throwing her over their shoulder was incredibly demeaning. He would get two steps before she made an attempt to actively bite through his shoulder blades. "Rhae?" Alicent's voice cut through her near complaint, and Rheanyra felt her entire being go stiff as she turned to look at her friend, having not noticed her enter the room. Alicent had been through this entire ordeal with her, having driven both her and her mother to the hospital in the first place eight hours ago.

Rhaenyra felt her body relax, easing into her friend's palm as it rested on her back, in between her shoulder blades. "I'll be fine, my little fighter," Aemma assured her, and it somehow made Rhaenyra feel worse. Here her mother was, in the worst pain most people could experience, and she was worried about her, reassuring her.

"I'll be back, mum," Rhaenyra told her, walking up to her mother and pressing a kiss onto her forehead and lingering against the moist flesh as her mom's hand rested against her cheek.

"I love you, Rhaenyra, but get some rest for the both of us," Aemma whispered into her daughter's ear.

"I love you more," Rhaenyra whispered back, her voice cracking when she saw spots of blood on the blanket.

Her mother let out a chuckle, the first one in the last hour. "So you say," Aemma whispered back, her palm lingering as her daughter pulled away. Alicent slipped her hand into the awaiting grasp of her friend, urging her forward. The daughter and father spared one final, parting glance before the door closed behind her and Alicent was leading her friend to one of the sitting chairs.

"Do you need anything Rhae?" Alicent asked, and slowly Rhaenyra just lowered her elbows to her knees before cradling her head into her hands.

"The baby is early," Rhaenyra muttered, and she heard Alicent sit next to her, resting an arm around her shoulders and leaning into her. "It just doesn't feel right."

"Your mom is a fighter," Alicent whispered into her friend's hair. "And she's gonna get through this. You all are. Then, you're going to meet the most beautiful baby boy in the world."

Rhaenyra sniffed, trying to hold back the tears she had been ignoring for the last eight hours, ever since she found her mother huddled into a ball next to her bathtub. She had been screaming for help, the water in which she had bathed was filled with blood, and it had drenched the floor around her.

She hadn't spoken more than twenty words since then, despite the jokes her mother tried to use to fill the silence two hours ago. "You're going to hate him," Alicent whispered, still kneeling near her, her hands running up and down Rhaenyra's bare arms, trying to warm them. "You're going to be so jealous of all the attention that spoiled boy will get."

Rhaenyra sniffed, her eyes burning. She still saw bits of dry blood on the ends of her silver hair from when she tried to lift her mother up. The naked flesh had felt so clammy under her palms.

"But you'll spoil him too. You'll see. You'll love him as well as hate him," Alicent continued, her soothing voice easing some of the nerves that had made her friend so stiff.

"Dad's already talking about handing over Dragonstone," Rhaenyra said, laughing as tears finally slipped out. Dragonstone was the home her distant grandfather had built from the ground up a century ago when the little island of Valyria had been destroyed. It was an immaculate castle, cold and desolate and she had loved it since she was a girl. "I yelled at him. Screamed that it should be mine."

Alicent was silent, her eyes red and bloodshot as she continued to run her hands up and down her friend's shoulders.

"But he can have it," Rhaenyra said, her tears slipping onto the tiles below. "He can have Dragonstone and the inheritance and succeed dad. I don't care about any of that. I just want to meet him."

Alicent's bottom lip was trembling when Rhaenyra finally raised her head. The mascara had made a trail of black down her cheeks.

"I just want to be a family," Rhaenyra said, brows drawn as she recalled the words the doctor had thrown about two hours ago after the test results had come back. Placental abruption, Rhaenyra recalled, having Googled it in the bathroom where she promptly vomited the remainder of her stomach lining.

Alicent reached over and embraced her friend, both their shoulders getting wet from each of their tears. "Let's get you some coffee. Something warm to drink to keep you fighting," Alicent told her, whispering it into her neck as she helped Rhaenyra to stand.

Rhaenyra followed her, walking passed the fluorescent lighting of the sterilized hallway, feeling numb the further they got from the room where her mother was fighting to breathe. Rhaenyra wiped away tears with the hand that wasn't clutching onto Alicent's for dear life. Everything happened in a blur of motion, the sensations and the noise all unreal. She thought of that fly that remained trapped in the windowsill of the hospital room, thought about walking back and letting it out, dislodging it from the prison it had nearly given up to.

She did not go back, she just accepted the coffee that was handed to her without realizing that it had already been ordered and she was sitting again. She didn't take a sip, just held it close to her, basking in the steam and Alicent's half embrace.

"Do you want to talk?" Alicent asked lowly, her head resting against Rhaenyra's in a nearly peaceful manner.

"No," Rhaenyra whispered, so lowly that it was a wonder she heard it at all. The waiting room was filled with differing noises, from the occasional cough from waiting patients to the complaints about the excessive delay. Rhaenyra felt like an outsider, as if she didn't belong. She belonged with her family, next to her mum and dad and her baby brother.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

"Do you want me to talk?" Alicent asked this carefully, her own uncertainty filling the empty space. She was ever the fixer, always wanting to do everything in her power to make a problem disappear. At times, Rhaenyra would find it annoying, but at the moment, she wanted nothing more than to hear her speak.

She nodded.

"I went on a date last weekend," Alicent told her, lips pursed as Rhaenyra tried to recall her mentioning an upcoming date. "It was last minute and he was hot. The date was going great, we had dinner at that restaurant upstate that we went to for your graduation." Alicent sat down next to her, lightly tapping her shoulder against Rhaenyra's. "Then he took me to Starbucks." Alicent let out a laugh. "I think he forgot my name, Rhae."

Finally, her friend smiled, just a small one, but it filled Alicent up with warmth. "What about the star guy?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice cracking as she finally took a sip of the bitter coffee.

"I warned you, didn't I? Dragging me out at 3 am to gaze at the sky is a surefire way to be removed from my life," Alicent playfully remarked, eliciting laughter from both girls. "So, is it alright? Do you want some sugar?" Alicent usually struggled to pinpoint Rhaenyra's preferences, as since her tastes seemed to fluctuate incessantly. One day she craved lattes, only to switch to Americanos the next. She oscillated between an insatiable need to talk when feeling down, and then abruptly withdrawing into silence.

Rhaenyra was often told she was an enigma of unpredictability and chaos, so she knew that a part of Alicent almost anticipated her to unleash a slew of hurtful words that might leave Alicent feeling like a criminal.

"I can't taste anything," Rhaenyra said, watching the doctor assigned to her mother rush past her without a sound, followed by two more. Rhaenyra felt a moment of panic, now standing and chasing after them. Alicent mirrored her with her brows drawn in as the two girls watched the team of doctors enter her mother's room.

"Maybe she's finally fully dilated. Maybe the baby is just finally ready," Alicent suggested but broke off when Rhaenyra turned her head with an expression had Alicent's face falling with a violent crash. Her back arched, her hands shaking and her breaths coming out in quick succession. Alicent pulled her close for a hug, both women looking up as the door to her mother's hospital room creaked open. The sound that followed was loud, almost primal and unbridled cry of pain that cut through the tension like a knife.

Alicent cooed her friend, running her fingers through her hair as she walked her over to the side, away from the traffic of patients and nurses and doctors. Whatever she was saying, whatever words were thrown her direction to make Rhaenyra feel better, she did not hear them. She could only wait, wait as her father finally exited the room, crashing into the opposite wall. He didn't look at her, he only continued to walk the other way, leaving Rhaenyra in Alicent's arms.

"What happened?" Rhaenyra asked, her brows furrowed together. "Where is he going?"

"Stay here," Alicent whispered, rushing after Viserys. Rhaenyra saw the first doctor exit next, turning to look towards the direction that Viserys had left. Rhaenyra's throat closed, her eyes forced open even as she wanted to close them and look away.

"You can't close your heart to what you don't want to feel," her mom had told her, and despite her trembling, her hands shaking, she clenched them into fists as she met up with the doctor in the middle.

"Where is she?" were the first words that escaped her lips as she confronted the man with shaggy grey hair and a complexion adorned with dark skin. His tall stature loomed over her, but she refused to shrink in his presence. Determination surged through her, propelling her to straighten her spine and cast aside the overwhelming emotions that threatened to engulf her. "Is Baelon okay?"

"You should sit," the doctor, who she remembered to be Doctor Bolovich, ushered her toward the seats. She didn't budge. She was afraid to sit, afraid that once she did, she wouldn't want to come back up.

"My mom. Is she-?" Rhaenyra had seen the twisted expression on her father's face, his cheeks damp, his frown firm, and his eyes bloodshot and red.

"It was a haemorrhage, she-" the doctor explained, but the words all felt so far away as Rhaenyra stood there, swaying, barely standing, barely breathing. She was drifting, she was drifting away, not yet crying.

"So you say," her mother's last words, the last she'd ever hear her say.

"Ms Targaryen?" Doctor Bolovich and a nurse knelt down next to her, and she hadn't realized she was kneeling, that she had lost feeling in her legs.

"My brother?" Rhaenyra didn't know how she got the words out, but there they were, floating in the space between them.

With a heavy sigh, he began to explain, his gaze distant as if yearning for an escape. Yet, he stood there, compelled to be present and if Rhaenyra had to endure the anguish of losing her family, the least he could do was find the strength to disclose every detail. "He was born prematurely," he uttered, his voice carrying the weight of worry. "They're taking him to the NICU where he'll receive the best possible care."

With a tender touch, the nurse guided Rhaenyra towards the comforting embrace of a warm drink. Her words, spoken in a soothing tone reminiscent of a mother's care, stirred something deep within her, allowing the tears to flow freely at last. Supported by the nurse, she rose to her feet, her body cradled against the nurse's side as they moved forward, leaving the sombre hospital room behind like a lingering spectre of death.

A cup of steaming green tea was placed in her trembling hands, its wisping steam dancing gently before her face. Yet, despite the comforting warmth, her fingers still retained a coldness that mirrored the frigid ache within her heart. The nurse intermittently checked on her, a silent guardian in the midst of chaos. In this hellish ordeal, Rhaenyra felt trapped and utterly alone.

Beside her, Alicent sat in solemn silence, holding her own cup of tea. Neither of them uttered a word. They didn't even sip from their cups, lost in a haze of thoughts and emotions. Amidst the bustling noise of the lobby and the cacophony of traffic from outside, Rhaenyra was enveloped in a deafening silence that seemed to consume all sound.

The AlicentTargaryennée Hightower from back then was no longer the one standing before Rhaenyra when she awoke in the morning. Her hair was stuck to her pillow as she pried herself out of bed, nearly falling over her slippers as she attempted to straighten herself out when Alicent slammed the bedroom door shut behind her. "You certainly had a fun night out."

"What are you even doing here?" Rhaenyra asked, rubbing her hands along her face as she attempted to wipe away traces of a hangover. "Weren't you getting a checkup?"

"It's four pm," Alicent said, brushing away strands of her light brown hair. Even now, with this lighting, with the swell of her belly, Alicent was a stunning show of perfection. "And you weren't answering your mobile."

"I screen your calls," Rhaenyra said with a snort, finally settling her frown at her ex-best friend now that her dad wasn't around to reprimand her for it. And in that fleeting moment, as Rhaenyra witnessed the subtle transformation on Alicent's face, her heart sank. The sight of Alicent's usually flawless features contorted with disappointment, her once-perfect eyebrows furrowing in a rare display of vulnerability, shattered the illusion of perfection that Rhaenyra had held onto. It was the crack in the meticulously crafted facade, the glimpse behind the mask of poise and composure. But instead of the anticipated surge of vindication, Rhaenyra was overwhelmed by a profound sense of hollowness and bitterness.

"I am sorry about dinner yesterday," Alicent said, now walking forward like a fat penguin with her hand on her belly. Perched on the edge of the bed, her slender form sinking into the softness of the mattress, Alicent clutched the fabric of her long green dress tightly. The delicate white flower pattern adorning the dress crinkled and distorted beneath the strength of her grip. "I didn't mean to make your father miss it."

Rhaenyra was too tired and hungover to dig out the resentment from the night before. "It's fine. I had fun without you two." She struggled to recall the details, but one sensation remained imprinted upon her consciousness—the echoing touch of Daemon. His hands, tender and gentle, had caressed her face, drawing her close to him in an embrace that her intoxicated mind had painted with reverence.

She pressed the pendant to her chest as if she could use it to confirm at least some part of the night was real. However, it confirmed not only the authenticity of the precious moments shared with Daemon but also the painful reality that followed. His abrupt dismissal, pushing her out of the limousine, served as a callous reminder of their transient connection, leaving her feeling discarded and insignificant. She dropped the pendant, letting it tap against her collarbone.

"Some news articles are already attempting to print about you," Alicent said, and her frown screamed at her disapproval.

"What articles?" Rhaenyra asked, and she only just noticed the phone that was clutched in Alicient's dainty hand.

"Just some unsavoury opinions and photos from your night out." Ignoring Alicent's disapproving tone, Rhaenyra leaned forward to view her stepmother's extended phone, its screen displaying a collection of images capturing articles in various stages of development. Their headlines were boldly emblazoned across the screen and though the articles were still works in progress, their content was unmistakable.

'The Heiress and the Rogue Seen Cozy On Broadway' it read, and the accompanying photos—taken in unfortunate moments—showcased Daemon's attempt to carry her, his hand inadvertently resting on her arse. The image, while captured in a compromising position, was mitigated by the constraints of her dress and the beige Chanel coat she wore. The media, always hungry for sensationalism, was quick to twist innocent moments into salacious narratives.Not innocent,Rhaenyra thought, but they didn'tknow that.

"Oh my god," Rhaenyra muttered, a sense of horror gripping her as she observed the headline and zoomed in on the photos with a disapproving scowl.

"We pulled it from print of course," Alicent said, eyes narrow.

"How did my eye makeup come off on only one eye?" Rhaenyra's attention shifted, her scrutiny fixed on her eye makeup, which appeared smudged on only one eye in the captured images. Confusion and annoyance creased her brow as she inspected the imperfection.

Alicent clicked her tongue, a habitual gesture that held little impact on Rhaenyra, who had long ceased seeking her approval. Rhaenyra had stopped chasing that when Alicent f*cked her dad.

"Listen, I'm not trying to reprimand you," Alicent began, a familiar preface that typically preceded a reprimand. Rhaenyra's lips thinned in displeasure, anticipating the chastisem*nt that would follow. "Some individuals from the New York Times caught wind of the story and decided to exploit it at your expense. I managed to intervene and offer a more favourable alternative."

"A better alternative?" Rhaenyra retorted, her voice tinged with scepticism. She couldn't comprehend why so many people found it necessary to scrutinize her every move, as if they had never experienced moments of indiscretion themselves. She was merely a young woman, and while she may have stumbled in her inebriated state, she had the sense not to get behind the wheel of a car.

Alicent's hand instinctively cradled her burgeoning belly, a mix of nerves and anticipation evident on her face as she nervously bit her bottom lip. "There's going to be an announcement about the pregnancy. It's a boy," she revealed, her voice laced with a hint of vulnerability.

Rhaenyra's response was a soft, almost indifferent, "Ah," as she airdropped the photo of Daemon holding her to her iPad and handed it back to Alicent, her expression marked by a silent frown.

Sensing the growing distance between them, Alicent mustered the courage to extend an olive branch. "Listen, what do you say we have lunch together?" Her voice carried a hint of desperation, pleading for a connection that seemed to be slipping away. But Rhaenyra was already on her feet, brushing her fingers through her hair with an air of nonchalance.

"Can't," Rhaenyra replied dismissively, striding towards the bathroom to cleanse her mouth of the remnants of the previous night. She had taken a shower the night before, trying to touch every place Daemon so much as looked at, trying to recreate the fire he lit under her skin.

Rhaenyra had indulged in the steamy confines of the shower with memories of their passionate encounter dancing vividly in her mind. Against the cool tiles, she had succumbed to the enticing fantasy, her eyes rolling back in pleasure. She could almost taste him, imagining the sensation of his bare skin against her lips and the intoxicating flavour that awaited her. Her thoughts had wandered further, envisioning the strength of his chest beneath her exploring tongue, and the anticipation grew.

With a delicate touch, she had begun to explore her own body, her hand grazing over her silky skin as if it were his hands tracing the curves of her figure. Her fingertips had danced across her breasts, revelling in the softness of her flesh, while her other hand ventured lower, tracing a tantalizing path down her belly. The sensations heightened, and she teetered on the precipice of an org*sm, the vision of him as a dark and sinful spectator fueling her desire.

But the fantasy had abruptly come crashing down, quite literally. The slickness of the shower floor proved treacherous, causing Rhaenyra to lose her footing and tumble to the ground, disrupting her intimate exploration.

I am a shameless hussy, she thought, recalling every vividly embarrassing moment.

Rhaenyra entered the bathroom, lifting her leg and resting her foot on the sink to gain a better view of her knee. Her silk pyjama pants were pulled up, revealing a vivid, violent-looking bruise as evidence of her fall. Alicent, concerned, hurriedly waddled over to inspect the injury, gasping audibly at the sight.

"How did this happen?" Alicent's voice echoed in the bathroom, the ambient glow of the industrial bulbs casting an ethereal glow on their reflection in the mirror.

Since Rhaenyra couldn't say she fell trying to f*ck herself to her uncle's touch, she only said, "Drunk shower," and still earned high and mighty Alicent's disapproved snort.

Concern etched across her features, Alicent insisted, "Let me get you some ice."

"No need," Rhaenyra told her, pursing her lips and lowering her leg. "I just want to take a shower."

Alicent frowned, her face contorted in the hurt that should have made Rhaenyra feel nothing at all. It should have, but no matter what Alicent had done, there would always be a part of Rhaenyra that cared.

"Why did you come? You could have texted," Rhaenyra questioned, retrieving her toothbrush from the crystal dish. She squeezed a luxurious amount of Theodent toothpaste onto the bristles, a reminder of the extravagant price she had paid for a mere 4 grams of the product. 'What else was she supposed to spend money on?' she had reasoned when her father questioned the bill. After all, nobody knew how to nickel and dime a bitch like a billionaire.

"You don't answer your text messages," Alicent said, her voice so far away.

Rhaenyra wanted to say 'I don't answer yourtext messages', but refrained. She was getting tired of her own intrusive thoughts.

"Why were they only coming for me?" Rhaenyra asked, spitting out the toothpaste. "It's like they held a ring light up to him, meanwhile, I look green. I look like Shrek."

Alicent held up her phone, zooming into the photo. There was a small smile, battling to come out, and maybe things would be different if she would let it. "Why is he grabbing you like that? You two look way too close for comfort."

"I was drunk. He was drunk. You try walking in five-inch heels when you can't pass a breathalyzer," Rhaenyra snapped, not meaning to sound so bitter, not meaning to put so much emotion in her voice. It's not supposed to be like this,she thought with shame that crackled with equal embarrassment. Her uncle had to know by now. She practically put an apple in her goddamned mouth. It was no wonder he refused to help her up to her penthouse since the moment they were truly alone, she probably would have stripped off her dress and begged him to f*ck her.

Had Alicent walked in to see that, Rhaenyra knew nothing she could say would fix anything.

"I'm not accusing you of anything," Alicent said carefully, and if they could go back in time, maybe Rhaenyra would believe her. "I am just saying that Daemon Targaryen is not someone you should look up to, let alone imitate."

"Daemon was the only one to show up. We had drinks. We went to Broadway, not a strip club," Rhaenyra said, the feelings rising in her gut.

"Again, I understand. You have no idea how much I wanted to come yesterday," and the break in Alicent's voice did reach Rhaenyra, somewhere deep in her resentment and thoughts about her own uncle. "I am so proud of you."

Rhaenyra let out a heavy sigh, the water from her toothbrush creating a small stream as it flowed down the drain. An ache settled in her chest, intensifying her pounding migraine, while her arm throbbed with discomfort and her bruised leg reminded her of her recent fall. She just wanted to masturbat* to completion, not feel guilty for being angry with a friend who betrayed her.

"The internet can be so cruel," Alicent remarked, her eyes fixed on her phone. She opened TikTok and played a video compilation featuring photos of Rhaenyra and Daemon set to the tune of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. Thankfully, none of the photos depicted their escapades from the previous night. They were merely the work of internet trolls who would twist the truth to fit their own narratives. It just so happened that in this case, they were right.

"That's gross," Rhaenyra said, no mind that it was true. She went to grab the phone as a photo of her and Daemon embracing at her mother's funeralemerged. Alicent snatched it out of the way before she could get to it.

"I'm only warning you. I don't think it will do you any good to actually read into anything," Alicent said, closing and locking her phone. It allowed Rhaenyra to see the bitten cuticles, the inflammation that was marked with the specs of dried blood. Whatever Rhaenyra might have once asked her, pried into whatever was bothering her, was pushed away when she saw the wedding ring on her finger.

"That's sick. What next? Do they think I wanna f*ck Rhaenys too?" Rhaenyra blurted out, disgusted by the thought and her own hypocritical reaction. She had to remind herself that these were merely intrusive thoughts, fantasies that she couldn't control and that Daemon could never reciprocate. She was innocent in her desires, innocent in her dreams of attending Yale, the school she had longed for, the place she would spend countless nights sharing whispered aspirations with Alicent.

"You could come with me, you know,"Rhaenyra had once suggested to Alicent. Their dreams once intertwined so seamlessly—they envisioned being roommates, embarking on late-night escapades in search of 2 a.m. tacos, and relying on each other's support during the lowest of moments.They were supposed to get boyfriends and have stereotypical, terrible sex with guys who assured them they'd pull out. Then, instead of all their shared dreams, Alicent decided to climb into bed with Rhaenyra's father.

"I know. It's absurd. People will say anything for the sake of views," Alicent responded, shaking her head with a wry smile. "Your father might give you a call. Let's just say he's furious and rightfully embarrassed about the whole situation."

"We haven't done anything wrong," Rhaenyra repeated, the words hollow with deceit. Alicent leaned against the door frame, observing as Rhaenyra tidied up her toothbrush and began her skincare routine.

"It doesn't matter what you've actually done. It's all about how the public perceives you," Alicent retorted, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "To them, we're not human beings. We're mere sources of entertainment, regardless of how it ruins our lives." Alicent would know, Rhaenyra thought with just a hint of sympathy. She had more articles printed about her and Viserys relationship than any of their family. Now, her name was synonymous with adultery and slu*t. While Rhaenyra had never made any public statements in defence of her, she most certainly never released any of her criticisms. "Nobody is upset with you though."

"Just Daemon then?" Rhaenyra remarked, continuing to wash her face and move on to applying serums. "That's not fair either."

"You, your father, and I all love your uncle," Alicent responded cautiously. "But we can't deny what he is." With a sigh, Alicent opened a news article that had been released earlier in the day. Rhaenyra was still gently dabbing the serum onto her skin when she caught sight of the photo, displayed in black and white, capturing Daemon in the same attire as the previous night. It was taken outside an unfamiliar club, his face buried in a woman's neck while his hand ventured up her dress.

A rush of emotions flooded Rhaenyra all at once, but she refused to let a single one show on her face. She maintained her composure, keeping the hurt, confusion, and twisted envy at bay. "What is this about?" she inquired calmly.

"Well, it seems Daemon had quite a busy night," Alicent remarked with an eye roll. "Viserys wouldn't be able to prevent this from being published, even if he wanted to."

He could, Rhaenyra thought, shutting her eyes.He just doesn't want to bother.

Rhaenyra's jaw tightened, and she returned the serum to its place on the crystal tray next to the vase of fresh daisies perched on the corner of the sink. The sound of glass meeting glass echoed in the bathroom. "He is who he is," she stated firmly, the chill in her throat intensifying.

"I understand that you admire him," Alicent responded, moistening her lower lip. "You're on a determined path, and the legal field is not forgiving for people like us." She leaned forward, her hand now resting atop Rhaenyra's hand, which lay on the elevated porcelain sink. "Public perception matters, and I know how hard you've worked. But others won't care about that. They'll scrutinize every aspect of your life—the clothes you wear, the drinks you consume, the people you're involved with—and they'll tear apart your career simply because they believe you don't deserve it."

Rhaenyra's hand tightened into a clenched fist beneath Alicent's grasp. The weight of the situation felt suffocating, as if one momentary lapse in judgment could define her entire existence. "So, the expectation is for me to never make a single mistake? That sounds incredibly easy," she remarked bitterly.

Alicent shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "No, just try to avoid such public displays. Maybe consider having one of your guards accompany you when you go out, so that Daemon isn't put in a position where he has to support you like... well, like a lover," she said, the words trailing off as she removed her hand and rubbed her face wearily.

Rhaenyra couldn't help but laugh, though her laughter carried a mixture of lingering shame and desire that she tried to suppress. "I'd sooner bite off my own hand than ever entertain the thought of him and me in that way, thank you very much."

Alicent joined in her laughter, although each sound seemed to reverberate painfully in Rhaenyra's head. "You won't hear me bring it up again, I promise. It wasn't easy for me to say any of this."

Curiosity tinged Rhaenyra's voice as she asked, her lips tightly pressed together, "Why did you say it then?"

Alicent's expression turned earnest, the traces of laughter fading away. "Because you're my closest friend, and I love you," she replied, her words carrying a weight of sincerity. "There is nothing I can do to change how I feel, just as I can't change how you feel about me. I just thought it better you hear all this from me rather than Twitter."

Rhaenyra said nothing for a moment—the swelling of her belly a reminder that they weren't friends. Then there was the ring on her finger—a diamond two sizes bigger than her mother's—a reminder of why.

Alicent seemed to perceive the turmoil in her friend's expression, her own face falling with a mix of remorse and longing. It crushed Rhaenyra's heart into dust. "I know I've made mistakes, and I've hurt you," Alicent admitted. "But please remember that I'm here for you. I never left, no matter what."

Rhaenyra averted her gaze, reaching for her moisturiser in silence. Alicent's hand gently found its place upon Rhaenyra's shoulder, her fingers delicately grazing the silky fabric, evoking a sense of longing that awakened memories of their once cherished connection. In the days before everything had changed, it was Alicent who occupied Rhaenyra's thoughts, igniting vivid fantasies within her mind.

The touch lingered for a fleeting moment, imbued with unspoken emotions, before Alicent quietly departed, leaving behind an atmosphere heavy with unexpressed sentiments.

Rhaenyra Targaryen despised Twitter. She had resolved not to give in to the insufferable trolls who found solace in their vulgar comment. She told herself she wasn't going to look, that she wasn't going to indulge the arseholes with one hand on their keyboards and one down their pants. She had intended to maintain her dignity, savouring her coffee and delving into her studies undisturbed.

Yet, against her better judgment, she found herself plunging into the depths of the infamous hashtag 'Targest', a term born from the unlikely revelation that Viserys and her mother were distantly related. Aemma Targaryen, to be precise, was a distant cousin by at least three branches—an eighth cousin at best. However, the merciless realm of the internet seized upon this morsel of information and transformed it into a sensation.

slu*t with a heart @livinginwap

Replying to @lucylovediaries
Me every time I tweet about daemyra

Me: You do realize that's her uncle right

#desensitizedtoincest #dontjudgemykink

Rhaenyra clamped her teeth tightly together, frustrated by the inexplicable surge of emotions that accompanied the combination of her and Daemon's names. A palpable stillness settled in the room, broken only by the rhythmic sound of her fingers tapping against the screen as she abandoned her own studies and delved deeper into the never-ending scroll of her Twitter feed.

Wait Am I Straight or not @bigggfudgeyas

Replying to@PopBase
He's so grooming her #stopromanticizingpedos #f*ckmeinsteaddaedaddy'

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply through her nostrils, her lip caught between her teeth with such intensity that it threatened to break the skin. The impulse to craft a fiery response and unleash it into the Twitterverse tugged at her, but the spectre of her media team loomed large in her mind. They would quite literally have her arse on a hook if she tried. They had taken drastic measures two months ago, locking her out of her own Twitter account after a regrettable—although Rhaenyra only regrets that they caught it—tweet that went viral.

TheRealRhaenyraTargaryen97 @TheRealRhaenyraTargaryen97

does doggy style mean i get a treat afterwards??? #iamnotadog #rhaerhaeshowerthoughts

She hadn't thought it was that big a deal. Kim Kardashian can release a sex tape, but Rhaenyra Targaryen can't make some dumb, ill-advised analogy and a couple of misguided hashtags? This is some bullsh*t.Let me live, f*ck.It was bad enough she couldn't even claim her own name on social media. Some dickhe*d had taken both her own as well as every variation of it—which was f*cking rude. Then, when she asked if she could buy the username from them, they had sent her the poop emoji in reply, followed by the kiss emoji, then four peaches.Whatever that means.

She found herself browsing an unverified Twitter account, deep in the recesses of her mentions, where the topic of discussion revolved around her and her uncle in an imagined illicit affair. Just as her eyes scanned the screen, drinking in the mix of rumours and fantasies, her heart leapt into her throat as her uncle himself sauntered into the room, bearing a bag of takeout from the renowned Tavern on the Green. Panic flooded her veins, and she swiftly closed the Twitter app, desperate to hide any evidence of her clandestine search for mentions of their supposed forbidden relationship.

"How does everyone manage to walk in here? Does everyone have a bloody key?" Rhaenyra blurted out, her fingers already racing to search for locksmiths in NYC. Meanwhile, Daemon nonchalantly deposited the food on the kitchen island, not far from where she sat.

The aroma wafting from the bag was divine, a tantalizing invitation that stirred her appetite, which had been absent throughout the entirety of yesterday and this morning.

"You left your bag in the limo," Daemon remarked in place of a traditional greeting, placing her Coach bag adorned with delicate flowers on the counter next to the enticing spread of food. "I took the kind liberty of delivering it to you." He nonchalantly dropped her keys alongside the bag, which she had failed to notice was missing as she hadn't ventured beyond the confines of her penthouse since the previous night. A ball of anxiety formed in her gut, a mingling of desire and embarrassment, as she reached over to retrieve her bag.

"Thank you," she uttered cautiously, nearly knocking over her own coffee as Daemon settled into the barstool to her left, aligning himself with the wooden section of the island that formed an 'L' shape. Her kitchen was a testament to the luxurious design, where not a single dollar sign was a cause for concern. Half-panelled walls of oak incorporated a built-in stove, while the elegant black marble adorned the surfaces she passed. The cupboards, fashioned from mirrors, reflected the morning sun, blinding the f*ck out of her. She meant to get them redesigned, but the idea of calling anyone to do so filled her with social anxiety.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to summon the words she had intended to say when she next saw him. She simply hadn't anticipated it would be so soon. She grabbed her French press and began refilling her cup, her teeth gnawing on her bottom lip with anticipation. "Can I pour you some?" Rhaenyra croaked, finally meeting his gaze, only to find him already staring at her intently.

Resting his chin on his hand, his eyes shimmering with amusem*nt, she could hardly focus on anything else as her cup began to overflow. With a startled exclamation of "f*ck," she hurried to grab a cloth before the coffee could make its way onto her precious MacBook.

"What's got you so jittery?" Daemon inquired, observing her as she tidied up the spilt coffee while he began unpacking the take-out boxes, their beige-coloured cardboard hinting at the delights inside. He placed one of the boxes next to her, gently sliding it forward as she diligently cleaned, using a cream-coloured cloth to dab away the mess.

"I've just been under a lot of stress," she responded, avoiding his gaze. Her curiosity was piqued as she glanced at the food he had brought. He had showered her with exquisite jewellery from around the world, priceless artefacts, and Italian handbags, but he had never before brought them a meal to share.

"I heard you enjoy the food here," he said with a smirk, his eyes meeting hers. In that instant, she wished she hadn't looked at him. It felt as if she had been transported back in time, to a moment when she was intoxicated and her lips were pressed against his neck. The scent of him lingered in her mind, the desire to run her tongue along his pulsating vein, to rest her head upon his chest and listen to the rhythm of his beating heart.

"You've earned me a long lecture," Rhaenyra uttered, her tongue gliding over her lips, and his eyes followed the motion before returning to meet hers.

Daemon snorted, reaching into his coat pocket and retrieving his phone. He appeared nonchalant, unaffected by the overwhelming emotions that she felt so viscerally. With a casual swipe and a press on the screen, he unlocked his phone. His tongue traced over his front teeth as he rolled his eyes, then he played something on the device. The sound of her father's voice filled the air.

"Listen up you vile, drunk, bastard. I just spent the last four hours scrambling to cover up photos of your niece's exposed posterior for all of New York to see. I have been on two hours of sleep and if I see one photo of Rhaenyra so much as showing a bit of skin, drunk off her arse, I'm going to shove a ballpoint pen up your arsehole."

Daemon Targaryen pressed the screen once more, abruptly ending her father's screams. His gaze returned to her, his head tilted, emanating the same dangerous allure as two nights ago. With his red V-neck and the Targaryen pocketwatch swaying from his breast pocket, he exuded a captivating charm. His freshly shaved face and slicked-back hair only heightened his appeal, leaving Rhaenyra utterly mesmerized by his presence.

"Daddy does care," Rhaenyra remarked, a burst of laughter escaping her lips, relieving some of the tension in her shoulders.

"Seems like I took you to a brothel," Daemon replied with a smile, amusem*nt glimmering in his eyes. "It was rather PG, if anything. We watched Knights and Princesses. Not my fault you wore that dress."

She raised her gaze to meet his once again, her lips slightly parted as he stared at her, seemingly peering into the depths of her soul. It felt as though he wanted to ignite a fire within her, arousing desire that she struggled to suppress. The heat between her legs intensified, much to her frustration. I just wanted to enjoy my morning, she thought to herself, readjusting her stance and running her hands over her dress.

"That dress was Italian and stunning, and I looked absolutely magnificent in it," she declared, making her way to the kitchen sink, where she folded the cloth and placed it on the metal surface. She hesitated to turn back around and face him in her current state.

She wanted to be normal. To have normal thoughts.

She turned her gaze towards him once more, acutely aware of his eyes tracking her every motion. A flush of warmth spread across her, a telltale sign of her heightened arousal. As she settled into the chair, a tantalizing touch of the chair's edge grazed against her, conjuring vivid fantasies of his skilled fingers in its place. Her mind drifted back to the photograph from the previous night, where he callously abandoned her to screw some model downtown.

The stifling heat dissipated ever so slightly, allowing her to reach for her meal. Meanwhile, he effortlessly poured coffee into his own glass, adorning it with sugar cubes and a delicate splash of oat milk from the porcelain creamer bottle placed before her.

"Did your handsome knight in shining armour tuck you into bed?" Daemon quipped, prompting a scoff from her lips. Yet, the memory of Criston's fleeting and insufficient touch flooded her thoughts.

"He certainly deserves a substantial pay raise," Rhaenyra remarked, shifting her attention back to the laptop and an article on civil litigation. "I shall advise Daddy to enhance his salary, considering his failure to reciprocate my embarrassing advances."

"Your," Daemon's voice took on a dark tone, laced with intrigue. "Advances?"

"You'll be happy to know, as is Dad and all of Twitter, that I am still very much the innocent heiress," Rhaenyra retorted bitterly, her finger forcefully striking the space bar. She endeavoured to suppress the truth of her experiences, the tangled web of desires and disappointments. She may not have f*cked her uncle or Criston Cole, but she certainly f*cked many other things.

Her taste in men, her future, her mind. All of that was very f*cked.

"He didn't touch you then?" Daemon's voice, now distant and tinged with irritation, reached her as she finally extended her hand to retrieve the food he had brought.

"Why do you care? I'm not sixteen and this isn't the stone ages," Rhaenyra retorted with a dismissive snort, locking eyes with him. She witnessed a smouldering intensity that conjured images of his hands firmly clasping her thighs and—my god, chill.

Rhaenyra considered maybe sheneeded therapy. Or a vibrator. Orboth.

He released a quivering breath, averting his gaze first. "Your father would murder me if the person I dropped you off with did anything you didn't want."

Rhaenyra felt her heart soften, a surge of desire coursing through her veins. She reached out towards him, bypassing the food, and firmly grasped his hand. Guiding it towards her, she pressed his knuckles against her lips, planting tender kisses upon them. Her eyelids fluttered shut as she attempted to suppress the undeniable wrongness of her actions. She truly needed to join a church.Therapy, a vibrator, and church—the Holy Trinity.

"Nobody did anything I did not want that night," she assured him, sensing his relief as he exhaled a shaky breath. Leaning forward, he bridged the gap between them, the countertop serving as the only barrier. His lips brushed against her forehead, lingering in a prolonged pause that evoked the darkest of thoughts. Thoughts that stirred shame within her, rising in her throat like seawater.

Thoughts of f*cking him she could handle, but thoughts of loving him, that was too much to bear.

His other hand found solace in her hair, while soft jazz melodies wafted through the air from her Alexa device, their breathing in tandem.

Chapter 4: Close Your Eyes

Chapter Text

Ｆｏｕｒ

𝒸𝓁𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Twelve hours and twenty-three minutes. That's how long her mother lingered in the hospital, gasping for breath. On a particularly desolate night, Rhaenyra had meticulously calculated the duration, replaying the haunting parting words—"so you say"—on an endless loop throughout the dreary evening. It had been nearly five months since she last immersed herself in such calculations, but on the eve of her departure for college, Rhaenyra lay in bed, consumed by grief.

Rhaenyra Targaryen did not have depression. She just had bad memories in masquerade as beautiful ones. Aemma Targaryen, spreading school prospectuses across her bed, clasping her hand and pressing tender kisses to her cheek whenever fear crept in, regaling her with jokes that weren't funny but still drew laughter from Rhaenyra's lips. They were meant to be here. Baelon was meant to be here. Their sacrifices should have meant something, but all that remained were their ashes.

Turning onto her back, Rhaenyra gazed up at the ornate canopy above, her phone held delicately in one hand. She slowly raised it, her finger hovering over Alicent's name. Perhaps they could navigate the ruin that separated them and mend their strained relationship, but it wouldn't happen overnight, especially not when Rhaenyra missed her mother.

She scrolled down, locating Daemon's name, but she had no desire to discuss such matters with Mr. 'Heir for a Day'. Flicking upwards, her father's name appeared, but bitterness overwhelmed the sadness within her. Once more, she flicked upwards, halting when she reached Laena Velaryon's name. With a determined tap, she selected it.

"What's the craic, you cheeky and audacious minx?" Laena's voice emanated from the other end, prompting a burst of laughter from Rhaenyra.

"Craic? What are you, Irish?" Rhaenyra replied with a laugh.

"Wait, hold on, hold on, hold on." In the background, boisterous voices intermingled with music that didn't resemble the sound of studying—an incongruity to the last message Laena had sent her only an hour ago.

Rhaenyra: Wyd?

Laena: studying

read 9:31 pm

Rhaenyra heard the resounding click of a door closing, and the cacophony gradually subsided until only Laena's voice echoed through the line. Just her and the muted reverberations of pounding music, raucous laughter, off-key singing, and exuberant shouts, all muffled by the hum of a bathroom fan. "You said you had a final tomorrow."

Laena snorted, "I do, but they suggested having a kickback. Just a few people. Now I have a full-blown mosh pit in my condo." Laena, currently studying marine biology at Boston University, was primarily driven by her passion for science, although Rhaenyra suspected her love for snorkelling played a significant role. "Why is your sad voice activated?"

"I was just thinking of stuff," Rhaenyra replied, her voice tinged with awkwardness. It wasn't that she and Laena didn't get along—they were cousins, after all—but they had never been particularly close. Rhaenyra was not only younger but also favoured shopping in Paris, while Laena relished in skydiving and horse races.

"Ahh, 'stuff,' huh?" Laena asked, and Rhaenyra could vividly envision her cousin's unruly and splendid white curls, inherited from their Targaryen lineage. "I read about some of your 'stuff' in the papers. The Targaryen who watches Legally Blonde goes to Harvard."

"I'm not even going to Harvard," Rhaenyra said with a scowl.

"So? It's a gossip magazine. They once claimed I was secretly a hermaphrodite. They don't fact-check anything, Rhae." There was a brief pause, followed by the sound of streaming water that made Rhaenyra snort.

"Are you peeing?" By now, the jazz music playing from her Alexa had transitioned to piano melodies, creating an awkward fusion with the background noise of Laena's party.

"You made me break the seal," Laena whined, laughter lacing her words. "Now I'll be peeing all night."

"Thought you had a test tomorrow," Rhaenyra scolded, although the reproach sounded somewhat awkward coming from her, prompting both of them to laugh.

"You said you were sad,"Laena changed the subject, and now the distinct sound of handwashing reached Rhaenyra's ears as the call switched to speakerphone.

"You said that," she weakly shrugged, met with patient silence that evoked a sigh from Rhaenyra. "I just miss my mum."

"Do you want to come over and talk?" Laena asked carefully. "I'll send all of them home. I don't give a f*ck."

Rhaenyra only realized she was crying when damp tears trickled down her cheeks, finding their way into her ears. She emitted a wet laugh, hastily covering her mouth with her hand. "No. Don't do that."

"I can come over to your place. I'll bring Legally Blonde. Apparently, it's your life story," Laena suggested, provoking heartfelt laughter from Rhaenyra.

"No, I don't want to take you away from your party," Rhaenyra replied, already sensing Laena's impending retort that she didn't give a f*ck about her party. "I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Okay," Laena said, and the call transitioned to FaceTime. Rhaenyra wiped away her tears once again before pressing 'accept'. Laena's face materialized on the screen, appearing exactly as Rhaenyra had imagined, with resplendent white curls framing her visage like Merida from Brave. She wore faux lashes and a striking black leather dress that clung to her like latex. "Wow. You look dreadful."

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. "Boo, you whor*. I'm sad."

"Are you sure you don't want to come? I've got a mate here who's right up your alley. Hang on," Laena swung open the bathroom door, stepping out into a scene where the clangour of the kickback intensified. There was someone in the background playing beer pong, while another person drank straight from what appeared to be moonshine. "Yo! Jason, turn around and give us a smile for the camera." The guy, Jason, possessed tousled dirty blond hair and a grin that could illuminate the room. Rhaenyra didn't feel so much as a stir inside her, but she was beginning to think her vagin* was broken.

"No, thanks. He looks like a wanker," Rhaenyra responded dryly, observing Laena erupt in a hearty laugh.

"So, it's settled. Jason Lannister is a proper douche," Laena exclaimed loudly, met with a chorus of cheers and agreement from her friends. "Cheers. He still reckons he's got mad game, and I can't let that sh*t slide."

"Is he the one who is supposed to be my type?" Rhaenyra inquired dryly, but before Laena could reply, the phone was snatched from her grasp by a lad with dark eyes and fair skin. Clearly, he was either drunk or high—Rhaenyra couldn't discern which.

"Yo, you're Rhaenyra Targaryen. 'Ey," he slurred his words. "Think you could hook me up with Giants tickets? Heard your dad's got connections."

"Only if you say Otorhinolaryngologist," she retorted, her expression deadpan, as the intoxicated man blinked at her in confusion. "Come on. With me. Otorhinolaryngologist."

"Oreorhinogynochologist," he stumbled over his words. Rhaenyra offered a one-handed applause, slapping her palm against her wrist, still holding her phone.

"Well done! You did it!" Rhaenyra barely had time to tease him before Laena snatched the phone away.

"You are terrible," Laena chuckled, and they both heard the distant voice in the background asking about his tickets.

"I am feeling a bit better," Rhaenyra said, a faint smile forming on her lips, her mother's words echoing in her mind: 'Laughter is the best remedy.'

Laena's eyes softened, her smile radiating such beauty that it was a wonder every guy in every room didn't stumble over themselves to shower her with praise. "Good, because I'm going to mother you right now. Yours wouldn't want you lying in bed pitying yourself. Tomorrow, you're off to Yale, you daft slag. Your mum would want you out and about, f*cking some New York guys while you have the chance."

"My mum would want that?" Rhaenyra nearly burst into laughter, but her smile grew wider. Surely, her father would not approve.

"Oh yeah, I've heard some stories. Momma Aemma was a freak." LLaena remarked, and Rhaenyra loathed how Daemon's face chose this moment to intrude her mind, stirring up lingering feelings of affection that just wouldn't f*ck off.

"I don't want to f*ck someone random," Rhaenyra said with a groan.

"Bitch, I'll f*ck you," Laena said in a tone that made Rhaenyra let out nervous laughter.

"You slu*t. You're my cousin."

"And? It's not like I can get you up the duff," Laena retorted, raising both eyebrows. "Bitch, sex is sex. Love is love. Honestly, do whatever you bloody well please and f*ck everyone else."

"You've got problems. Try therapy," Rhaenyra weakly suggested, but Laena only laughed, probably finding herself hilarious. Instead, her cousin only fueled the sickening sensation growing in Rhaenyra's chest, spreading to her lungs until she was exhaling those unpleasant emotions.

"Just saying, your dad's got some fit bodyguards keeping an eye on you. How's Crusty Cole doing after you drunkenly assaulted him?"

"Why do you call him that?" Rhaenyra whined, observing Laena exchange a high-five with a girl before returning her attention to the phone. "Also, I didn't assault him."

"That boy has an abstinence ring and a chip on his shoulder. I'd tell you to give it a go, but I reckon he's the sort who needs wooing and romancing," Laena warned, and Rhaenyra snorted, having never noticed the ring. It was hard to see anyone beyond her own obsessions.

"I'm not interested in romancing him," Rhaenyra said, her tone careful and devoid of emotion, as her thoughts started to spiral in an unwanted direction. Laena's smile vanished when she noticed the conversation was upsetting her.

"Do you want me to come with you to Yale tomorrow?" Laena asked, her lips pressed tightly together.

Rhaenyra had recently relocated most of her belongings to New Haven, specifically to the loft her father had gifted her as a graduation present for her undergraduate degree in psychology. The loft, nestled in the heart of the city, emanated an aura of privilege, amplifying the accusations of being a spoilt cow that the press had eagerly pinned on her. Despite her sincere efforts in charitable donations and fundraising events, the public remained unconvinced, further fueling her sense of being unfairly judged.

"No, um, that's not necessary," Rhaenyra hesitated, reluctant to admit that Daemon had already agreed to accompany her on the two-hour drive to New Haven. The public scrutiny surrounding their close bond had intensified, with people openly speculating about the peculiarities of their relationship. If she didn't have these thoughts, it wouldn't be a big deal. If it was just bad press, she'd make a joke of it.

But it wasn't. The feelings, while unwanted, existed and she didn't want to make a joke about them.

"Okay. I like long drives myself. Makes it easier to relax," Laena responded, her lips pursed in contemplation. "Listen, I understand that things between you and Ali aren't great, but I also know the depth of love that once bound you two. It can be isolating, leaving you without someone to confide in."

"So, call you more often?" Rhaenyra's words flowed forth, accompanied by a small smile that managed to break through the guarded facade she wore.

Laena's laughter rang out, a melody of amusem*nt. "Oh god no. I was gonna say make amends with her so she can have you for your sad times while I get fun Rhae Rhae and her shower thoughts."

A genuine laugh escaped Rhaenyra's lips, breaking the sombre spell that had cast a shadow over her for what felt like an eternity.

Laena's eyes crinkled with warmth, her grin widening. "I'm serious though. Anytime. Sad Rhae or drunk Rhae or thirsty Rhae, I want to hear from all of her. That girl rocks."

Amidst their conversation, the background erupted with noise, injecting a touch of chaos into their intimate exchange. Jason Lannister's voice boomed, "Bruh, get off the phone already. You said you can do a handstand!"

Laena fired back with playful ferocity, her voice slicing through the noise. "Bitch, I will cut you!"

"Okay, happy Rhae is getting off the phone now." Rhaenyra declared, laughter accompanying her words as she observed Laena's radiant grin. She marvelled at the gift Laena possessed, the ability to swiftly lift someone's spirits, and she treasured it, reserving it for moments like this.

"Alright, alright, but come down to Boston soon. I'll get you wined and dined and maybe laid, who knows the order," Laena said, and Rhaenyra wondered how broken she truly was if she actually considered the thought of f*cking her own cousin. She shook away the contemplations, and they dissipated like seafoam.

"Kay," Rhaenyra responded, another genuine smile gracing her lips. "I'll talk to you later."

"Later babe. Rub one out for women everywhere!" Laena urged, her voice filled with affectionate support. The call concluded, leaving Rhaenyra staring at her reflection in the black screen of her iPhone. Furrowing her brow, she found herself locked in a silent moment of introspection.

She tightly shut her eyes, feeling the tendrils of loneliness encroach upon her once again. But this time, a new yearning emerged, a desire that left her bewildered and uncertain. She pressed the side button of her phone, the clock reading 10:32 before her Face ID lead her to her contacts. She scrolled up, finding his name that simply read 'DaeDaddy' curtsey of bigggfudgeyas on Twitter.

"f*ck my life," Rhaenyra muttered under her breath, her finger hovering over his name, her heart pounding in her chest. She summoned the courage to initiate the call, and with each ring, her stomach somersaulted, nerves and desire intertwining.

It rang once, twice, thrice, and on the fourth, she heard it stop, heard him. "Rhaenyra, you alright?"

She despised the power his voice held over her, the weakness it instilled. It shouldn't have rendered her so vulnerable, so undeniably aroused, and deluded into thinking that this was ever a wise decision. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just..." Rhaenyra's voice trailed off, unable to find the words to articulate her thoughts.

"You just...?" Daemon's voice carried a gentle smile, an intonation that softened her, setting her legs restlessly in motion.

"I suppose I'm nervous," Rhaenyra admitted, omitting the fact that he contributed to her unease, introducing a new realm of trepidation. "What if I'm not good enough?"

"Ahh," his voice breathed out, the softness of it causing her eyes to flutter shut, drowning out all other sounds as her heart pounded relentlessly. "And none of this could have waited until tomorrow?"

Rhaenyra's smile lingered, her eyes remaining closed. "I suppose not. I wanted to hear you."

His deep breath resonated through the line, an audible reminder of his presence, and she wondered if her call was an inconvenience. Yet, it seemed inconsequential in the face of the blazing heat that his voice alone ignited within her. How would she endure a car ride with him?

Her hand rested gently upon her abdomen, fingertips caressing the smooth skin, trailing along her ribcage, teasing the edge of her silk top, then gliding back down. "Haven't you heard enough of me by now?" Daemon inquired cautiously, his velvety voice coaxing a smile from her. Oh, how she wished she had, but alas, she was utterly hopeless.

"I spoke with Laena first," Rhaenyra confessed, her touch straying lower, brushing against the waistband of her pants. "She offered profound advice."

"Did she now?" Daemon chuckled, a deep resonance that melded with her own. It reverberated through her, reaching depths she didn't know she possessed. Rhaenyra's fingers traced along the edge of her waistband, a mere whisper beneath it. She released a shuddering sigh, her mind growing hazy. "I highly doubt that."

"You're crazy if you think I'm not going to tell her everything you say," Rhaenyra declared, her smile persistent, her body languid in a way it never could be in his presence. She drew in another unsteady breath, the tension dissipating and giving way to a different kind of sensation. Her hand slipped further into her pants, the cool fabric gliding over her forearm, descending until her brows furrowed.

"Forgive me for not being intimidated," Daemon replied dryly, unfazed. Rhaenyra bit her lip, her fingertips grazing over her panties, but not venturing beneath. Somehow, that small distinction made it acceptable. She wasn't doing anything wrong. She wanted to cry and destroy her goddamned room. She wanted to scream. She wanted to crawl to him on her hands and knees and beg him to make it go away.

Her fingers began tracing light circles, round and round and round. "You should be," she uttered, her voice surprisingly steady. Perhaps it was the years of concealment, of suppressing her desires, that granted her the ability to conceal this as well. "Laena doesn't hold you in high regard."

"I can't fathom why," Daemon remarked, alluding to the ongoing feud between himself and her father when he outmanoeuvred them to acquire an airline, renaming it Caraxes—a venture that had catapulted it into one of the most popular airlines worldwide.

"It's just not turning out how I thought," Rhaenyra confessed, her voice strained yet laced with a current of pleasure that electrified her senses. Each word she uttered was accompanied by the tingling sparks that danced through her body, blending seamlessly with the forbidden caress she bestowed upon herself, amplifying the sensation with the resonance of Daemon's voice. With a small breath, barely more than a huff of air, she released the tension that had built within her.

"What are you doing?" Daemon inquired, his voice a deliberate drawl that matched the languid movements she enacted, sending waves of dizziness cascading over her.

"Just some federal law readings. I want to memorize as much as I can," she responded, her tone steady despite the widening of her legs. Though it wasn't an outright falsehood since she did listen to audiobooks on criminal law. It was an oddly intimate exploration she engaged in while under the intoxicating spell of his voice.

"I can't take the place of your mum tomorrow," he said, and f*ck if that didn't kill the mood just a bit. She shook her head, willing herself to dismiss the unwelcome comparison. "But I'll be with you every step of the way."

She was close, circling her fingers faster, her lips opening and her hips lifting off the bed just a centimetre before they fell back against the mattress. "I know. We always have fun, don't we?" Her voice emerged breathless, an audible testament to her surrender to the depths of desire. At this moment, nothing else mattered. The wrongness, the darkness, and the moral conflict were overridden by an insatiable longing that deprived her of sleep.

"Despite the talks you've had?" Daemon's voice bore a trace of a smile, the sound resonating with a mixture of familiarity and mischief. "'Don't follow in your uncle's footsteps' ring any bells?"

She swallowed, her throat tight, yet managed to reply, "Well, perhaps you should strive to be a better influence."

"Sure, sure, you heathen. Don't blame your choices on me," he retorted, his words striking a chord within her, causing her heart to swell and wrestle with the closeness she craved. She yearned for his touch, for his hands to be the ones caressing her, but that was an unattainable fantasy. And so, she resorted to these stolen moments, stealing fragments of ecstasy. "I seem to recall word of some unsavoury photos of you taking amateur pole dancing classes."

"Amateur?" Rhaenyra released a breathy laugh, her brows knitting together as her hips instinctively surged forward, seeking greater satisfaction. "I assure you uncle, I am no amateur."

A silence enveloped the line, stretching out, pregnant with anticipation. Then, a deep chuckle erupted, resonating with a potent intensity that left her trembling—that finished her. "My little dragon, always taking the joke one step too far."

And then he hung up on her.

So that happened, Rhaenyra thought to herself when she awakened the next morning, the weight of the previous night's encounter settled heavily upon her. The realization of what had transpired seeped into her consciousness, casting a shadow over her thoughts. She felt it again as she stood under the shower, resolutely keeping her hands away from the allure of her own body. The echoes of that forbidden touch lingered, taunting her even in the solitude of the water cascading over her.

The act of applying eyeliner became a deliberate ritual, an attempt to adorn herself for an uncle she had touched herself to. Her hand trembled, betraying her inner turmoil, as she swiped the liner across her eyelids. The lines were uneven and smeared when she blinked, mocking her efforts. Frustration boiled within her, and with a primal scream, she flung the offending object across the room, its trajectory halted by the window opposite her canopy. Exhausted, she rested her head in the crook of her arm, but her vexation remained unabated. Another scream erupted from her lips, only to reveal an even worse smudge of liner upon her face. I look like Sweeny Todd.

She grabbed a Q-tib, dabbed it in makeup remover, and went scrubbadubdub on her face.

Her room back in New Haven was sparsely furnished, lacking the personal touch she would have adorned it with. Her father's advice to simply buy new things rather than move them proved convenient, but there were certain possessions she did not wish to duplicate. Among the few remaining accessories were the gifts from her infatuating uncle, except for the one delicate pendant that nestled between her breasts. She clung to it, finding solace in its presence as she attempted to regain her composure and locate the errant eyeliner she had flung.

With only one eye fully adorned with makeup and her lash extensions serving as a feeble consolation, Rhaenyra rose from her vanity. She navigated past her canopy and the pristine white duvet sheets, bypassed the chest at the foot of her bed, and ventured toward the white curtains adorned with golden tassels, believing her liner may have found refuge there. She lifted the curtains, but her search proved fruitless, eliciting a wry smile of frustration. Determined, she dropped to her hands and knees, peering under the bed, where she hoped the liner had rolled. Darkness greeted her, and she retrieved her phone from atop her bed, activating its flashlight to aid in her quest.

And there it was, rolled underneath just barely out of her reach. "f*ck me," she muttered, trying to use her phone for some extra centimetres in order to roll the liner towards her. By now, half her body was under her bed, but that was all that would fit, reminding her that her squats were in fact working and by next year, she'd have a Kardashian arse.

Just as she was about to retrieve her wayward liner, a face suddenly materialized from beneath the bed, accompanied by the bewildered question, "What are you doing?" Rhaenyra emitted a piercing screech, the sound reverberating with such intensity that it seemed to echo through the streets of New York City. Yet, amidst the urban bustle, the cry went unnoticed, lost in the vastness of the metropolis.

As Rhaenyra extricated herself from under the bed, she collided with its unforgiving structure, the impact jarring her back and eliciting a sharp thud. Disoriented, she straightened herself, her blouse askew, practically hanging off her shoulder, and her skirt haphazardly gathered around her waist from her previous struggle with the liner. Her head throbbed from the unintended collision, and she surveyed her dishevelled state.

Simultaneously, Daemon Targaryen rose to his full height, his gaze sweeping over her disarrayed figure before erupting into laughter. In a fit of frustration, she hurled her phone in his direction, aiming for his head, and exclaimed, "What the f*ck is wrong with you?"

Swiftly ducking, Daemon managed to evade the incoming projectile, and the phone instead struck the hanging cloth of the canopy before descending into his waiting hands. Rhaenyra, still recovering from her ordeal, sank down, clutching her knees as her heart continued to thunder within her chest, for once not fueled by twisted desire. It was hard to maintain even her horniness when she had bruises adorning her back, buttocks, head, and dignity.

Daemon circled around the bed, his hand extending to rest upon her back, gently tracing soothing circles along her spine through the thin barrier of her white blouse. Hello darkness, my old friend, Rhaenyra thought with a groan as stood up straight and slapped his hand away. "You must have a key. You made a copy. You had to have," Summoning her remaining strength, she straightened her posture, slapping his hand away. To his credit, he appeared unfazed, leaning casually against one of the ornate pillars of the canopy, intricately adorned with golden vines.

Her mother had painstakingly carved those details into the wood herself, and Rhaenyra found it difficult to contemplate parting with such a cherished item. However, it would not find a place in her future place in New Haven.

"You didn't lock your door," Daemon said, his head tilting until it rested against the wood and he stared down at her. She felt her anger drift away, leaving her with the memory of last night.

"You have a key," Rhaenyra calmly replied, watching as his head tilted until it rested against the pillar, his gaze fixated on her. Her anger dissipated, replaced by a lingering memory of their shared intimacy."Empty your pockets."

"You're being ridiculous. I knocked," Daemon retorted, his gaze flickering to the opened eyeliner in her hand, now leaving a dark streak across her palm. "Trouble this morning?"

The mortification washed over Rhaenyra as she recalled the state of her makeup. Brushing past him, her arm grazing against his, she returned to her vanity and began the meticulous process of reapplying primer and shadow to match her left eye. "Why are you here early?" she inquired, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and frustration.

"I'm not," Daemon told her, sitting. On her bed. Where she had touched herself, and to his voice. Her hand was trembling, a mixture of so many emotions that she couldn't deal with any single one of them. She lifted the shadow brush to her eye and blended in the gold. "I'm actually thirty minutes late. What's your excuse?"

"Kiss my arse," she retorted, blending in circles. She finally lifted the liner back up again, but by now she couldn't keep her hand steady. She scowled at it using her other to wrap around her wrist as more emotions raised in her until she was trembling and confused. And honestly, f*ck Daemon, Rhaenyra thought.

She heard him approach, his slow steps as he leaned one hip against her vanity. "You really are shaking," he said with a laugh. "I couldn't have scared you that much, you ninny."

"You're a ninny," she muttered, pointedly not looking at him as she attempted again to steady her hand to no avail now that he was right here.

"Come on, I don't want to spend my morning waiting for you," Daemon said, grabbing the liner from her hand. When he gently gripped her chin, she became certain that she would not survive. His body bent forward, towering over her as he fully faced her. She went limp, her eyes wide as his hands rested against her face.

"What are you doing?" Rhaenyra was going to f*cking die. She couldn't breathe. She'd be placed in an urn, becoming scattered ashes near her mother and brother and that would be the end of it.

"Close your eyes," he whispered, breath against her lips and her eyes fluttered shut. His hand went from gripping her chin to cupping it. His warm fingers were against her cheek, cradling it like it was something precious as she felt the first press of felt against her lid. She was barely breathing, too afraid that if she inhaled his scent, his disarming presence, she would lose control.

The liner went on quickly, his hand pressed against her cheek still whenhe pulled away. There and gone. "Can I open my eyes now?" Rhaenyra asked, attempting to keep her voice light.

"Beautiful," he murmured in Valyrian, but by the time her eyes fluttered open, he had already turned away, engrossed in inspecting the polaroids displayed on her mirror. It was as if none of it affected him in the slightest, but she still struggled to catch her breath.

"Daemon," she called out, turning back to face the mirror, contemplating how she would survive the upcoming car ride once again. She wanted him to f*ck her against every surface in this room. She wanted to join a church. She wanted to go to confession, but likely, she'd want him to f*ck her in the confession box too.

If she was going to sin, go big or go home.

Stop it, she chastised herself, though she knew she wouldn't listen.

"Hmm?" Daemon asked, his fingers skimming down polaroids of her and her friends, of her and Alicent that she still couldn't remove, of her and her dad, her and her mum at the beach, but not a single one of her and him.

She wondered if he noticed. No, those are in my naughty box.

"You never emptied your pockets," she pointed out, glancing up at him as she applied her lip liner. Though her hand still trembled slightly, her nerves gradually settled as she traced a smooth line, accentuating the fullness of her lips.

Daemon's gaze met hers through the mirror, exuding the aura of a dark prince, one who seemed to devour her with his eyes. He averted his gaze before her imagination could run wild, conjuring fantasies out of thin air. "Why don't you empty them if you're so curious?" Daemon's quick wit evoked a scowl from her, because damn it, she wanted to. She yearned to touch every part of him, but a mere frisk wouldn't suffice.

With meticulous care, she applied her nude lipstick, puckering her lips with a soft sound before returning the rest of her makeup to her bag. Standing up, she placed one hand on the desk near him, the other at her side. "You enjoy tormenting me, don't you?" Rhaenyra asked, her gaze steady. He glanced down at her hand, his gaze leisurely travelling back up.

She reminded herself that he looked at everyone that way. He was a shameless flirt who would bat his eyes at anything that moved. She meant nothing to him, at least not in the way she yearned to mean. Words, even the ones she whispered to herself, felt hollow in his presence.

His hand brushed against hers, the backs of his knuckles grazing hers, sliding up her arm before coming to a halt. His heavy-lidded eyes bore into hers, and then he simply smirked, as if he saw right through her and was unimpressed. "Meet me downstairs once you're done, niece," he instructed.

And just like that, he slipped out of the room, leaving her hunched over her desk, her elbows resting on the wood, and her hands tangled in her hair. She wanted to shatter the mirror, to obliterate it until it reflected the turmoil he incited within her in every moment of his presence.

But Rhaenyra Targaryen was stronger than that. She had a law degree to pursue. Her uncle had already claimed her sanity, but she wouldn't let him rob her of her aspirations. So, she straightened her back, brushed back her hair, and gathered her bags to finish packing her large suitcase. It was all she had left, so she took it with her.

Quietly, Rhaenyra offered a silent prayer to uncertain gods, pleading for the return of her sanity before she willingly cast it aside. Yet, as expected, there he stood at the foot of the stairs, bathed in a flattering light that accentuated the silver strands of his hair. His back leaned against the entry pillar, one leg crossed over the other as he casually leaned into it. He was engrossed in texting, likely one of the fortunate girls stored in his phone, and Rhaenyra knew she was f*cking doomed.

Nevertheless, she straightened her back and forced herself down. One step at a time.

Chapter 5: Boxes and Boundaries

Chapter Text

Ｆｉｖｅ

𝒷𝑜𝓍𝑒𝓈&𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Nothing could ever prepare her for driving in a car, alone with Daemon Targaryen. It had nothing to do with how much she wanted to be bent over in the back seat. The moment her arse was planted in the front seat, she was reminded of how he crashed her Rolls-Royce into another and she was reminded again when he hit 70 in a school zone.

She had been worried her self-control would be the death of her, but now she was fairly certain it was going to be a heart attack. That was if she was lucky. "Slow the f*ck down!" Rhaenyra finally snapped, and he was casually sitting back as if nothing on this planet could bother him. The Tesla was beautiful and spacious and she couldn't even enjoy it.

Instead, she was clutching her pillow to her body as if it were a second airbag. "Calm down. It's just a bit over the speed limit."

They both glanced at the speed meter, reading the gauge of 97. "I will not sit up here and wait to die!" Rhaenyra unbuckled, and he didn't slow as she crawled to the back seat.

"You are so dramatic," Daemon stated with a snort that didn't at all make him attractive.

"The centre rear seat is the safest place in the car," she said, strapping herself in and holding her pillow in front of her. Daemon laughed from the front, and moments later she felt the car begin to slow. "You can go two miles an hour, I'm not sitting up there. Every seat but this one is the death seat."

"I was just playing," he told her and they made eye contact from the rearview mirror. Now that they were slowing, her heart had begun to slow as well. "You can come back up." As if emphasizing his point, he lightly pats the front seat with his palm and a grin that made her want to both smack his face and sink her teeth into it.

She breathed out through her nose, clearing her mind of those thoughts, and said, "No. Imma nap for two hours."

She laid her pillow to her left, and went to rest her head when she nearly fell forward from his sudden break and consequence rise of speed. "My bad, my bad," Daemon said, despite her having nearly punched herself in the face.

"Uncle," she began already feeling the extent of his presence in the small car.

"Just crawl back up here. You're making me feel like an Uber driver," he said carefully, and she let out a soft hum, reaching over to her bag where her water rested.

"No. I don't trust you," Rhaenyra said instead, her eyes narrowed as she brought her thermos to her lips and went to drink. This was when he hit the brakes again, likely pissing off the light traffic of NYC at six in the morning. Water splashed from her thermos, drenching her top and sloshing down her neck. Of course, she always filled it with ice, and pieces of star-shaped frozen water promptly went under her shirt and burrowed into her bra.

"Oops," Daemon said, nonchalantly, but her jaw only clenched as she reached into her bra to pull out a star. She made eye contact with him in from that same rearview mirror, the pressure of his intense gaze filling her as she pulled out the single piece and tossed it at him.

"Very funny, uncle," she said, noting that he had changed to the speed limit in the small neighbourhood. She extended her seatbelt and leaned forward next to him. "Do you have a napkin, or have you truly forsaken me?"

He scoffed, reaching past her into the glove box and pulling out a small box of napkins. She could smell him as he moved, the aroma of his cologne making her dizzy, and pushing away what an dick he had been since he arrived. Likely since he was born. She reached over for the box, giving in to the urge. She pressed her lips to his cheek in thanks, and she wanted more at the first touch of his skin. When she pulled away, his grip had tightened on the steering wheel before he relaxed.

"Thanks," she said with a sneer before she poured the remainder of her thermos onto his lap.

He barely made a sound, he just pulled over, parallel parking with ease as she made a squeak, trying to back away when he turned around. He unbuckled his seatbelt, his black slacks soaked and his irritation palpable. "Rhaenyra."

"You started it," she said quickly, attempting to move further away, but forgot she was still strapped in. He already got out of the car and opened the back in the time it took her to unstrap her seatbelt and attempt to go out the opposite door. She barely got it open before he had gripped her by the waist and tossed her on her back, sprawled onto the back seat.

She let out a nervous laugh, the door she had opened already closing as he caged her into his legs. "I just had this car reupholstered," he told her, indicating the high-grade leather that felt especially amazing now that her legs were pressed into it at this very moment. She chose the wrong day to wear a skirt, not only because it was freezing outside, but mostly due to his hand on her upper thigh, holding it to his hip.

"You started it," she repeated, her voice cracking as the feelings she didn't want began to rise inside her, before they all lowered straight down and heated. She couldn't breathe, her chest was rising and falling so fast that she was nearly worried he might think she was having an asthma attack. One of his hands was on her thigh while the other was at her waist, and f*ck if it didn't tempt her. Her body ignited with his easy touch, her need rising in her, and she had to physically restrain herself from doing as she wanted.

"You're right," his deep voice was thick with more emotions she could not read. His eyes dilated upon her, staring down and through her. In those short moments, she wondered if what she had was a sickness. It was a sickness that he caught because an uncle didn't hold their niece like this. They certainly wouldn't be squeezing their niece's thigh and their fingertips wouldn't be grazing the underside of their arse the way his were at this moment.

Then again, it wouldn't be the first time she misread him. Daemon wasn't a static creature, and instead, morphing and changing, and moulding into new ideas as they occurred to him. Even knowing all of this, she was still enamoured. She couldn't help herself from fluttering her lashes and 'adjusting' her hips as if she wanted to get away. She couldn't be certain what the intentions she had were, but it had not been for her to stroke up against his knee in between her thighs.

It was only all the years of practice that kept her face absent of emotion. He was no longer smiling, his stare trailing down between where their hips nearly met. He only looked for moments before that smouldering gaze was back on her. They were both covered in water, and under normal conditions, this would have been a turn-off considering the water was freezing temperatures and the droplets were quite literally dripping from him to her.

He lowered his head, and he must be testing her or trying to kill her. Instead of doing what she truly desired, he rested his forehead on her own, his nose grazing against hers, a sigh escaping her lips and meeting his. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to ruin it. She didn't want to know what he was thinking right now.

And, of course, because her life was this tragic, her phone went off with a ringtone set aside for her dad. It didn't even go off twice before he had let her go, dropping all pretences of affection as smirked at her, as if he were again unimpressed. Where he touched went cold, and she slowly sat up, already seeing him nonchalantly walk out of the Tesla and light a cig. His back was to the car, leaning against it by the time she noticed that her dad was trying to FaceTime.

She looked at herself in the mirror, wincing at her messy hair and white blouse, drenched in water. She fixed it quickly, thankful her makeup looked flawless thanks to the setting spray that she bought especially for crying on her pillow.

She answered the call, watching as Viserys Targaryen's face was practically pressed into the camera lens. She could see only his forehead and one eye. Despite the sexual frustration and the confusion, nothing killed a sex drive like talking to daddy.

"Rhaenyra!" Viserys yelled into the screen, making her lips twitch up.

"Dad, you don't need to get so close to the camera," she told him, not the first time having done so.

"Is this better!" Viserys screamed, as if they were both in a concert hall. He did hold the phone away from him, his smile so bright that she felt her heart warm with affection.

"Also, you don't need to shout," she said in a whisper. "See, if you can hear me, I can hear you."

"Yes, yes," Viserys said, only a little lower than before. "Alicent told me all that, but these damn phones."

"You said you were gonna call around noon," Rhaenyra said, pointedly not looking to Daemon who stood so close, still smoking his cig. She watches his hand drag up to his lips, from what little she could see with his back turned. Her heart swelled, just looking at him was enough. She looked back down at her hands.

"I was worried, driving on your lonesome," Viserys said, acting as if she were driving to California instead of New Haven. He had practically begged her to take the jet, but she had told him no. She was sure she had good reasons at the time, but now, after what just happened, she wished she reconsidered.

"Uh," Rhaenyra began, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. "Actually, I am not alone."

"Oh good. You're with Laena, that is a relief," Viserys said, having made many points on his concerns that she lived so far away. It was only two hours she would say, but to him, that was two too many.

"Actually," Rhaenyra began, before remembering Alicent's words about her father's low opinions of Daemon. She also remembered his scathing voicemail that still embarrassed her. She shut her mouth with a clenched jaw. "Anyway, how was the Singapore deal?" Her father had to have some things to say on it by now, considering his last two weeks had been trapped in a separate country to oversee the new factory he had constructed there.

"I can have Otto send you some of the contracts. They have yet to be signed, we still need to make final checks for discrepancies," Viserys said in return, and she nodded swiftly.

She may not have cared for Otto on a personal level, but she held some level of respect for him considering he was Alicent's father. That respect had dwindled since the last two years, especially when she heard some unsavoury rumours of his ladder-climbing methods. Not that she minded a man who could climb, but not one that would use her as a step stool to get on top.

They talked business, as usual, for another minute. She suspected they both wished that could change, that they could go back to what they were two and a half years ago before they lost a mother and a wife. A brother and a son. Before he decided to never so much as bring up her name, as if he buried her memory the same day they burned her.

"I better let you go," Viserys said, towards the end, and by now, Daemon had already leaned back into the car with a smirk, watching as Rhaenyra attempted to end the call. She was now on her fifth 'love you, bye' before the call ended.

"Send Otto my love," Daemon said, having never made his disdain for Otto Hightower a hidden thing. 'A backstabbing c*nt' were his words, at least to Rhaenyra's memory. She tilted her head, still covered in water, her skirt was slightly hiked up, but she didn't much mind. His eyes were on her face, only for a moment before he held out his hand. "Come on, front seat. I'll let you pick the music."

"Really?" Rhaenyra Targaryen's smile widened, and she grabbed his hand, letting him help her out of the car. "Anything I want?"

"You are a little demon," he commented with a smile and a flick of her nose when he let go of her hand. "I'm curious to hear the music of hell."

Rhaenyra finally hiked her brown plaid skirt back down, but in doing so, her blouse, that was snagged on one of the buttons at the front of the pencil skirt, was dragged down with it. It certainly hadn't been intentional, but she was aware that she all but flashed him her bra before fixing it.

He acted as if he saw nothing or as if he felt nothing, a complete change from the look he had in the car. He opened up the driver's door and got inside. She looked up into the sky, at the clouds and the rising sun over the horizon. She sent out a prayer to her mother, despite how much she didn't want her watching over any moments between her and her uncle, for the strength to resist. She just had to get through one day. One day, and then maybe this space, being surrounded by the pressures of law, the Socratic Method, the routine, maybe it would make it all easier.

Rhaenyra entered the passenger side, and he already handed her his phone with a smirk. It was open to Spotify, to classic Hip Hop, and she made certain to avoid eye contact when she took it from him. Looks like we are just not going to talk about that, she thought, scrolling through different playlists. I'm good with that, she thought as the car glided from park and into drive. He had slowed down, definitely not the speed limit, but no longer making her feel like she was in Mario Kart.

She had begun to type in Disney musicals when she saw a text message pop up from the top of the screen. She hadn't meant to read it, respecting privacy and all that, but it was there and she was human.

Nedra V: where did you go this morning?

Nedra V: I miss you.

delivered 7:22 am

The sound of Mulan's 'Let's get Down to Business' filled the car and Rhaenyra set the phone face down on her lap. Her head turned, overlooking the great big city ahead of her, lips drawn into a small frown that forced its way through her defences. She could see herself staring back at her from through her reflection, see the makeup that could only do so much. She could highlight her cheekbones and erase her pores, but it didn't transform her.

It didn't change her last name, a mirror of his.

He reached over, grabbing his phone from her lap, making her jump as he opened up to the messages that Nedra sent. He scoffed at them, ever the shameless one. "So then, demons listen to movie soundtracks?" Daemon said with his eyes narrowed upon her. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

"You said choose whatever I want. Wait till you hear the five remixes of Under the Sea," Rhaenyra said with a smile that did not touch her eyes. She didn't have a single right to be mad or hurt or jealous that he had spent the night with a woman that was not her, that he'd likely been in her house when she called him last night.

When she—

Rhaenyra looked away, back out the window as she attempted to put aside unreciprocated feelings, feelings she was doomed to suffer with alone.

"Of all musicals," Daemon said, shaking his head from side to side.

"Uncle," she said, leaning against the glass of the car. "Wake me when we get there."

She felt his eyes on her, felt them peruse her, and a part of her wanted him to speak. Perhaps she wanted him to tell her what he felt in those small stolen moments between them. Or in those moments she thought that whatever it was brewing in them was reciprocated. Tell her that they were both stewing together in hushed yearning.

However, this wasn't a Disney fairytale and he was mute.

She hid her face in the pillow, feeling foolish for wanting to cry. She felt all the more foolish for how much she wanted to send him such a message as free as 'I miss you'. Which she did, even when they were in the same car, breathing the same air, she missed him.

She didn't have the luxury to indulge these fantasies or let them fester. Instead, she let them drift away as she closed her eyes, praying to fall asleep to the tune of the cars passing by.

She was close, so close, when she felt his fingers brush along her hand that rested at her side. She felt his fingertips along her pale skin, her knuckles, before settling to cup it from under his hand.

The entire action didn't feel fair, dreamlike even, but she wasn't able to deny herself. She interlocked their hands, feeling him stiffen for a moment before settling in her grasp when she was finally pulled to sleep.

The place was crowded in boxes, stacked high in the corners of the living room. Her father had offered a moving team to unpack it, but besides having the furniture moved in, she didn't want anyone going through her things.

Hence, why she nearly dropped her bag when she spotted Daemon approach a box with a curious glint. "Not that one," she said, just as he opened the sloppily folded cardboard to reveal an entire box of manga.

He glanced over to her with a snort as he pulled one out. "Well, these are filthy," he commented, already flipping through a random one as she considered burrowing herself into a hole and dying. It would certainly be easier than enduring the feelings she had festering in her bones whenever he was close.

"Any other box uncle," Rhaenyra said, eyes scanning over her new place where she was to live. The ceiling was industrial panels, matching the multicoloured brick walls of different shades of brown. The hardwood floor was a gorgeous oak, a complete 180 from her place in NYC that looked like a Victorian aristocrat had designed it. The leather couch was an L shape and the only piece of furniture she could decide on at the time. "You have a knack for finding exactly what I don't want you to find."

Daemon snorted, still flipping through the manga with a bored expression as she walked past him to inspect the new bedroom she had redone last week. The entire right wall was covered in brown shelving with a Japanese divider that loomed behind her bed. There was some light spilling in through the panels of windows.

Her dad had said the place was a bit small, just one big room without walls. She rather liked it, having been raised in big houses with so many walls and empty bedrooms. At least now she could see everything and the emptiness wouldn't surprise her.

She heard more boxes opening, feeling a smile slowly begin to force its way to her face. She passed the rice paper divider that separated her bed from the living room. She spotted Daemon already lifting a box of dishes and placing it in the kitchen, atop the marble island which reminded her she needed to learn to cook.

"You don't have to help me," she said, walking toward him as he opened the box without looking at her.

"As self-sufficient as I know you are," he told her removing the dishes all covered in bubble wrap. He had removed his coat, so now she could see the outline of his muscles through his black button-up. Two buttons had been undone, reminding her of her drunk thoughts so many weeks ago. "You don't have to do everything on your own."

She walked next to him, unable to help herself from standing shoulder to shoulder with him. She couldn't have him in any of the ways she wanted, but she could have him here. She unwrapped the well-packed dishes, and at her prompts, he put them away.

If she blocked off all her thoughts, if she put them away or tucked them to bed, she could imagine they were a couple. They were just two people. In New Haven, they weren't committing any crimes. They were here, breathing the same space and everything was okay.

She picked up another box, making a show of how heavy it was. Daemon only tilted his head, as if to say, 'do it yourself'. Rhaenyra sneered, lifting the box of spices and other condiments, waddling like Alicent in her last trimester, back to the kitchen.

"So dramatic," Daemon said, and only at the last second, when she was nearly finished, did he grab the box from her hands. It was the last of the kitchen items, so he went back towards the living areas and began to lift another box from the stack.

"Careful uncle," she said as she set up the magnetic spice rack. "Hate for you to find the stripper lingerie. Don't want to traumatize your sensitive disposition."

"What am I? 14?" Daemon fired back, making her smile. How he was able to do that so easily was beyond her. She was a broken little thing. "Don't know how you can fit an entire pole in one of these boxes."

"Don't be silly," she replied, spotting his back muscles move as he lifted another box, separating it from the rest. His top certainly was going to be the death of her. She didn't know his workout routine, but with the way his shoulder blades looked, she imagined he dabbled in archery. "That's being installed Monday."

"My apologies," he said, now turning his head to look at her. If she hadn't been watching his muscles so intently and seen as he was about to face her, she might have been caught staring. Alas, he missed that in favour of her looking down to dig through the box.

And thus went the day, digging into the evening, filled with bits of laughter that made it all almost seem innocent. Innocent, if not for subtle glances and advances she could not help. That she wanted him to see her a woman, not a little girl, she couldn't deny.

She couldn't help bending down in front of him, getting closer to look over his shoulder, leaning into him, and placing her head against his chest as she whined she was hungry.

So, since there was no food, she ordered Doordash wine with daddy's black card. There were only three more boxes left by the time they sat on the couch, playing poker.

"You said you knew how to play," Daemon said, watching her fold again.

"I do," Rhaenyra stated, her lips pressed tightly together as she waited for him to shuffle the cards. She watched him carefully, shoulders tense as he passed out the next five cards. She grabbed them from where he placed them on the couch, eyes narrow as she leaned her hip further into the back. She had one arm draped over the back of the dark brown leather, her legs folded atop one another as she cuddled into the cushions.

He looked far more dastardly, sitting in the middle where both sides met in an 'L'. Perhaps normally, she would steal glances at him and think absolutely filthy things, but after losing once more against a stellar hand, she was battling the unsettling boiling of her own gut. He seemed nonchalant as he pulled out a straight flush from his hand and Rhaenyra nearly threw her cards at his face. She refrained because she was trying to be a woman and not a child. His arrogant smirk made her want to find the knives in the kitchen and cut him.

"Could have fooled me," he commented with another shuffle of the cards with his long, beautiful fingers.

Stop that, she thought with growing frustration.

"Perhaps you should ask Viserys for some lessons," Daemon stated, and somehow even his advice made her want to reach over and strangle him. She wanted to wrap her hands around his lovely neck, grind her hips into—

f*cking stop that, she told herself, now unnecessarily turned on.

"Your father did teach me, after all," Daemon stated, and that comment rang alarm bells in her mind. Her eyes narrowed on him, scanning every nook and cranny of his long-sleeve button-up. Normally, he would roll up his sleeves, torturing her with his strong forearms.

She tossed down her cards, rolling up the sleeves of her yellow knitted cardigan. The five cards bounced against the cushions, three falling off and sliding against the hardwood floor. She stepped on one as she half stood, one leg on the ground while the knee of her other leg dragged against the cushion. He inclined his head, eyes dark and dangerous, surveying her body and to the short pencil skirt that disregarded all her efforts to pull it down.

She felt his eyes against her blouse, now long since dry from the car ride. In this light the white crop top was see-through. His nostrils flared, and both brows raised as she approached him.

"Didn't know what a sore loser you are," Daemon said with a smirk. He placed his own cards in front of him, one leg was crossed over another, but he was also leaning heavily on one side so he could face her.

"My father taught you?" Rhaenyra asked, head tilting and causing some silver hair to fall over her shoulder. It was mostly pulled back in an intricate waterfall braid that her mother taught her how to do, but with the car ride and the moving, some strands had fallen out. Her skills in braiding were stunning, but nothing compared to her mother's handiwork.

"He is the older brother after all. He was bound to teach something," Daemon said, and her smile turned devious as she moved closer. Finally, he let out a deep chuckle, bits of bemusem*nt in his expression growing when she all but leapt on him. "What are you doing?"

Rhaenyra grabbed him by the shoulders, shoving him down and watching his back hit the cushion. She already began to glide her hands over his arms, over his sleeves, and her intrusive touching achieved a groan from him. "My father taught me too. And he's a cheater."

Daemon finally let out laugh, attempting to knock her away as she leaned over him, but all he managed to do was cause her to fall over so her body draped over his own. She crawled forward, her lust and competitive brain now in synchrony as she straddled him. Her hands moved over his chest, searching for cards, moving further down, only to see that he had stopped fighting her.

She looked back up, meeting his darkening gaze. The silence sizzled between them as her eyes scanned over his messy hair with light strands out of place and to the third button of his top that she had unintentionally detached. He looked nearly as undone as she felt. Both her hands rested on his lower stomach, his chiselled abs underneath her warming palms. She was sitting on him, able to feel both his slightly raised legs from behind her.

She paused, not looking away from him as she continued to move her hands down until she reached his pocket. She nearly forgot what she was looking for by the time her fingers grazed his sleeve, feeling bits of skin when she reached beneath the material. She didn't look away when she pulled out a queen of hearts.

His lips twitched up, but his eyes were lidded as she raised the card to her face. There was no satisfaction in being right, nothing that could compare to the emotions that were drumming at her. It was a sundry of desires, each going in so many different directions that left her without the ability to do anything.

"See," she whispered, and she knew he saw her tremble when he raised his hand between them and grabbed her wrist that held the card. "You are a liar and a cheater."

His lips twitched up, and before she could do much else, think much else, he had knocked her on her back. He stood next, and despite the space he put in between them, the pulsing heat still scorched her. She turned her head, watching as he pulled out more cards from his sleeves. "I'm a lot more than that, kid," he told her, and every word he offered her made her mouth dry.

She raised her leg, allowing the skirt to hike up completely, showing off silk undergarments before she sat up to adjust it. It was only because she was watching him that she saw the subtle perusing of her body, as if he didn't want to look, but did so anyway.

"You were hungry," he said, interrupting anything clever that she likely wasn't going to say. "I'll bring you back something."

He would normally kiss her forehead goodbye, but it seemed like her stunt had successfully driven a barrier between them. He just turned away and grabbed his coat. She stood, pulling her skirt down more. "I can come with you," she told him, checking her watch to see it was nearly dark.

She wasn't ready for him to go.

"Don't worry about it. I have to make some calls anyway," he said, slipping on his coat. He took his phone out from it, and she saw him already scrolling through his contacts as he walked past her to the door. She stayed where she was, physically biting her tongue as she saw him scrolling through contacts of names. Any one of them could have been a lover or a business associate, but the only one that came to her mind was: 'where did you go this morning'. The text he had left unanswered.

"Anything in particular you want?" Daemon asked, even as her heart sunk further. She forced a smile, refusing to look like a child who pined for him. She walked over to the last of her boxes, the books she had yet to shelf.

"Anything you like," she said, bending over to pick up one box. It weighed more than she did, but she had muscles from her frustrated gym sessions, so she lifted it without a word. "We are made from the same stuff. I've yet to see a thing you liked that I did not."

Daemon was in front of her when she turned around to walk toward the mahogany bookshelf with the sliding ladder. She expected him to joke about her strength, but he said nothing, only grabbed it from her and walked it the rest of the way. "You shouldn't be proud to be made of the same anything as me, Rhaenyra."

He dropped it to the ground next to the shelves. She didn't have anything to say to that, and he looked to be done talking. He already raised his phone to his face, walking past her. "I'll be back soon."

When he left, she was practically biting her entire tongue off, lips pressed together and jaw clenched. She rubbed her palm over her face, the torrent of emotions rising up like water dropped on a live volcano. She felt close to erupting, to losing her mind, and missing him despite him having only just closed the door.

Rhaenyra forced herself to walk to the box and open it, each book doing nothing to ease the ache.

Chapter 6: Late Night Mistakes

Chapter Text

Ｓｉｘ

𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

In the time she spent waiting for Daemon to return, her Doordash order of wine had come. She had spent twenty minutes searching for a corkscrew, opening up drawer after drawer to no avail. Eventually, she realized it was a twist-off, and after realizing she forgot to pack her wine glasses, she drank straight from the bottle.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was drinking wine and scrolling through the #daemontargaryen tag like a simp. She supposed it was unhealthy and obsessive, and it made the longing only grow. It was also compulsive. If she could stop herself, she wouldn't have straddled and practically assaulted him an hour ago. He made her feel unhinged as if he could take her apart and she'd say 'thank you', only for him to leave without putting her back together.

Her lips thinned, and she closed her phone, sinking her head into her knees as she dragged them to her chest and held the wine bottle to her skull. It was half empty, as was her f*cking head. She didn't know what she was doing, here in a new apartment that she should feel excited about, but instead, she was miserable and lonely and hungry. Her love was a real, living creature, and she could not control a thing. She wasn't distracted by him. Her phone was distracting. The noise of NYC was distracting. He consumedher.

She rested her forehead against her knees again, tapping it against them. She imagined the hollow noise with each tap, like a watermelon at a grocery store. If she saw her head, resting in the stand, she'd certainly tap once and know it was ripe.

Where the f*ck is the food? Rhaenyra thought with a bitter scowl to the door. She stood with an angry, "f*ck this," and grabbed her phone, dialling Laena to keep herself from blowing up her uncle's phone.

"Wow, two calls in one week. You got me feeling special," Laena said once answering the FaceTime call. Rhaenyra plastered a smile on her face, taking a big gulp from her wine. It wasn't at all sweet, but instead, bitter and dry. Yay, just like me, she thought with a sideways glance toward the door.

"Just thought I should give you a tour," Rhaenyra said, smiling wide as she turned the camera around.

"Ohh, this season on Cribs, brought to you by MTV." With a delicate touch, Laena carefully tucked her pen amidst the strands of her silvery curls, their spiral nature lending an enchanting allure. Purposefully, she arranged her books and notes, meticulously clearing a space, before settling herself upon her bed. Adopting a crisscrossed posture, she positioned the camera to capture an upward view, granting Rhaenyra an intimate glimpse of the delicate contours within her nostrils.

Laena, in her entirety, exuded a captivating beauty that left onlookers breathless—an ethereal presence brimming with vivacity. Yet, it was her inherent kindness that set her apart, a quality that seemed to radiate from her very soul, captivating hearts and minds with its unassuming grace. Within the vast tapestry of all Rhaenyra's peers, Laena always stood as an embodiment of compassion, a beacon of goodwill that illuminated her.

"What?" Rhaenyra said with a brow raised.

"The streaming services had destroyed the reference. Continue," Laena said with a bright smile, showing off perfect veneers.

"So, I had these lights put in recently," Rhaenyra began as she extended her arm, gracefully gesturing towards the vintage lights that dangled overhead, reminiscent of luminous little bulbs. They adorned the space adjacent to the spiral staircase, gracefully ascending towards a quaint balcony nestled within the interior. This cosy nook was defined by a single floor panel that wound its way around, embracing roughly half of the intimate chamber. With an air of excitement, she embarked on an elaborate explanation, unveiling her plans to Laena. It entailed the placement of a telescope in that very spot, poised to offer awe-inspiring glimpses of the stars that adorned the night sky.

"In New Haven?" Laena said, her head tilting. "With all the Connecticut lights, will you see anything?"

"Probably not, but I still want one," Rhaenyra said, watching as Laena smiled, the corners of her eyes delicately crinkling with joy.

"What's up, buttercup?" Laena asked, noticing the wine bottle, now a quarter full, still in Rhaenyra's hand.

"Oh, uh," Rhaenyra began, stuttering with a laugh that she hoped was nonchalant. "I don't have wine glasses." To truly drive home her mental health, she hiccuped in between explaining.

"Been there, done that," Laena said, standing and stretching, causing the camera to face up toward the ceiling. "I'm gonna open up my own bottle since we're drinking."

She got through half of the loft before hearing the door open and her uncle walk in with a bag of takeout. He was very late, having left her with stewing emotion that she didn't know what to do with. If she was bitter or angry, she wasn't about to let him know. He barely said a word, just walking by her and placing the food on the island.

"Oh, is that the Rogue f*ck up?" Laena announced, causing Rhaenyra to roll her eyes with a smile as she turned the camera toward Daemon. Daemon Targaryen blinked, glancing at the phone and sneering. He took two steps, and Rhaenyra felt her heart already nearly overpower her, a pull of tug-of-war from wanting to hold him and slap the sh*te out of him.

"Laena," Daemon's voice was deep, and he practically bent over Rhaenyra's shoulder to talk to her. His arm was against her back, his breath travelling the path of her neck and Rhaenyra could see her blank expression staring back at her from through the call. She refused to show a thing, even as she breathed in his cologne, mixed with a perfume she didn't recognize.

Of course, Rhaenyra thought, hurt now added to the cauldron that was her terribly confusing relationship with her uncle.

"Daemon, you've been very active in the tabloids lately," Laena said, her chin resting in her palm as she set the phone up to rest on her PopSocket. They both watched her pour a glass of wine, leaving no room at the top.

"Oh Laena, your daddy's money is truly travelling in the right channels if you spend your free time reading gossip columns about your cousin," Daemon said, his chuckle spanning across her neck once again. It only furthered the hurt that gathered in her gut as she noticed there was a lipstick stain on his collar through the camera of the two of them, reflected backs.

"Rhae," Laena said, taking a sip of her wine. "I think I liked it better before he came in. Please take us to a different room."

Rhaenyra felt a smile arise, despite her own jealous bitterness. "It's a loft, Laena. What you see is what it is."

"Bruh," Laena said, her eyes narrowed to truly take in the background. "No walls? What if you wanna bring a boy home? You really gonna get down and dirty facing the table where you eat your dinner."

"Very specific, Laena," Daemon said, rolling his eyes as he began to walk away, his fingers brushing along Rhaenyra's waist before he left. She was certain he was punishing her for something at this point, but she grinned and bore it as she kept her expression blank.

She watched him unpack the two boxes that filled the air with the scent of salmon. "I suppose I could bring them into the bathroom, so long as I want to give the fridge its privacy."

"Good choice. Backdoor in the bathroom is fun," Laena said, visibly grinning as she dragged her tongue in between her teeth.

"Are you trying to make him uncomfortable?" Rhaenyra asked, now glancing to her left, down the length of the island, to see Daemon unpacking the food with a nonchalant roll of his eyes.

"It's truly not easy to do anything to rile the infamous Daemon Targaryen," Laena said, snorting as she took another sip of wine.

Rhaenyra could only agree since it seemed she was the only one ever getting riled while he stayed sane, and collected, even when she was at her most crazy. Daemon only shook his head, his amusem*nt palpable when he said, "I think I should take Laenor around the town. Show him around my favourite spots in New York next he visits."

Laena immediately straightened, "You keep my brother out of your nightlife. He's easily influenced."

Daemon pulled up his phone, leaning one hip against the island with a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "I think I'll invite him to some clubs. Introduce him to the nightlife and the tabloids that like to capture it."

"Rhae, sic him!" Laena snapped, and Rhaenyra laughed in return.

"What am I, your dog?" Rhaenyra replied smoothly.

"Get him girl, go," Laena continued.

"I'm going to hang up instead. I smell salmon," Rhaenyra replied with a fond smile. "Don't worry, I'll make sure he doesn't corrupt your brother."

Daemon snorted, as if the very notion was beneath him and as if everyone in the family didn't know who he was. Rhaenyra wanted to take a long bath, relax in the luxury tub she had installed, and forget all about how terribly hard it was to want something that you know would hurt.

"Love you, babe. f*ck you cousin," Laena said, scowling toward where she figured Daemon was.

"Prettier than her brother. What a shame about that attitude," Daemon retorted, walking around the island to find two forks. Laena's nose wrinkled, but they said their goodbyes and the call ended.

Rhaenyra took a deep inhale of air, letting it fill her, releasing it and turning back toward Daemon with a smile. "Pretty sure she will one day learn that Laenor hardly needs your help in corruption."

Daemon glanced up at her from leaning against the marble of the island. His elbows held him up, and he looked ever the dark prince with his perfectly styled hair and a wicked smile. He had fixed himself up since the hours she last saw him, and somehow came back looking so iniquitously handsome that she could lose the ability to breathe. She stepped closer, testing her own bravery as she grabbed the takeout, opening it to reveal differing containers of perfectly packed pan-roasted salmon, french lentils, and a carrot puree that smelled so amazing that she could almost ignore that he smelled like Dior.

"You'd be surprised what I can do in a few short hours," Daemon said with a smile as he dragged his fork through the carrot puree.

Her dad had a habit of eating with his mouth open so everyone could hear each chew, which always tested Rhaenyra's anger issues. She strived to find differences between her uncle and her dad, as if the more she found, the better she felt. She took a bite of the carrot puree next.

"I would not," she said with a half-shrug, casting a glance over to the loft, anywhere but at him. "I am not surprised by much of anything you do. I find comfort in the unpredictability of you."

Somehow, the silence in the empty space of the loft was louder than the noise, so she turned her stare back toward him to see his hand had stilled from near his plate. She watched him press his other hand against his cheek, digging into his hair as he finally looked away. "After we eat, I better head back to Noho." Daemon's Penthouse in Noho was immaculate, a place with a grand piano and spacious rooms. She dreamed of playing on it, of hearing him play, of kissing his neck as he brushed his fingers along the keys.

"You don't have to," Rhaenyra said, glancing at her watch that said 10:32 pm. It would take hours to get there from Connecticut, and despite her knowing that he should go, she still wasn't ready to release him. Here, so far away from her family in the city, she felt like she could breathe. She could breathe him in, and then learn to slowly let him go.

"Rhaenyra." His voice was low, and it rumbled in his chest like a growl that forced her to meet his eyes again. She knew, in those moments that they stared at one another, that she was absolutely smitten, and that adoration was so obvious that she didn't know how to hold it in.

"It's late," Rhaenyra said, her voice casual and flippant as if she could not care less. She stabbed her fork into the salmon, cutting it and watching the steam rise. "You can stay. I have extra blankets," she suggested with a careful glance toward him. She didn't want to make him run away, and to do that, she had to prove she could keep her hands to herself.

What must he have thought of her? A little girl, ensnared in the tendrils of a crush that teetered on an unprecedented catastrophe. The plight she must have imposed upon him—a man yearning for the preservation of who they were supposed be—was undeniable. It was she who orchestrates every scenario that popped the bubble of their ambience.

Still, he was about to reject her offer. He was going to leave. "I'm feeling nervous is all," she lied, something she rarely ever did. "About staying here alone on the first night." She was going to mention the oncoming storm, the rain that would soon drench the night, but it seemed she did not need to.

He clicked his tongue but cut a piece of salmon in lieu of answering. The silence stretched for precious moments. His moves were lazy, languid, and relaxed, but his eyes were dark and dilated and had promises she didn't understand. "Just for tonight."

"Just tonight," she agreed, smiling brightly.

She liked to pride herself on her restraint the rest of the evening, where they sat up together, watching documentaries as background noise while they talked. She was farther away on the couch than she liked, but if she reached, she could touch him. That's why she kept her hands intertwined with one another on her lap.

"You still have pictures of you and Alicent," he said, both of them drinking from the wine glasses that he found on one of her high shelves. She had to deal with his teasing when he saw she drank straight from the bottle. "Is it not easier to get rid of them?"

Rhaenyra paused, watching the wine slosh in circles around the circumference of the glass as she swirled it. It was easier to be around him if she made certain she wasn't still, if she remained in constant motion, always active. She felt her hand freeze at the question.

"It's not easy," Rhaenyra admitted, actively not meeting his eyes. "To completely cut out someone who once participated in every area of your life." She took a long sip of wine, practically reaching the dregs of her glass. "It's even harder when she reminds me of what we once were." Or that a part of me loved her and still does.

Daemon only waited patiently since listening to her had never been his problem. It was in the difficult moments, that's where he'd say things so cruel that they'd stick with her for years. Or he'd suddenly disappear when she needed him.

"I used to tell her everything," Rhaenyra whispered, staring down at her wine. "It's hard to find people you can call a friend in this life where people always look for what they can take from you." She finally met Daemon's eyes from across the couch, the documentary on the history of aircrafts playing in the background as she drank the last of her own wine. Thanks to her rampant emotions when waiting for him to return earlier, she was now completely out. "Do you understand?"

He held out his wine, and she smiled slightly, grabbing it from his hands and feeling his fingers brush against her own when she pulled away. "If you could go back. If you could erase it all, what would you want to tell her right now?" Daemon's question filled the space between them, and she answered with a lazy blink.

That I love you, she thought, the words intrusive and true and not something she often breathed life into. She buried it again, piling it underneath her.

"I'd tell her not to marry my father. I'd tell her that my parents had a rare thing, not easily replaced. That she might spend the rest of her life trying to earn a fraction of the love that she deserves." Rhaenyra ran her hand down her face, her throat feeling tight. "She shouldn't have to ask to be loved."

She stared down into Daemon's wine, reminded that his lips had been pressed against it. She had memorized where they had been when she had taken it from him. She raised the glass to her lips and pressed them to the exact spot she had watched him drink. Somehow, it eased the ache in small ways she hoped would satiate her.

She handed him back his glass, now bolder with her touch as she pressed her fingertips against his in the pass-off. It made her feel like a toddler, getting giddy over something so small. He swirled it with a smile before taking a drink of it from where her lips had been.

"If you think Otto Hightower and his thirsty pursuit of legacy has no role to play with his daughter's sudden placement at your father's side." Daemon gave her a knowing smirk as he met her gaze. "You have to open your eyes."

"Are you saying that Alicent married my father," and ruined our friendship, "out of obligation and duty?"

Daemon only shrugged, "I am the last one who can answer any inquiries on love. I only tell you what I see, which you should as well if you mean to take over once Viserys is gone."

Rhaenyra's jaw clenched, but she bit out the words. "We don't yet know if I will. Alicent is to have a boy. He may very well supplant me."

Daemon, never one to lie to her or sweeten a truth with honeyed words, only said, "Have you thought maybe that might be best?"

Rhaenyra's nose wrinkled, and she crossed her legs, careful not to sit as she had before during the poker match where she made a fool of herself. That was past Rhaenyra, and we destroyed her, she thought with a bitter frown. "I wasn't supposed to inherit anything. I never asked for more than what I was told was mine. When Baelon was to be heir, I did not complain. I was made heir, and I have done everything my father has asked of me. I have asked for nothing that wasn't already mine."

She would have stepped aside in a heartbeat for Baelon to be heir, but for Dragonstone, perhaps she gave more fight.

Daemon paused, and she was reminded that he was once her father's successor, set to inherit the multibillion-dollar enterprises of investments, residential real estate, hotels, resorts, residential towers, and golf courses in various countries. Not to mention their rise in tech hubs across the world. She did not feel guilty for supplanting him, especially since he had dabbled in multiple practices that hurt others. She wasn't blind to who he was. She knew about the bribery, the defamation, the poor working conditions, and his frequent tax evasion. He single-handedly destroys small companies attempting to invest in green energy because it did not benefit the oil industry that was signing his checks.

"I'd take her pictures down," Daemon said carefully, his fingers tapping against the glass. His leg was tapping, no part of him completely still, yet there seemed to be a calmness about him as well.

Rhaenyra bit her tongue, inhaling and exhaling before she said, "You think she'd push for my replacement?"

"I think that she is young and easily manipulated," Daemon said carefully, the documentary's background noise filling the room. "Either you let go of who she was and get to know the person now, or yes." Daemon shrugged as if he couldn't be bothered either way. "She will likely betray you. You are only a friend, and these days, not even that. That is her son. What loyalty does she owe you?"

Rhaenyra's jaw clenched, and her irritation became a living creature, building and growing. Daemon held out the wine once more, and she grabbed it, downing it in one gulp. "Alicent is not her father, to whom you hold a grudge."

Daemon gave her a half-shrug, "Her father is a vile leech. A parasite who feeds on whoever has power. It's who he is. You can't change him any more than you can me. You'd be surprised what a parasite could do to someone who loves and respects it. Who nurtures and feeds it, as Alicent Hightower will." Rhaenyra's fingers squeezed against the glass, before letting out a breathy scoff and looking away. "I don't think you yet know how to play the game your father has given to you. Best learn."

"If you could," Rhaenyra said, after a lingering silence. "If you could replace me. If you had the chance, would you?"

Daemon's silence was telling, as was his hesitation to answer when she addressed only one of the many slights between the two of them. "I don't know."

Rhaenyra let out a laugh, pressing her hand against her face, her fingers just above her eye as she shook her head.

"Does that still comfort you? My unpredictability?" Daemon asked, and she met his dark stare from across the couch, with just her hand as a slight shade.

"I wish it didn't," she whispered, now looking away. The words were simple, but the vulnerability in them made her feel weak and naked.

Daemon leaned forward, his thumb brushing along her jaw to the height of her cheekbone. The simplest touch had already melted her, but it was the heat in his eyes that silenced her. "We are the House of the Dragon. The last of the Targaryen line. You, Viserys, and me." He leaned closer, his thumb dragging down to her bottom lip, and she felt her lips open ever so slightly, easing into his touch. "Nobody else matters but us."

"Alicent's children will be Targaryen," she said, her voice breaking, her eyes staring into his. His thumb was still on her lip, his other hand was tangled in her hair and cupping the side of her neck, her jaw. He was in her lungs. Her eyes were heavy and she trailed her gaze from indigo back down to his lips, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

Daemon's lips twitched up as if to say, 'So?' Rhaenyra felt no guilt, just him, always him, touching her and breaking her and enrapturing her.

He had been staring into her eyes, but she caught him looking down, hot and aware of every brush of skin, the air they both shared. His hands were still pressed into her face, cradling her, fingertips tangled in strands of silver hair as his other cradled the back of her neck. His thumb brushed along her bottom lip, one last time, sliding across the length of it in a way that she felt pulsate in her skin and straight down. She let out a sound, a breathy sigh, all indicating how she didn't know what she was doing.

She had kissed before. She had sex for the first time when she was 17. She had hickies and snuck out, but no one had ever made her feel a fraction of what was igniting in her now.

He was too close, their connection palpable as she caught a tantalizing whiff of his alluring scent, engulfing her senses. In response, her eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the lingering moment as their foreheads found solace in a tender union. The gentle graze of his nose against her own sent shivers down her spine, a delicate prelude to what she could not say. As their lips inched closer, the anticipation swelled, suffusing the air with an intoxicating tension that left her breathless. She couldn't breathe. She wouldn't be able to unless he kissed her.

She leaned in, fingers curling around her wine glass, the other hand resting on his thigh. Patience had worn thin, curiosity turned to resolve, and she felt the briefest touch of skin before her lips met empty air as he retracted his head.

Her eyes fluttered open, and his gaze no longer lingered on her lips. "You should retire for the night," he advised, his voice tinged with a roughness that carried both entreaty and command.

Everything narrowed, seeing him through the slits as her body warmed with humiliation and confusion. She felt it buzzing beneath her skin, choking her, asphyxiating her. He stood, running a hand through his hair, his steps continuing backwardsas if he couldn't get far enough. She was growing cold, the AC's chill hitting against her bare legs, spreading and making them erupt in gooseflesh. She didn't even know what happened or how she could put herself in a position where it could ever transpire. She set her wine glass on the ground by her feet since she had yet to get a table, her hand shaking as she did.

"You are a coward." Her words slipped from her lips as she attentively observed his every movement, and in the depth of his eyes, she detected a captivating glimmer, one that carried an undertone of perilous allure. Yet, instead of fear, an exhilarating thrill coursed through her veins. In a reflexive response to the intensity emanating from him, her spine straightened, her posture transforming into a poised and resolute stance. She welcomed every threat and every promise he could offer her—she'd take everything from him until she left him deflated and empty.

"I'm practical. You're a child with romantic fantasies that I will not deliver on," he told her, now turning to her fully, even as the words hit her like a battering ram. Her cheeks were hot, her body flushed, and her heart was slamming against her ribcage so hard that it was a wonder that they didn't break them. "I don't see you that way. I don't wantyou that way."

Rhaenyra's lips pressed together, the hurt and anger now in a melting pot with everything else. She had no idea what would come to the surface if she spoke. "A coward," she repeated, he tilted his head, cat-like, the offence so potent that he might as well have been exhaling it.

"Go to bed and we won't speak of this again," he told her as if it were that easy.

She took a deep breath, one hand cradling her face as she attempted to think. It was taking everything to keep from crying. "Fine. We won't speak of it again, uncle." She didn't know where she found the strength to say the words, let alone mean them.

She let out a last breath, her embarrassment draining her. It drove her crazy how many ways these feelings could hit her, could make her happy or miserable. They could make her sick to her stomach or bring her a stabbing pain in her heart. It made things brighter and sharper, yet blurs all sense of boundaries or lines. It made her feel like a fool.

She knelt down grabbing the wine glass with steady hands. "It was just the wine." She held the empty cup out to him as if it were a peace offering. "It's messed with my head tonight. I am already over this insignificant, inconsequential attraction. I don't even remember where it came from." She didn't know how she managed to get the words out, only that they hurt her more than they'd ever hurt him. She held up the wine cup higher, so it reached his chest. There were only three steps to the wall behind her, two steps to the right she'd reach the rice paper divider to the bed where she could sleep this off and awaken tomorrow as if this never happened.

He reached it, the empty cup they shared, with his hand hovering over hers as their eyes met once more. The bridge was held out so all he had to do was cross it and reject the advance as easily as he had before. She treated the cup as a child would a flower, picking off the leaves and singing 'he loves me, he loves me not' over and over and praying that the last one would end in happily ever afters. She felt his touch against her, and it travelled the entire length of her arm. He loves me not, she thought with frenzied amusem*nt that might just be hysteria.

He drew nearer, his countenance bearing an unfamiliar intensity. In an instant, the spark flared back to life. With a swift motion, he snatched the cup from her hand, sending it sailing toward the couch, where it rebounded. Rhaenyra attempted to decipher his expression in the fleeting moments before he bridged the gap, but he denied her that chance. She didn't have time to pluck another imaginary petal. His hands were entangled in her hair, and his lips met hers just as she exhaled out and he inhaled in.

"What are you doing?" Rhaenyra whispered, eyes struggling to stay open as she breathed in and out in rapid gasps as his hands tightened. He walked them backwards, one step, two steps.

His hesitation filled her with hot air as his grip tightened, but she felt them tremble. "Trying to make you remember," he whispered back, and then her back hit the wall, and she was lifted up, the sound of her cardigan sliding against brick and the press of their lips was louder than the TV.

He was truly the devil, Rhaenyra thought, tightening her legs around him, bringing him forward until she was grinding on him to get closer. One kiss blended into the next, his hands in her hair, both stroking her and cradling her neck, making it arch until he was swallowing the sounds she made. She felt something in between her legs when she arched into him and when she rubbed up the sparks of pleasure and want caused her eyes to roll back.

"f*ck," he whispered against her lips just as they dragged over her jaw, trailing a wet line to the groove beneath her ear. His tongue was pressed along her skin, his teeth taking the flesh of her ear into his mouth. She could feel him against her earring as he worked his way up in soft kisses that had her heart swelling.

One hand remained against her arched neck, but the other had trailed down her back, over the skirt that was wrapped around her waist and hiked up so he could easily feel underneath, should he go further down. He did not, and his palm stayed on her back, fisting the material of her top as he pulled it up. She let out sounds that she didn't know she could make when his palm finally went up her shirt, the warmth of them against the groove of her back. He rubbed up the length of her spine, working up to where her bra remained clasped. Just as he didn't touch beneath her skirt, he didn't unclasp it.

"f*ck," he muttered against her neck, his lips against her collarbone, pulling the material of her top down. He kissed as if he did not want to, but his touch was unyielding as if there wasn't anything more inevitable than them. Every brush of skin heated another part of her body, and she clutched his back, arching her own. Her head hit against the bricks as she lost all sense of each sensation. It was abrasive and forceful and destructive and she had never wanted anything more.

He pulled away, releasing her legs. There was a vulnerability in his touch, his fingers tracing up her waist. She reached out to draw him back, but he evaded her, leaning back just out of her reach. Their noses barely brushed, foreheads pressed together, creating a moment of perfect silence, his eyes briefly closed. She hardly had time to take a breath before he abruptly slammed his palm against the wall and withdrew.

Her skirt was hiked all the way up, just below her chest, her hands still in the motion of reaching up for him as he ran a palm down his face.

He didn't say a word, just grabbed his coat and left her in a heap of ruffled clothing. She stood there, flinching at the slamming of the door when her weak knees gave out and she fell into a rising sea of garish emotions.

Chapter 7: Rebounds & Bad Intentions

Chapter Text

Ｓｅｖｅｎ

𝓇𝑒𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹𝓈 & 𝒷𝒶𝒹 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Perfect stillness reigned.

But it had been so for two months. Two months consumed by research papers, delving into case methodologies, where she waded through litigations and dissected judicial rationales. Sleep was a luxury she couldn't afford, and every available surface in her loft was inundated with articles and case studies. She'd made attempts to allocate time to other pursuits, but they were feeble at best.

After her first went unanswered, she wrote out dozens of texts to her uncle, erasing every single one of them. Ultimately, giving him dead silence on her end, refusing to allow herself to be ghosted after swallowing her pride for a double text. She was humiliated enough after he left her alone, confused and reeling and half drunk on him. She even smelled like him.

She would not debase herself.

Rhaenyra: hey

delivered 1:34 pm

Rhaenyra Targaryen dug her face into her hands, slumping against the cafe table as she thought of fun ways she could die. If she had her own dragon, a replica of her house sigil, she'd throw herself into its gaping jaws. Somehow, something she normally wouldn't think twice about, a single message, had delivered more mortification than every moment of puberty combined.

"Sorry I'm late," Alicent said, sitting down across from her as Rhaenyra struggled to get out of her stupor. "Are you okay?" Currently, she liked to think she was put together. A confident law student who didn't get rejected by her own uncle. A beautiful heiress who didn't get ghosted by that uncle.

But no. Rhaenyra was a desperate moron who just double-texted a man who was obviouslyghosting her.

Rhaenyra began to laugh, slow at first, but before long she was leaning back into her seat and losing her mind. Alicent, the poor new mother, just sat there like she was across from a patient from Arkham asylum. She was looking around as if there would be cameras from random civilians who wanted to catch the daughter of one of the richest men in the world across from her childhood friend and stepmother. Rhaenyra was losing her mind.

Somehow, the thought made Rhaenyra only laugh longer. She was wearing her incognito sunglasses and a beanie that Laena had knit her last fall. Her signature silver hair was hidden and up at the top of her head, and hopefully, she looked like a basic white girl of no significance.

"You're not going to start crying, are you?" Alicent asked, now hiding her face as some of the others in the shop looked their way.

Rhaenyra wouldn't cry. She didn't the night he left her alone, she didn't any other night since, and she wouldn't now. If she did, she knew her humiliation would double, maybe triple, and she'd feel as pathetic and worthless as she had the first night.

"Sorry," she said, trying to stop laughing. "You caught me at a bad moment."

Alicent looked uncomfortable, but stunning considering she had just given birth two weeks ago. A baby boy named Aegon Targaryen, after their long since dead ancestor. She had meant to come see him, visit, if not for Alicent, then at least for her own father. She could not, especially when she was dealing with resentments that Daemon himself had solidified in her mind and ones that her father had yet to put to rest.

And it wasn't her half-brother's fault that he was to born into such a deranged family.

Alicent was silent, looking uncomfortable, despite this meeting being her idea. Rhaenyra had agreed out of morbid curiosity more than a desire to make amends as Laena had urged her to do. Now, both girls hadn't an idea of what to talk about. Before, they'd gossip about boys, about how they were in bed or how they kissed.

Obviously, considering the last person Rhaenyra kissed was her uncle and Alicent was shagging Rhaenyra's father, that topic was crossed out in permanent marker.

"This is awkward," Rhaenyra stated dryly, and Alicent snorted, covering her face to hide the laugh.

"I'm trying to make it not be," Alicent said, now brushing her palm across her forehead before dragging her knuckles down her cheek and resting it over her mouth. "I just thought it might be nice to talk."

"We talk," Rhaenyra said, her voice in a monotone as she finally reached for her oatmilk latte, untouched during her breakdown.

"Last we said anything to one another, it was not about pleasant things," Alicent said, alluding to the drunk celebration that ended with Rhaenyra trying to f*ck her own bodyguard. Since then, she had yet to see Criston Cole, but that had to do with school getting in the way of galas and fundraisers that she'd normally need protection at.

"What do you want to say?" Rhaenyra asked, tapping her fingers against the glass of the latte, her french tips clicking against the porcelain.

"I want to know how you are. How school is. What has you opening your messages five times in the last forty seconds," Alicent explained, and Rhaenyra glanced up from checking her messages again. She met Alicent's fond smile, half obscured with her hand.

"I'm just being crazy," Rhaenyra said, resting her hand against her cheek, absently tracing the length of her bottom lip.

"Do you want to talk about it? Tell me about him," Alicent said carefully, pausing. "Or her. Whichever." She cleared her throat, showing she was uncomfortable, but leaned forward, indicating she wanted to know anyway.

Rhaenyra set down her latte, thumb still resting against her lip. Her jaw was clenched, but she exhaled the breath she hadn't let go of since he kissed her. "Do you have twenty-four hours?" Rhaenyra used to tell Alicent about everything, but some things, you can't expect anyone to understand. That didn't mean she couldn't say anything at all.

Alicent's face brightened, scooting closer. It was all so familiar, lattes in Upper East New York, late-night talks about crushes, and easy silences. They hadn't managed to get the last one right, but perhaps it did take time. Not that either of them had much to spare.

"I'll just clear my schedule," Alicent said, just as a latte was placed in front of her. It had a beautiful snail design, one of the five this place was known for. "Thank you," Alicent said with crinkled eyes as the barista and her exchanged pleasantries before he left.

"It's nothing," Rhaenyra said, meeting Alicent's incredulous and judgmental expression that Rhaenyra had forgotten she was so good at. "I'm just being ghosted."

Alicent's brows shot up. "Someone ghosted you?" Somehow, she looked both amused and happy about that, before it settled into that patient expression that could put many at ease. "For how long?"

Rhaenyra looked away, as if in thought or as if she didn't know the answer instinctually. "Two months. I know, laugh it up."

"At least tell me that you are not hung over another guy without even a GED and a bedframe," Alicent said with an amused smile that finally brought out Rhaenyra's.

"You need to let that go," Rhaenyra said, covering her entire face with her palm. "It's embarrassing." She had given that boy nearly forty grand for him to start up his own band. It wasn't a huge sum of money for her, but certainly not easy to withdraw. She had been certain it was love, but now, Rhaenyra doubted she even understood the word.

"At least you supported his dreams to travel," Alicent said with another laugh, as both girls remembered how the dick had up and left to 'find himself' with the money that she gave him.

"f*ck that guy," Rhaenyra muttered, running a tongue across her sharp canine. "This one is different," she finally admitted, grabbing her latte again, swirling it, and reminding herself of the sloshing wine and his lips on her neck. "He's all I think about."

Alicent didn't pry further, just reached over and grabbed onto Rhaenyra's empty hand from where it rested on the table. Her grip was firm, soft, and familiar. Rhaenyra stared at it for a long moment, her heart softening ever so slightly.

"They are all the same shades of bad," Alicent whispered, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of Rhaenyra's hand. "And if he's not answering your profound messages of 'hey' or 'what's up'," Alicent continued, sending Rhaenyra a knowing smile that earned one in return. "Then the best revenge is to live your life and be happy without them. It drives them crazy to know they aren't a part of it or on your mind."

"But I am crazy and he is on my mind," Rhaenyra said carefully.

"Don't let him see that. You are a Targaryen," Alicent replied with a snort. "He is just another sheep."

Rhaenyra's lips pursed, and she found herself wanting to laugh again. Oh certainly, this might be a secret she'd take to her grave. Not that it mattered since Daemon's will was his own and he'd do whatever he wanted as he always does. Two months showed her that. It showed her that attraction did not equate to commitment or even mutual longing.

"I suppose now isn't a good time to invite you to Aegon's party, but I am going to try anyway," Alicent said with some hesitation. It immediately sent a chill into the room that even the heat of their lattes couldn't warm. Rhaenyra was aware of Alicent's hand still on hers, but somehow, she had gone numb.

"Party for what? It's not his birthday," Rhaenyra said, trying to keep her voice even.

"A celebration of family coming together," Alicent replied, her brows drawn together in that expression she made when she was nervous. "It wouldn't be right without you there and I want you to see."

"See what?" Rhaenyra said, jaw clenching.

"That I am not trying to replace Aemma and Aegon won't replace you," Alicent said, and she was a brave one for using that name when she had married her father within a year of Aemma's death.

Rhaenyra was too exhausted to express the anger that settled over her, so she merely buried it underneath everything else. "Whose coming?" Rhaenyra refused to ask exactly what she wanted, as if his name was a curse and it would drag out the tears she didn't want to shed.

Alicent's expression brightened, "It's small. I don't want to overwhelm him is all. Just immediate family and friends."

Small for a Targaryen, even a former Hightower, did not mean the same thing as it would to many others. It also didn't answer her question. "Our immediate family meaning?"

"Daemon wasn't invited," Alicent said with an exasperated roll of her eyes. "It wasn't my decision, I assure you. Viserys made the call after, well, I'm sure you heard."

"Heard what?" Rhaenyra asked, keeping her expression blank.

Alicent let go of Rhaenyra's hand to rub her temples, a move that Rhaenyra had grown accustomed to seeing associated with Daemon Targaryen. "Where do I begin? Perhaps with the DUI that our legal team spent four weeks taking care of. Or perhaps Rhea Royce."

"What about Rhea Royce?" Rhaenyra asked, her lips pursed and her blood running hot.

"Well, I don't know what the hell happened, but apparently he married her in a shotgun wedding. No point hiding it," Alicent said with a scowl. "Media is releasing a story on the morrow about a wedding to save face for a child on the way. If you believe that."

Rhaenyra wondered, later that night, how she managed to hear that with a straight face. She wondered how she managed to laugh about it as if it was all funny. It all became a blur of white-nose later when she curled up in her tub.

"Ah," was all Rhaenyra said, somehow surprised, yet not. It was a Daemon thing to do, even more so if Royce was actually pregnant, and predictably unpredictable of all, if he had done all this within days of their last interaction.

"So, yeah, that happened and Viserys is livid with the bad press," Alicent said with a tired shake of her head.

"I'll go," Rhaenyra said, eyes lidded and her voice dry. "For my father and for burying the bad blood. It seems we have enough of it."

Alicent's smile was back, and it was as warm as sizzling honey. Her eyes were watering, but she looked away to hide it. "You have no idea what that means to me."

It made Rhaenyra feel like a bit of a dick, for how little it meant to her. However, it was lucky that Rhaenyra could feel anything at all. She was a Faberge egg, just waiting to crack, but she would not in public, over a half-empty latte, and a person who was only sort of a friend.

No, she would wait until she got to her tub, where she would drip tears into the water.

Rhaenyra: hey

read 9:26 pm

Criston Cole showed up at her flat at 6 pm, on the dot, in a designer suit that she had sent to him the day after trying to kiss him. It fit him perfectly since she had an eye for that sort of thing. Rhaenyra's gaze trailed over him, unapologetically checking him out as he adjusted his lapels with an expression not unlike anxiety. Somehow, that kind expression nearly healed the repulsive weeks she had been having.

"I was expecting Harwin," Rhaenyra stated, teeth gnawing on her bottom lip as Criston's curved up.

"My apologies that you are saddled with me in his stead," he replied, watching her carefully as she motioned for him to come inside. She had yet to put on her shoes, so now her bare feet were pressed against the cool hardwood floor of her loft. The only sign of her own nerves was displayed with her left rubbing along the top of her right. "I can wait out here," he said, referring to the front porch that led to the street, near the many plants she had stacked outside to make the place feel less like a factory and more like something of hers. The only problem was apparently they needed water, and she barely drank enough herself.

Criston must have seen that, as his eyes scanned over a dying fern with an amused expression. She found she rather liked that too. It was nice, since so many things were out of her control, to find something in it. He was holding his keys, a ring of them, and she took them from him with a giggle. She stepped inside, holding them away from him.

"You are certainly in high spirits," he stated, brows drawn as she took another step back, away from where he went to reach for them.

"I'm not going to have my way with you here, Ser Cole," Rhaenyra said with a wide grin, her red dress flowing between her legs as she moved. She had it designed special, with shimmering scale-like shoulders, made with thin, leaf-like pieces of hand-crafted gold. It had long white sleeves that dropped over her arms and made her feel like a fairy. The front was not at all modest, draping down in a skin-tight design that showed off cleavage she did not have prior to breast tape.

She looked like a snack, and considering Daemon wasn't going to be here to see it, she made a note to pose extra for the paparazzi she had tipped off to be at the front steps of the country club Alicent had booked. Did it make her feel guilty for using Alicent like this? Perhaps. Would she still do it? Most definitely.

"You are in quite the mood, princess," Criston said, stepping inside and unable to hide his smile. He closed the door behind him, and Rhaenyra ran her tongue over her bottom lip before laughing.

"Do I make you nervous, Ser Cole?" Rhaenyra asked, holding out the keys and moving them out of his grasp at the last moment.

"Your father signs my checks, so forgive me for feeling reluctant about upsetting you," Criston stated, watching as both her brows raised, having not considered that he was concerned for his job. She tossed him back his keys with a laugh, watching him catch them in one hand.

"Your job is safe. Unless you try to murder me in my own home, which would be quite rude, you are not in any danger of losing anything," she said, eyes scanning down to his hand where Laena had been right. He did have an abstinence ring, which was quite hilarious since she always equated such things to Catholic white boys. The sort with daddies who were publically anti-abortion, only to send a four hundred dollar check for their mistresses to use on a planned parenthood visit.

Criston's lips raised, and he did have quite an adorable smile. It didn't make her stomach do flips, but sh*t if Rhaenyra didn't try. She wanted to try. So what if she pressed her arms together to show off more cleavage or managed to turn the simple act of tying her shoes into a sexual experience. Flirtatiousness wasn't her problem. Being desired by the one she wanted, however, seemed to be an issue.

"You say that," Criston said, running his fingers along her bookshelf near the door. His eyes didn't immediately go to the dirty manga and instead, to the many shelves of classic literature that she only kept to appear worldly. She certainly read Emily Brontë and Hemingway, but it was a chore. "But I suspect that should I knock a vase over, I'd be looking at my own severance package by the end of the week."

Rhaenyra let out another laugh, tying the shoe in graceful loops around her lower calf. They certainly weren't uncomfortable, the bare minimum for paying 8 grand for them, but she wasn't about to run laps in them. "Depends on the vase. The one next to you is from China, a private collection, and is worth half a million," she said, glancing over to the vase atop the mahogany stand. It had intricate leaf and plant details, and almost immediately Criston stepped ten feet away from it.

It was actually from Hobby Lobby, but watching the horror rise on his face made her want to cackle. She may be rich, but that didn't mean she'd spend 500k on a vase. She believed in charity and fundraisers, and her spending on something frivolous would kill public perception of her.

Also, her dad would murder her.

"Everyone should already be there. Are you ready, Ms Targaryen?" His question was a reminder that she had to meet Aegon Targaryen and pretend like a part of her didn't want to pinch his little head until it popped.She absentmindedly grabbed the gift she had gotten Alicent the day before since Rhaenyra didn't like coming empty-handed.

She stood from the couch where she still pictured straddling her uncle. She didn't look towards the wall where he had kissed her, where he had run his lips over her neck and against her pulse. She hadn't looked at that wall for two months. He literally ruined a wall for her.

"As ready as I'll ever be. I'm just glad you'll be there." Rhaenyra was a hopeless flirt, and she held out her arm for him to loop his own through. It would be nice to erase one kiss with another and perhaps she could f*ck him out of her system. It hadn't worked for the last two years, but Criston Cole was kind and handsome.

I suppose he will do,Rhaenyra thought, watching him tangle his arm into hers. He was ever the gentleman. He opened doors for her, closed them too, and he asked permission before touching her waist. They were apparently the bare minimum, but Rhaenyra hadn't seen them before.

When they reached the beautiful country club, an old building that had been touched up for centuries, she was not surprised that the press had already been waiting outside the gates. She took extra care in the stare she gave Criston as she exited the car, using the sultry, shy smile that didn't feel natural but likely looked it.

His hand was soft in her own, if not for the slight callouses on his fingertips. Her thigh was exposed as she stepped out of the black car, the slit showing off her black fishnets. It was not a coincidence that she had the car park in such a way so the press would capture her good angle. "You done posing?" Criston asked as he looped his arm through her own.

"Aren't you observant?" Rhaenyra retorted with a bright laugh as she rested her head against his shoulder for a moment. The stone path was decorated with an archway of towering roses and daisies, vines carefully crafted to loop around each stone arch. There were some family from afar, distant Baratheon cousins, Velaryons, some Hightowers and Martells, but there were only four true Targaryens. Despite what her uncle believed, Aegon counted as a fourth. That was the problem and it wouldn't get better whether she hated him or not.

It was certainly not a small gathering as Alicent had said it would be.

They entered the venue, an old, rather plantation-looking building that certainly added a degree of scrutiny associated with the Targaryen name considering they owned it. It had huge windows and double staircases. The furniture looked as if it had been plucked from the 1800s, with antique floral arrangements and designs.

Alicent came straight at her with a bright yet slightly stressed smile on her face. "Rhaenyra! I am so glad you are here. Thank you Mr Cole for bringing her."

Rhaenyra watched Alicent basically shoo away her future booty call, much to Rhaenyra's irritation. She refused to show it and instead forced a smile for her stepmom. "It's awful Rhae," Alicent said, looping her arm through Rhaenyra's and steering her through the crowd of distant cousins, all sucking up for inheritance or networking for their own children. "The caterer brought the wrong number of hors d'oeuvres, the placement cards on the tables were supposed to be in Luxia, but instead they were printed in Cleopatra. It looks like a renaissance fair. Worst of all, the press is all outside so I know someone tipped them off."

Guilty,Rhaenyra thought, stretched too thin to be remorseful about something so small. Rhaenyra held the little gift in her hands, offering it to Alicent. It was unwrapped since her friend abhorred anything given to her that she could not see. Alicent sent Rhaenyra a surprised, yet grateful smile as she grasped the little clear box that held a gold and emerald bracelet. "I wasn't sure-" Rhaenyra began with an uncertain padding of her fingers down her arm.

"I love it," Alicent said, swallowing thick and carefully taking the bracelet from the casing, leaving the clear glass box atop one of the tables. Rhaenyra might have put it on her in the past, finding any reason to touch her. Those days were blurring and Rhaenyra's hands did not move when Alicent latched the bracelet around her wrist.

She walked them over to one of the tables, which read Velaryon, and there, written in a Greek-looking font, was Corlys Velaryon's name. It didn't seem like a big deal, but Rhaenyra wasn't about to say that and turn Alicent's wrath on her.

"It's classy," Rhaenyra said dryly, searching for the bar without moving her head.

"It's awful. This is supposed to be Aegon's day, and now look at the mess," Alicent said, and even as she forced Rhaenyra to look around, she saw nothing amiss. The decorations were immaculate with gorgeous twinkling lights and flowers that looked real but were actually made of hand-crafted glass that lit up from the sepals.

"He won't remember it," Rhaenyra said carefully, and now Alicent scowled at her.

"There will be pictures and videos. He'll know," Alicent said, and Rhaenyra nodded with a fake apology, regardless of how Rhaenyra doubted whether he was 2 or 40, he'd never care about the font.

"Where's the bar?" Rhaenyra finally asked, determined not to spend this entire night sober. She didn't want to get smashed, but a single shot to take the edge off wasn't going to kill anyone.

Alicent snorted, walking them both towards the next room, looping around tables where a glowing 'D' shaped bar came into view. "Once we get you some wine, you'll meet Aegon."

"No wine," Rhaenyra said quickly, even as her heart panged against her ribcages. She was trying so hard to appear normal, even once she passed a small group of old women, of differing families, gossiping about the shotgun wedding and a possible bastard in the bride's belly. No names were mentioned, but Rhaenyra was no fool. Or maybe this was all happening because she was.

"Two Pisco Sours please," Alicent said, her smile slowly coming back. The bartender, a young-looking kid, smiled and got to work.

"Where's dad?" Rhaenyra finally asked, wondering if she'd like a Pisco Sour. Alicent liked to take control of the small things, which was no problem for Rhaenyra since she seemed to be getting much of her life wrong.

"He was chatting with Corlys last I saw," Alicent said, leaning her back against the bar, the band from the other room reaching them in soft lounge-style tunes. "It's all business for them, no matter the occasion. I wouldn't fault you if you wanted to join."

Sure you wouldn't,Rhaenyra thought, leaning on the bar next to Alicent. She thought again about Daemon's words, about Otto and Alicent and the idea on a manipulation of a marriage. She thought about it for approximately two seconds before deciding f*ck Daemon. "I'd rather spend time with you. We have both become different women, so perhaps it's time to get know each other again."

Alicent's eyes watered, making Rhaenyra feel like a dick for the cold shoulder that she had once felt completely justified. Perhaps it was, but Rhaenyra hardly knew what was right anymore. "I'd like that," Alicent said, wiping her palm across her face, under her eyes. "I'm sorry. I think it's the hormone imbalance. After Aegon, I have been a wreck."

Rhaenyra reached over, wiping the back of her hand over Alicent's cheek with a smile, one elbow still propped on the bar behind her as she stared at her ex-best friend. There wasn't a word for what they were now, but she hoped to one day find it. She pulled away, wiping away the tear. "I missed you."

Alicent smiled, grabbing Rhaenyra's hand in both of her own, and kissing it swiftly. "It's been difficult without you. Everyone is always looking for an angle. I used to just slip right under these people and they never noticed I was there. Now, it's like they are all waiting for me to mess up. I am no longer Alicent Hightower, and who I am now I do not know."

Rhaenyra listened, trying to find ill will or terrible intentions, but she only saw Alicent. It was getting increasingly difficult to hate her, but somehow, complete forgiveness felt like a weakness. She was either bitter or weak and lost either way.

The sours were finished, a foamy co*cktail with a layer of egg white and lime juice. Rhaenyra took a sip and shrugged, taking a longer one. She wanted wine. She wanted Daemon.

She wanted to hit him with her car. And then maybe her mouth. Whichever suited her at the moment.

"They've always been like that," Rhaenyra said, now turning to her side to face Alicent. She rested her head against her palm, her elbow sliding against the bar. "You see Laena over there, talking to Enith Martell?" Alicent turned to look over her shoulder, not at all conspicuously, making Rhaenyra laugh. Truly the worst gossip, I'll have to reteach her, Rhaenyra thought with raised brows.

Enith and Laena were laughing, sharing a combined joke, likely talking about medicine considering Enith just started her residency. "What about them?" Alicent asked, staring at the two who looked to be the best of friends.

"She started the rumour that Laena is a hermaphrodite," Rhaenyra said with a roll of her eyes, watching as Alicent's face contorted in self-righteous fury.

"What for?" Alicent asked, now leaning closer to finally whisper. Not a complete lost cause,Rhaenyra thought with a smile.

"The socialites don't need a reason to bring down each other. We do it because we are bored and we can," Rhaenyra said with a shrug, taking another sip of her drink. Alicent looked uncomfortable but intrigued nonetheless.

"You don't partake in such baseless rumours, do you?" The music changed to a softer melody at Alicent's question.

"I'll do it to Enith Martell," Rhaenyra said with a shrug, her blank gaze passing over the tall woman, built like an Amazon, and back towards Laena, who grinned and waved at her.

Alicent pursed her lips, as if in deep thought. "I suppose if it's for a good cause," she finally agreed, and both girls finally laughed.

"Come on, I suppose it's time to meet your son," Rhaenyra said, only once she downed her drink and ordered another. If Alicent looked giddy before, the mention of Aegon made her lips spread into a grin. She practically dragged Rhaenyra towards the boy being held in the arms of a nanny.

Aegon had the Targaryen's signature silver hair, his eyes a deep lilac, and a smile that looked like her father's. Rhaenyra watched with an awkward shuffle from foot to foot as Alicent lifted him into her arms, where he screeched like he was being murdered and different guests turned their heads and lifted their noses. Alicent's face fell, trying to rock him.

The baby was sohugethat Rhaenyra glanced in between him and the width of Alicent's narrow pelvis in horror.

"He's not usually so rowdy," Alicent defended, but Rhaenyra spotted the nanny's side eye that said it all. The baby continued to cry and the band's voice barely hid it.

"Do you want to take him for a walk around the gardens?" Rhaenyra suggested, and Alicent sent her a grateful smile that lit up the room.

So that was how Rhaenyra ended up spending her Saturday, watching her first crush/new mom, breastfeed her half-brother in her real mother's favourite country club in New York. Her mother was even the one to add the gardens they stood in.

Rhaenyra took a long drink from her mojito, just to cover the laugh.

"I am so sorry," Alicent said, sitting on the stone bench as Aegon went to town on her left nipple. Rhaenyra watched in horror as he engulfed it, nearly half the breast in his mouth. "Why are you looking at it like that, it's natural."

"He's literally making my nipples hurt," Rhaenyra said, watching as Alicent picked off a rose from the bush beside her and chucked it at her.

"You are so immature," Alicent said, but she was smiling, clutching Aegon to her with the love that only a mother could have. Somehow, it made the sadness only rise in Rhaenyra.

"Were you scared?" Rhaenyra finally asked, gnawing on her bottom lip. She was leaning against the pillar, balancing on her heels as her bare back slid against the stone. The cool air was a relief to the stifling party, although the noise still reached them from here. "Of, you know, the process?"

Alicent's eyes softened with her palm against the back of Aegon's head, stroking the bits of white hair from his tiny scalp. "I was terrified. I was there too, Rhaenyra. I know it wasn't my mother, but, and you might not believe me, but I loved her too." Rhaenyra bit her tongue, trying to steady it, to listen and not just react. "I was so scared that I wouldn't make it either."

It was a rare thing to die during childbirth these days, but Rhaenyra had seen the blood, the swollen belly, and the pained cries. It stuck with her, even after all this time. "I don't want children," Rhaenyra said, watching Alicent's hand still on the baby's head.

"I hope you change your mind," Alicent said carefully. "It was terrifying, but when I saw him, all the pain that brought him into this world just," Alicent paused, her eyes far away. "Fell away."

"Do you love him?" Rhaenyra asked, looking down into her glass, half empty and filled with mint.

"Aegon? Of course," Alicent said with a laugh.

"No. My father," Rhaenyra said, glancing up at her in time to see Alicent's eyes dart to the left as if the question required consideration.

"I do," she said carefully, and maybe it was the truth, maybe Rhaenyra wanted it to be. Maybe, after her mother, she wanted her dad to be with someone who loved him with his every breath, if not to ease the pain. "It's a love that isn't always easy, Rhaenyra, but despite what gossips and snakes would say, it is true."

Rhaenyra nodded, drowning the last of her mojito. "Good. Good," she said, repeating it again, even as her eyes began to water. "I'm glad."

Alicent's bottom lip trembled, but she sniffed twice as if to stop anything from falling. "He loves you, you know. So much." Alicent laughed, dabbing her eyes with her fingertips. "You should hear how he talks about you."

"I know," Rhaenyra said carefully, sniffing. "Talking about me has never been his problem."

Alicent's jaw clenched, her eyes clouding with conflicting emotions, all merging together and transforming into a heavy silence. It lingered between them, a wound still bleeding, and something that words on their own wouldn't heal. "Do you think I could be alone for a while?" Alicent said slowly, softly, and Rhaenyra glanced up from her glass. "It's such a rarity these days. Just him and I."

Rhaenyra nodded, taking a deep breath and walking up to Alicent. She reached forward, placing a soft kiss on her perfumed head, the brown curly strands were soft on both her palms as she held her head. "Despite it all," Rhaenyra said, pulling away. "I do want your happiness. That was never in question."

Alicent sniffed again with a grateful nod, and Rhaenyra left her there, amongst the garden that her real mother had nurtured.

"This family is so f*cked," Rhaenyra muttered, reaching into the glass to pull out the mint. She took a bite, her heels clicking against the cobblestones as she forced her feet back to the party.

She spotted Criston, surrounded by her prettiest cousins, all giggling. Shame for Criston that they were all underage, grandchild, and children alike. She watched from the entrance to the club, watched his disquietude like that of a man who didn't fully know himself. It was a nice change.

She cut in front of her Baratheon cousins with a smile. "Don't you three have to catch the school bus in the morning?"

"I don't know," said Brya Baratheon, fifth cousin if Rhaenyra's mental family tree was accurate. Hard to keep track at this point. "Don't you have to catch the hospice bus at seven? Hate to see you miss your bedtime."

Rhaenyra and Brya, the fifteen-year-old nightmare, stared at one another for a moment before Rheanyra let out a sudden laugh. "That was a good one."

"You're an old one," piped up Lucy Baratheon, a year younger than her sister.

"Don't help me," Brya said, rolling her eyes as Lucy flushed.

"I like you three, but scram or I'll tell your grandfather about the cannabis in your bags," Rhaenyra said, leaning on one hip as she crossed her arms. She did not, in fact, like them. Rhaenyra found it hard to like Brya after the 2017 incident where she slid right up into her DMs just to devastate her life. Certainly, Rhaenyra enjoyed the banter, but if there was ever a house fire and she could only save two items, Rhaenyra would go back inside for her shoes before she would her cousin.

"You narc," Brya said, scowling and turning her head back to Criston. "I'll be 18 in a few years. You should hit me up."

"No thank you," Criston said, looking as if he wanted to disappear. Rhaenyra's lips thinned to keep from laughing.

"Your loss," the thirteen-year-old Lucy chimed, and Brya scowled at her.

"Shut up," Brya snapped as she grabbed her sisters and dragged them away.

"Three years till eighteen, in case you're wondering," Rhaenyra told him in a teasing tone that made the gallant Criston Cole scowl at her.

"That's disgusting," he muttered, staring up at the ceiling as if he were trying to wipe the entire interaction from his memory.

"It's rather romantic, how one waits for love to bloom," Rhaenyra continued to tease.

"You're so lucky I am paid to stay here with you," he told her, glancing back down at her.

"You're lucky I saved you from jailbait," Rhaenyra shot back. "However will you reward me?"

Criston's lips twitched up before he was serious once more. It was like pulling teeth with this one, Rhaenyra thought with slight annoyance.

"What do you want, Rhaenyra, really?" Criston finally asked, his voice in a whisper. The question was for her, and she wished that it did something for her. She needed to feel the fire, any fire, from anyone really.

"I want a redo," Rhaenyra answered, grabbing his arm with a sly smirk. She carefully led him out towards the gardens, aware that others were watching, but they always would. She wanted them to see, she wanted them to whisper, she wanted everyone to talk, because one right whisper was all it took for Daemon to hear. For him to hear that she could move on too and that she'd do it better.

Criston was silent as they made their way down the opposite side of the gardens, away from where Alicent enjoyed her time with her son. Rhaenyra didn't want to interrupt that, but she also didn't want to be interrupted.

"A redo?" Criston asked, now that they were away from family and wandering ears who wouldn't take kindly to her talking so flirtatiously with someone of low birth.

"I am a fantastic kisser," Rhaenyra said, letting him go with a smile as she walked over to the ferns that her mother had grown from seedlings. She stroked the leaves, her fingers making their way down individual ones. "It's just a shame you didn't see it at its best, and you were the one who said to wait till daylight," she reminded him, now looking over her shoulder to meet his warm stare.

"It's actually quite dark out," Criston said, referring to the moonlight and the many twinkling lights as the only brightness that lit up the garden.

Rhaenyra grinned, "well, you're quite right. So you are going to make me wait?" Rhaenyra let out a laugh, now standing up straight to face him again. Her heels clicked against the cobblestones. "And they say I'm high maintenance."

She met his eyes, biting her bottom lip. He looked conflicted, uncertain, and yet there was a spark there, a dim one, but maybe she could catch it if she touched him. She was smiling as she grabbed his hand with a grin. She lugged him down the path, and his fingers felt light in hers as she led them to the circular greenhouse. "This is my favourite place," she told him, and she swiftly went to open the door, but he was quicker.

He opened it for her, holding it for her to enter.

"You don't have to be a gentleman all the time, ser Cole," she told him with a smile, entering. The inside was pure glass windows, a small well in the middle, surrounded by plants and life and the smells of many flowers. The hard stone slabs were her favourite, having picked them out herself.

"Perhaps I won't, if I have to hear your mocking of it," Criston said with a snort. She grinned at him, walking over to the azaleas that the gardeners were somehow keeping alive considering they had been dying when she brought them. She reached forward, sniffing them.

"I'm not," she said slowly, uncertain for a moment. "Mocking that is. I think it's rather sweet, if not old-fashioned."

"I wouldn't say that," Criston stated, walking to the opposite side of the greenhouse, where the succulents rested against the stone slabs. "You just have a talent for walking into a room and walking out with the worst pick."

Rhaenyra straightened, turning to look at him from over her shoulder. "Are you insulting my taste in men?"

"I've worked for you and your father for ten years, princess," Criston said, giving her a sideways glance. "I've seen your cultivated tastes."

Rhaenyra walked around the well in the middle, her fingertips dragging along the greenery as she smiled. She stopped in front of him. "You should mind your words because you are my cultivated taste."

Criston stared down at her, glancing toward the open greenhouse door.

The silence stretch, open and bare. She stared up at him, languid and airy as she pressed her fingertips to his wrist and feathered her fingertips up the length of his forearm. He watched her with slow blinks, and when he let out a deep breath, she followed it with a nearly nervous smile that made her angry. She wasn't supposed to be the one uncertain or apprehensive, so she pushed it all down.

Criston was staring up in such a way that she thought she lost him. Then, his hands were on her face, cupping her cheeks. He paused, just before reaching her lips, his gaze on her own, and in that pause, she closed her eyes and she felt him. Criston kissed as if there was a punctuation mark at the end of a beautiful sentence, with his resolute pause in both breath and time. He was contemplative and scrupulous, his hands sliding from her arms, down and up, as reverent and amazed at the touch.

His head tilted, leaning into her at an easier angle.

She placed her hand on his chest, sliding up to cup the back of his neck, closing her eyes tighter as her nails dug into his skin and pulled him closer. They separated, eyes heavy and their breaths unsteady.

He pulled away first, turning around as if to walk away.Her brows drew in, her lips still tingling from his kiss as she watched him. Oh if one more man walks away from me, I am going to check into f*cking rehab,she thought with rising panic, brief when she spotted him shut the greenhouse door, locking it.

Two steps towards her, and his mouth hit hers, a tad less gentle, if not for the way his hands lovingly stroked through her hair. He walked her backwards, her arms wrapping around his neck in a tight embrace as she felt his hands against her back, pressing against her, but not touching her dress's zipper.

She pulled away, her hands still on his face. "You can do whatever you like," she said, her thumb dusting back and forth against the smooth skin of his cheek.

She watched his eyes drag down the red gown, a gorgeous and expensive thing. "I don't want to rip it," he admitted, and slowly her lips spread into a smile, a laugh escaping.

She took a step back from him, her heels clicking along the slabs of rock. She reached behind her, carefully unzipping the side. She did it slowly, her eyes not moving from his as her hands went to the front of her dress where she gripped the small tie that kept it together. She slowly tugged, letting it glide down her shoulders. The golden, armour-like scales were cold in their descent as she slid off the sleeves.

He watched her, reverently, carefully, purposefully, as she slipped out of the dress, letting it hit the ground at her feet.

He knelt before her, grabbing it from the ground where he stared up at her. It wasn't unlike a bow, and she didn't quite hate it. He draped the dress on one of the plants, before his hands touched her calves, sliding up the fishnet stockings.

She watched them glide up, trying to stare into his eyes and see him. He reached the top, and she felt him slowly tug down the stockings, his lips against her thigh as he slid them down, further and further.

She tried to see him, she tried to see only him when his tongue slid up, and up and up. But he was correct in his observations.

Rhaenyra Targaryen never chose the good ones and Criston's face was a contorted kaleidoscope, drifting further and further away.

Chapter 8: So You Say

Chapter Text

ｅｉｇｈｔ

𝓈𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒶𝓎

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Time ate away at many things: it would bring rust to metal, cause a beautiful flower to become shrivelled and dead, age an animal towards decay. Aemma Targaryen hadn't been taken by time or decay or anything that could slowly set in like rot. It had been sudden and random and over. The pain, however, was left behind for others, which was susceptible to the increase of time. It withered her daughter, and on the day of the funeral, there had been little else but skin and bone and a thin layer of blood left.

Rhaenyra had gone through the motions, unable to remember where each step was supposed to go. She had sat through the sermon, her father just next to her, however, he might as well have never left the hospital. Instead, the stranger next to her hadn't so much as looked at her for a week. And the pain had yet to settle, rotting away at her insides as she sat, staring into nothing, hearing nothing, and drifting further and further away.

She followed the crowd, ignoring the sympathies of family that she could barely see.

"So you say,"Aemma had told her, the last words she'd ever hear her mom speak.

The memory was a broken thing, which was how she found herself leaning her entire weight against the church, taking deep breaths as if it would chase away the decay. She slid down the church, her back scraping against the wood as her hair dragged a moment behind, falling over her face until it draped around her. Her black dress fell down her thighs, but she didn't care about modesty or much of anything at all. She just stared into nothing, as if she could will herself to merge with it.

When she closed her eyes, she remembered her mother sitting at the edge of the white-sheeted hospital bed with the muscle in her arms taut as she gripped the linen. She had tried not to scream. She had tried to hold in sound for her daughter, but her teeth clenched together so hard that they might have cracked and Rhaenyra would never know. Then, Rhaenyra would open her eyes, and her mother was gone and she was the one with taut muscles, gripping blades of grass as if they'd somehow burrow deeper to hold her strength.

Alicent approached, carefully, as if she were a wounded animal. Rhaenyra barely saw her, barely saw anything. "Hey," she whispered, stroking down the length of Rhaenyra's hair. It should have been comforting, but Rhaenyra was a living ghost, this dead thing above ground. "Sweetheart, the guests are leaving now and your dad needs you," Alicent whispered, and the way he spoke to her, like she was this fragile thing, only seemed to make the pain grow.

She came to get away, but it seemed she couldn't get a moment to grieve in peace.

"I'll take it from here, Alicent." The grass Daemon walked on was new and she could smell the sweet scent that clung to his suit as he stood before the two girls. Alicent, reluctant, and Rhaenyra, indifferent. Whether it was her uncle or Satan himself before her, she'd let them eat her whole, just so she could disappear.

"Are you sure?" Alicent whispered, uncertainty clinging to her as much as the grass clung to Rhaenyra's dress.

"It's alright," Daemon stated, not bothering to kneel down to Rhaenyra's height. He didn't approach her like she was this wild thing, and instead, held out his hand as if to say, 'are you done?'

Rhaenyra stared at it for a long moment and blinked languidly as she finally placed her palm into his. Alicent let out a relieved sigh and ran her hand up Rhaenyra's arm. "Call me when you can or when you wish to."

Rhaenyra only nodded, unable to find words or express thoughts. However, the night seemed to be made of silence, as even the crunching of her shoes against fallen leaves and cars along the pavement behind them all sounded as soft as raindrops. It was a small reprieve, likely the only one she'd get.

The rowan tree's leaves had a graceful sway as if they were speaking to her as he led her to them. Her dad still stood there, alone. She might not have been able to approach had her uncle not placed his hand on the small of her back, had not rubbed circles up, his face for once holding the slightest hint of sorrow. It was unlike her father, who had yet to speak to her, even as she stood near him. There were two urns at the base of the tree, and as she walked closer, the soft white flowers brushed along her arm like a whisper.

Her hand trembled as it raised to her face, her eyes heavy with the need to close them. Her father was fifteen steps away, but he seemed farther than that and Rhaenyra hardly knew how to reach him. When Daemon had leaned in, his hand scooting to rest upon her shoulder, she was already close to the tears she didn't want to shed.

When Daemon spoke, it was in Valyrian, soft and for her, "You don't have to do it alone, but you will have to do it. Your father needs you."

Rhaenyra stared at the swaying leaves and the urn of the baby brother whom her mother's sacrifice was made for. "I will never be a son, but I can show respect to the one he wanted. Send off what my mother traded her life for," Rhaenyra whispered, stepping out of her uncle's palm, barely hearing the crunching under her feet as she carefully bent down and lifted her little brother's urn.

It was gold with specs of red, and light considering the sacrifice that had been so heavy. Rhaenyra's breath shook as she opened it, dropping the lid to the ground as her arm fell limply to her side. The guests had gone, leaving her immediate family with this privacy, but she still felt as if the world was crowding her. She turned over the urn, allowing the ashes to scatter around the tree as she slowly made a circle around it.

She wasn't breathing at the end, wasn't able to feel the leaves and little flowers brush along her face. Everything was going numb and she was there with it.

She placed the empty ern carefully in its place. Her hands shook when she grabbed her mother's, holding it in her flat palms. It was a mirror of her little brother's, but despite the size of her heart or the intensity of her laugh and the strength of her embrace, the urn was as light as a feather. Her eyes were on her father, who was staring at the rowan trees, breathing heavily and swaying. Her bottom lip trembled as she opened the lid, and just as she almost lost her grip on it, Daemon carefully wrapped his hand around hers and took it from her.

It was a featherlight touch, but the first one she felt all day.

She didn't look at him, she just tipped the urn and began to walk. Her vision grew blurry with each step, bits of ashes swept away in the wind. She could feel some of it in her lungs, clouding her vision all the more. She was staggering by the time she made the circle, and once she was done, her father had turned and walked away, his steps swift down the hill.

Her hands were trembling, her eyes watering as her lips finally opened to let out a small and shaking breath. She was on the verge of losing her grip as she knelt down and set the urn next to her brothers. She had to brace her hands on her knees to get back up, her bottom lip quivering with each shaking breath.

She heard the first step fall into the second until she was swept up in a tight embrace. She could smell the grass and the sweet rowan flowers clinging onto Daemon's suit as her face settled into his neck. His arms were tightly wound around her and she barely remembered the movement of her arms to clutch his back, only that the motion was instinctual. She was now all too aware of the frost that stiffened her hair, crunching in his grasp. She was aware of the biting cold that settled over her skin since the beginning. Each part of her was coming back, coming alive, and each piece was in agony.

The sun had already begun to set, and the bits of orange and red on the horizon draped the fertile landscape as if the colours were a damp sheet, hanging over the trees to dry. She saw them all as her arms tightened around him. His body kept her organs from ripping out, circling the tree with her family so she could never leave them.

She closed her eyes shut, feeling his face in her neck, holding her, washing away the emptiness, and filling it with pain.

Rhaenyra put a portrait up on the wall where Daemon had kissed her and called it healing. It was a piece she had picked out at an art gallery the week before last, a gorgeous blend of oil paints that made up shapes and squiggles and designs not unlike that of a woman.

If Rhaenyra squinted, she could make out the long legs, bent out of proportion yet somehow fitting into the piece so seamlessly. The arms were wiry things, holding out in different directions. It was, according to many of the other attendees, a unique and priceless work.

In hindsight, it creeped her out when she waddled through her place in the dead of night, just to see its beady eyes and twisted limbs staring back at her. She wasn't, however, about to take it down because healing and it was notpriceless. Instead, it was24K of her daddy's money. She told her dad she loved it, absently, not really meaning it because she hadn't been listening when he was talking. Instead, she had been checking her phone, scrolling through random numbers who somehow found her own, sliding into her DMs. Of course, none from who she wanted, but three from Criston Cole.

It's not like she was ghosting him, but his messages made her nauseated. They ranged from 'you looked beautiful today' to 'you've been studying all day, would you like me to bring you lunch.' When she told Laenor her plight during brunch, he had just slid his eyes up to her with a scowl.

"Oh, I'm so sorry that a nice, successful, and handsome man cares about you. Boo hoo," Laenor told her, shaking his head back and forth. "What do women even want?"

She thought she knew what she wanted, but it had been four months now and she shifted between varying emotions in her attempt to quit fixating on every last word and gesture he ever made for the entirety of her life. She even signed herself back into Twitter, just to see updates for his comings and goings from her friendly neighbourhood stalkers. She promptly logged back out, hating that he could consume her mind from a distance.

When the first scandal came about that her uncle was cheating on his new wife with a model by the familiar name of Mysaria, Rhaenyra had stared at the photos of them seen together for nearly twenty minutes, scrolling in and out to spot any sign that the image was old. Her father hadn't minded the cheating, but what he had minded was this same uncle taking Mysaria to Dragonstoneas an unofficial honeymoon for a couple not married. That had successfully chipped away something fragile in Rhaenyra's heart, shattering it at the thought that he'd dare take some random woman to her home. That he had f*cked this woman in her ancestrial home.

Daemon's second slight to his brother had been his actions in shutting down the green energy company by the name of SunCo with new trade restrictions. An ingenious work of red tape. A normal occurrence except the business had been funded by Viserys, and now he was out millions that only went straight to her uncle.

"There's nothing wrong with messages," Rhaenyra admitted, glancing in between Laenor and Laena Velaryon. "Obviously it's nice to hear how gorgeous I am."

"Then what's the problem? Was he bad in bed?" Laena asked, and Rhaenyra breathed out through her nose, already feeling as if she wouldn't be able to pass a Bechdel Test.

"Not exactly. I just need some new contracts signed by Monday," her father said, now letting out a frustrated sigh. "And your uncle has refused to answer any of my assistant's calls."

"Have you tried calling?" Rhaenyra said carefully, knowing the subject was a sensitive one, but she also knew Daemon quite well. It didn't help her in the end and she still dreamed of him most nights.

Her father was silent on the other end, which solidified her suspicion that he had Otto Hightower attempt to handle this amicably. She snorted, the very idea a ridiculous one. Her father had better luck getting her uncle's attention by burning down his Noho penthouse. She was nearly ready to suggest it, but halted the rising impulse for arson.

"I won't be speaking to him," Viserys said with a harsh fire in his voice that only Daemon could arise from her father. Rhaenyra glanced at herself through the mirror, one hand leaning against the sink with an expression that was not hers. Whoever this person was, Rhaenyra wasn't certain if she liked her. "Considering he had ignored my other attempts, I thought it might be worth a try sending you."

Rhaenyra hung her head, attempting to control the breathing that came out staggered. She didn't know what she was expecting. They were family, and she'd have no choice but to see him eventually. She had just been hoping it wouldn't be like this. It would be in a crowded room, where she was given the singular option of acting as if nothing had happened.

"He won't listen to me either, dad," Rhaenyra said carefully, keeping all her secrets hidden from her voice. Those feelings had an impressive ability to diffuse back inside her like she was a f*cking membrane.

"Nonsense," Viserys said, brushing off her complaint as if she was talking crazy and because he had no idea the terrible implications of what he was asking of her. If he did know, there was likely no mending the brother's relationship that was deteriorating before her eyes. "He's always been quite fond of you. It might be just enough for us to come to terms."

She put herself on mute, letting out a loud groan while tapping her head against the sink as she attempted to control the trepidation and foreboding that was lighting beneath her skin. She felt like a matchbook, and certainly not one who would survive the inevitable combustion. What was she supposed to even say to get out of it? Her father seldomly ever gave her any responsibilities on her own. It was as if he named her heir, set to take over the companies when he stepped down but refused to let her show him she could. Would he think her an emotional child should she disagree now?

She unmuted herself, swallowing all of it down, "Fax me the documents. I'll look over them and bring them by his place." Maybe if she walked with pedestrian entitlement, she could get hit by a car on the way. The possibilities were limitless in Connecticut or New York.

So, instead of enjoying brunch with her cousins, one of which she never got to see, she was instead rushing home to grab the contracts faxed over. And yeah, maybe she changed into a more professional outfit, maybe she made certain to wear her hottest pencil skirt, and yeah, she probably didn't need to put on perfume or reapply her makeup.

She had a two-hour drive to unravel the knot in her stomach, but each mile was met with more string, tangling around and around until it had grown so large in the base of her belly that there wasn't room for anything else. By the time she pulled up to the penthouse and approached the entryway, she prayed he wasn't home. Those same hopes were battling against the desire to see him that only furthered the shame that added more string around the fibrous knot.

The doorway man who stood in the grand entryway was polite, greeting her with respect before confirming that Daemon Targaryen was in fact in the building. Rhaenyra wanted to go to the roof and toss herself off of it. So, now, she was trying not to pace back and forth, waiting for the older gentleman to tell her that her uncle was going to send her away.

She didn't know how she'd react if he did or if there'd be a relationship left to salvage. What trust she had in him was dwindling down to its last kindling. She thought it would be extinguished for good when the older man told her, "He said you may come up. I'll open the elevator for you."

The older man pressed a few keys on his computer, and she watched the golden elevator with solid iron doors slowly open. Rhaenyra walked into the lift, feeling as if she were walking straight into the jaws of a dragon. She stood still, taking calming breaths, already so exhausted that she felt soluble. It was as if she were so insubstantial that she had begun to evaporate into the air, not made of flesh and blood, but instead, vapour and fog.

And, of course, the elevator doors had to open eventually, even if she wasn't at all ready. She watched them as if in slow motion, revealing the pristine entryway to her uncle's penthouse. She exhaled, stepping inside where the light hit every angle from the windows. Every wall was filled with windows on the first floor, overlooking Noho so long as the blinds remained open. As it was, most were closed, and the chestnut floor was half obstructed in shadow as her heels clicked against it. The entire room was exposed, revealing a rather desolate home, with modern furniture of light beige. It was likely Daemon hadn't picked out a thing since he has said he had little time for something so frivolous.

His interior decorator certainly needed a raise, but Rhaenyra almost immediately felt sick at the notion of where she was standing. The huff she let out was a derisive one, with her clutching the folder of the contracts to her side and walking closer to the staircase with glass railings. The surrounding entry steps to the stairs were made of marble, designed to look like iron. The panels that led up the stairs were that light chestnut and must have been newly waxed considering she nearly slipped.

She climbed up, past the living shrubbery that was on each side, leading up. She spotted another empty floor at the top, but her legs moved for her, remembering the place from the co*cktail parties where she'd stayed to one side of the home, new to the feelings for Daemon back then.

She nearly smiled at the memory of her avoidance, as if there was ever a chance of these feelings going away just by never talking to him. It didn't matter. Even with these last few months without him, she still felt him.

She walked near the piano, running her hands along the wood, its soft touch beneath her skin. She dragged her hand over the fallboard, hating the tears slamming against the backs of her eyes when she closed them and sat down. She placed both her hands against the fallboard, her long nails clicking against the wood as she pushed it up, sliding it into place to reveal the keys beneath.

Her long, silver hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders when she moved, and the dark had eased a little as the clouds began to uncover the sun, allowing it to shine through the large windows as it lit the threads of her lacy scarf, tied loosely around her neck. That light turns a soft pink, fading into a light yellow. It creeps against her, against her hands that hover over the keys when she brushes along each one, careful to not make a sound.

Slowly she pressed on a key, noting its lack of usual richness as she moved on to the next, hearing the pitch cut into a shifting sharpness when she held the ivory down.

"Never had a problem making yourself at home," Daemon's voice rang out through the empty silence, shattering it with noise so loud that she nearly didn't hear her own scramble to close the fall board. It slammed shut on her fingers and she let a small sound, nearly a squeak, looking away from him and up towards the ceiling. Her brows drew together in pain as her lips pressed against one another to hide any noise.

She felt his voice like a soft caress on her skin or the crinkle of his suit as it was fisted in between her fingers, clutching him to her. It held a darkness in it and one that hovered rather close to the chestnut wood beneath her, as if she had to lower herself just to hear it. It reverberated inside her, but she only stood from the piano, refusing to lower herself once more.

"It needs tuning," she said, not looking at him as she grabbed the contracts. In and out,she reminded herself, the back of her calves sliding against the bench when she finally faced him.

Daemon looked well in his element, his amusem*nt dark as he leaned against the doorway, the light half obstructing him from the partly closed blinds. He was stunning, with white sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the cotton button-up tucked into grey striped pants that rested on his hips. She stared at every part of him, from the brown belt to the black dress shoes. His hair was styled to be mostly pushed back, but little strands had cupped his temples in a way that made her want to run her fingers through them.

"You would find something to criticize within five minutes of arriving," he said, his lips twitching up as his shoulder continued to rest on the entryway.

She wouldn't laugh. She wouldn't fall back into teasing banter and if he expected her to, then he respected her far less than she thought.

She walked closer, aware of his dark eyes scanning her every approaching movement. "Dad sent me." She held out the contracts. "Sign please."

He clicked his tongue, his gaze barely grazing across the folder of contracts on the green energy deal with SunCo. It seemed like her father had been reaching his limit on Daemon's promises of renewable energy, just to turn around and buy out smaller green companies and shut them down. Viserys talked about making a cleaner future, one that she would inherit. Daemon said he'd be dead anyway in that future, and there was money to be made now.

"Dreams don't make men richer, Rhaenyra," Daemon said with a smirk, not bothering to grab the folder. Even the way he said her name slid across her skin like warm oil. She walked with two girls, battling for dominance: one who bit her tongue and let him have his way, and another who was fearless. Where the hell had the other gone?

"Sign the documents so I can go home," she said, taking a step closer, digging her brave girl out from the claws of the coward.

"Is that mutually exclusive? If so, it's surely going to be a long night. I have a guest bedroom," Daemon said with a quick smile and even quicker wit that reminded her of the compulsion to hit him with her car. As if he saw the violence in her expression, his own became darker.

"Do you? I thought that was for your wife. Or maybe your mistress. It's so hard to keep track," she snapped, ready to claw his eyes out.

"Don't be silly. On Saturdays we share a bed," he said, his voice low and deep, a grumble of a sound that made visions of his lips on her neck resurface. He hesitated, perhaps seeing the heat between them, ever the flammable sort, and he pushed off from the doorway. He let her see nothing more on his vacant expression when he walked around her, yanking the folder from her grasp. His shoulder grazed her own in the passing before his steps halted. He paused,his stare scanning down her white blouse, which hung off her chest in a bow, but his attention and his fingers traced the pendant he gave her. There and gone. He moved past her.

"I suppose there are advantages to sharing a bed. Mandatory cuddling and all that might do you well," Rhaenyra said, closing her eyes briefly to breathe him in. "Your father probably hugged you less than mine."

She was hit with his unique smell, a mixture of cologne and chemistry that went into creating a creature that would destroy her. It turned on all five of her god damned senses until she could practically hear the sounds he made when he kissed her, when she tasted him, touched his naked body, and felt his hungry kiss as he f*cked her.

"Someone put their claws on this morning," Daemon said in return.

Her nostrils flared as he opened up the folder, walking past her towards the next room. It forced her to act like a puppet, following him through the doorless archway that led to the kitchen where the long wood table rested. He tossed it on the surface and picked up a random page. He was leaning back against the table, part of his weight against the edge as his palm lay flat behind him.

"Your father approved this?" Daemon inquired, a snort escaping him as he perused the document. He looked utterly enticing—delectable—leaving Rhaenyra's mouth parched with a mixture of desire and exasperation. It was a peculiar sensation, wanting something so intensely that you also felt the urge to set it ablaze.

"He said it best if I bring it to you," Rhaenyra replied, taking deliberate, measured steps. Her gaze remained locked on him until she sauntered past him, reaching to open his fridge.

"And why is that?" Daemon's question was met with a brief silence on her part as she scanned the contents of his fridge. She shouldn't have been surprised that it was nearly empty since he had as few life skills as she did. Mostly there were just glass water bottles and condiments that reminded her of her own, forcing her to put away her judgment. She grabbed a water.

"A fondness you have for me was mentioned," she stated, twisting open the water and walking around the island and towards the table. His eyes scanned her closely as she walked in his line of vision. Before him, she had never seen eyes like that. Dark indigo, much like her own. Ones that would smoulder and gather in heat. It was as if he were always ready to undress a woman with a single glance or kill them with another. "Don't worry. I did not tell him that it had an expiration date and conditions."

Perhaps that was where the excitement came from, for she never knew which one she faced.

His eyes were on her again, slow, perusing her in a way that took her back four months. Slowly, he set the document down next to him, standing straight and walking towards her. "Are you angry with me, Rhaenyra?"

Both brows raised and she licked her bottom lip, as if she couldn't believe that could ever be in question. "No, I was angry when I had to drive two hours on my day off to deliver a contract. I was angrywhen Colton didn't choose Tayshia on the Bachelor. With you?" She snorted, throwing her hand up. "You make me infuriated."

Daemon scoffed, but only grabbed the contract. "Tell your father I won't sign, especially with his weak attempts to manipulate me with his daughter, to whom I am so fond."

Her nostrils flared, watching him shut down, shut her down, and ignore the fight they were obviously in. She slammed the water bottle on the table and stepped in front of him, her hand on his chest as he attempted to turn away from her. Her hair was in her face, her breathing staggered as she realized that her chest was rapidly rising and falling. The threading and knotting ball in her stomach was untangling the more she touched him. With the wicked heat from his chest, from his rapid heart beneath her palm, she was undone.

"You don't get the luxury of treating me like an object you can toss aside when I don't act how you want," she said, now in his face and watching his cat-like eyes narrow down at her. "You insufferable arse. I am your niece. Did you think we'd just never see one another again?"

His eyes scanned down to her palm that rested on his chest and she could feel it expand, constricting with each of his breaths.

"Or do you think you can do whatever you want with no consequence?" Rhaenyra's voice was in a hiss, all the anger and hurt beginning to unwind as his own irritation grew sharper with every passing second. The tension between them grew with his silence.

"Are you done?" Daemon asked lowly, the deep lull of his voice disarming her, maybe disengaging her from her own body. She didn't get a chance to answer when his hands were on her shoulders, dragging over her arms before he had practically pushed her down on the wooden table. Her back hit the teak, her head thumping lightly against it, reverberating the brain in her skull. She barely felt it when he caged her, one hand on her waist, his body flush against her as his leg dug in between her own until she could feel it all but rubbing against her.

He had steady, strong hands, and Rhaenyra had always looked at them like there was little that he couldn't do. Her mother used to say that you could tell everything you need about a man through them. Some, she once told her, were the punishing hands that could hit a woman and make her bleed or take her apart and scatter the pieces. Some were the passing hands, they were the ones you held onto in the meantime, good for quick moments in between lovers. Then there were the hands that soothe a woman, taking her apart and putting her back together with pieces of themselves. Aemma would tell her to wait for a man like that.

Daemon had hands that could wander into all the places he shouldn't, holding her like he was punishing her or loving her. His could just as easily wander right off again, too restless to ever stay still.

His breath was against her lips, so close that her chest brushed his every time it raised and fell.

His left hand was on her waist, dragging her blouse up from her skirt and slipping underneath just to feel her skin. "I wasn't done," she whispered, and he was so close that when her lips moved, she felt his feather across them. The motion was so light, all electrons and polarity and magnets that brought them this close, despite their own best intentions.

"I don't care," he said, and that was when he kissed her.

Daemon's hands rested on Rhaenyra's neck and he rubbed his thumbs along the sharp edges of her jaw as his tongue seemed to disappear inside her mouth as if he needed to consume a part of her in order to breathe himself. It was almost soft, as if he had spent the many months dreaming of her, thinking of her, wanting her, all as much as she had him.

Her fingers wrapped around him, looping in such a way that caged him as much as he had her. His body crushed against her own, but she wanted it to flatten her, to meet in a collision that made them one. She wanted to slap him, to hit him until the anger dissipated and the lust replaced it. His hand was flat against her stomach, and when it moved up, it was met without any barrier or resistance. He separated from her lips, heads resting against one another as he whispered, "Are you trying to kill me, Rhaenyra?"

He had seemed so reluctant to unclasp her bra four months ago, so perhaps subconsciously, she had done away with it entirely.

She cracked open her eyes, only to see him staring down at her. He had bought her first cigarette, taught her how to pick a lock, and how to rollerblade. The wrongness that should have been there was nowhere in her body that wreathed for him, that needed him, and that hated him too.

It felt like there was no room in her mind for anyone but him. She wanted to tell him that. She wanted to tell him so many of her secrets that she kept stored away to preserve their old relationship. She had tried to restrain her desire for so long that it became like holding down a ship with her bare hands, hoping it did not sail. These feelings were too strong to be restrained.

"Thought you needed a little nudge," she murmured against his parted lips. They were so close that they were sharing breath, sharing the air and passing back and forth feelings they both could not bare alone. She wanted to believe he bore them too.

His lips were back on hers, devouring her, consuming her, hating her. His palm climbed higher from under her shirt, and every sound she let out, every wreathing sigh, he ate up. A rumble reverberated in his chest as both his hands cupped her face and his head tilted to get better access as her legs wrapped around his waist. She could feel him against her, a sign that at least one part of him wanted her as much as she wanted him. The hard length of him was flush against her cl*t with a tiny layer of fabric to separate them as she ground against him. His hands were moving again and perhaps he wanted to feel every part that he had missed, deprived of her and as if it were her fault.

His hand was straining against the buttons of her blouse from underneath with his fingertips running along her breastbone. She didn't know when he had undone her scarf, only that he tossed it behind them by the time she closed and opened her eyes. When he finally caressed her breasts, she let out a breathy sigh that sounded suspiciously like a beg. His mouth rips from hers where he motioned to breathe into her neck, as if to stop.

She thought he might until he was hiking her blouse up with his hand and his mouth was against her neck. His tongue was against her collarbone, against her pulse where he lingered, inhaling her and dragging his teeth over the smouldering flesh. She let out embarrassing sounds and gasps when his fingers dusted over her hardening nipple.

He kissed up her neck, lingering at her ear where she could hear his staggered breath as his fingers began to circle her nipple. His other hand dislodged and untangled from her hair, pulling her blouse up when he separated from her. She felt the slow chill of his penthouse against the bare skin, her exposed stomach, her belly ring that his eyes scanned over. He was dragging it up so slowly that she thought he was about to leave her needing, but the way he stared at her made her feel incandescent.

"I hate you," he whispered and then his mouth was against her stomach, kissing, dragging up, making her hips buck. His tongue circled the circumference of her belly button, but his half-lidded eyes were on her face, giving her the look she dreamed of when the nights were long or Criston held her. His tongue was warm against her flesh, just the tip against her stomach as it trailed down. Her control was dissipating and the sound she made was a choked groan as she lost the sense in his eyes that held all the filthy promises they both had not voiced.

That was when she heard the sound of footsteps from upstairs, heels, tapping against the hardwood floor. Rhaenyra's brows furrowed, half undone as Daemon stared up at her as if he were both wicked and innocent. Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed, her tongue dragging along her canines before her jaw clenched shut.

He didn't give her the chance to push him off of her before he let go of her first, backing up two steps. She sat up, tucking her blouse back into her skirt as she fixed her hair with a scowl in his direction. Every part of her felt flush with him, and even the rising vexation did little to quell the heat between her legs that begged for more.

She had already lifted a document when the caramel-skinned model, known as Mysaria, walked down the stairs. "Oh," the woman said, her voice every bit as beautiful as she was. "I didn't realize we had guests."

Rhaenyra's heart was drumming against her chest, thumping against her ribs, and it was so hard to keep her face blank. "Is this the wife or the mistress?"Rhaenyra asked in Valyrian, as if she didn't know. Her words caused Daemon to run his hand through his hair as he leaned towards his niece, looking almost like an uncle with his stiff distance. Rhaenyra knew better. He was a devil instead.

"Jealousy is beneath you,"he told her in return, whispering it in Valyrian so low Rhaenyra could barely hear it. It succeeded in making her nostrils flare as he turned towards Mysaria who watched the two of them with a blank expression as she made her way down the steps. "I forgot you were here."

Her lips quirked up. "He's such a romantic," Mysaria said, now approaching them both. Her eyes were on Rhaenyra, and though she smiled, it seemed more coquettish than friendly."I'm the mistress," she said in Valyrian, but the accent was off and different. It was an indication of a completely different country than the one her family hailed from, centuries back before the fall of Valyria.

Mysaria seemed bored with the both of them and already walked the opposite way, towards the other room. When she was out of sight, Rhaenyra's eyes went to Daemon. She was biting her tongue, her anger battling with her pride that he so easily crushed in his hands like clay.

Finally, she let out a laugh that might turn into a sob later in the night. "I'll tell you what, uncle. I will not be beneath you again," she whispered in Valyrian, slapping the document on the table. He watched her, perhaps listless, perhaps weary, perhaps he was even losing control. Rhaenyra could not tell since he was determined to shut her out.

"Don't worry, niece," he said, determined to get the last word. She watched something pause in him, a disquieting stillness as he approached the cusp of saying something cruel. He stopped the words from approaching her, already turning away from her to lean his hands against the table. "Best you head home, Rhaenyra."

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. She wanted him so badly, even now, even when she despised him. Her hands were shaking as she finally reached for the pendant around her neck, the one she absentmindedly clutched to remind her that he was there with her. She unclasped it, her heels clicking against the wood as her hands shook. She dropped the pendant next to him, onto the table.

He was tense, his muscles flexed, and she could see it through his white dress shirt. He wouldn't look at her, but his tension increased when she finally let go of it.

She spared one last glance at the glinting Valyrian steel shining back at her. She walked away, even as her body begged her not to. It begged her to go back and get it and to grovel for scraps of affection that he didn'twantto give her.

She would not.

Chapter 9: Thrills & Messy Pills

Chapter Text

Ｎｉｎｅ

𝓉𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓈 & 𝓂𝑒𝓈𝓈𝓎 𝓅𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓈

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

When you grow up, you dream of the perfect wedding. You see the fairytale lights, the long rows of chairs, and the flower arrangements all lined in white. You picture the rows of family as vividly as you would the love itself. Rhaenyra had seen all of it in her dreams as a child, had planned for each flower and each gown and who would wear them.

She used to make vails out of the bedsheets, walking down the manor back in their second home or back when they stayed in Dragonstone. In Dragonstone, she had been a princess, and a true one at that. She had everything she needed to fit the fantasy. The castle, the help to wait on her, the ocean waves slamming against the stones and the cliffside below. She had the doting king and queen, her parents who spoiled her rotten with gifts and all manner of praise.

The only thing she did not have was great love.

She thought she found it with Sebastian Duarte, a musician who'd serenade her wonderous melodies on her beauty. He had the voice, the looks, and all else of a prince. The only thing he did not have was money, but she was Rhaenyra Targaryen, and she had excess amounts. With Sebastian, she had the castle, the doting parents, and the great love.

Certainly, a couple of grand to support her love was of little sacrifice. This was not a strong argument to her father when he found out about the missing 40k from his bank statement. "I love him, Dad," was also not a pleasing argument, and in the future, the entire ordeal made her feel like a fool. At the very least, it was now an amusing tale of naivety and heartbreak, to which Rhaenyra had much experience.

At 18, fresh out of high school, the king and queen had cut her off.

At this point in the story, we would have another handsome prince save the day, and rescue the princess from her horrid parents who would make certain their daughter did not run off to find the travelling musician in Paris. Or in London. Or in Germany, if his snap location was anything substantial to go on.

And there was a handsome man who enters the story at this point, and yes, he might be a prince, but save the day? Daemon Targaryen had never done that.

He had laughed at her when she told her tale of heartbreak and woe, to embellish the story at points and to emphasize that Sebastian was just a lost artist. Sebastian hadn't used her for money, he had been trying to make himself worthy of her. Rhaenyra had been so certain, until her uncle had patiently sat next to her atop the white cushion and wicker bench. She had taken two buses and a train across New York.

At 18 years old, she had typed 'Dumb question but how does one use a bus???' into Google.

Then, because the world was a tragic thing, someone had thrown themselves in front of the 4 p.m. train, and splattered against the glass. From there, she had to walk all the way to Noho, successfully irritated that the suicide hadn't taken place an hour before or after her own train. Once she had gotten to his penthouse, she had to finesse the doorway man into letting her inside, into opening the elevator, where she took it to the roof.

There he had sat across from her and she told her tale, growing more and more self-conscious as the minutes passed while he listened. She didn't feel much like a princess when she recounted it, and rather like an insolent child who stole money from her parents. The insecurity concentrated into a finite blade, only apparent when he looked at her like she was ridiculous.

"So, let me see if I have this correct," Daemon said, elbows resting on the back of the wicker portion of the bench atop his balcony. The shade mostly obstructed them with the towering archway of stone. The sun, however, glistened from the sparkling blue pool that must have been cleaned early morning to look so clear. Her Jimmy Choos were near the stone firepit, which she was considering lighting since it was growing colder with each passing second. And maybe, if he continued to look at her like that, she'd toss herself in. "I drove all the way down from Hobokin because you stole money from your father to support a douchebag musician who promptly used all of it for a free vacation with his friends."

Rhaenyra's nose wrinkled, rubbing her feet in a light massage as she sat crisscrossed on the bench. She clicked her tongue in frustration.

"After stealing from your father and believing an idiot, how are you the victim here?" Daemon asked, now turning his head to look at her with a smirk, always giving the harshest of truths. Rhaenyra's lips thinned.

"I love him," Rhaenyra said, now embarrassed by the words as she finally broke the eye contact, her brows drawn in, before she let out a surprised laugh. "Oh my god." She covered her face into her hands, bringing her knees to her chest as she heard Daemon snort. Her cheeks were red, and her hands were not big enough to cover the entirety of her face. "Oh my god."

Daemon shook his head, as if he were listening to a child or as if he had not done stupider things when he was her age half a billion years ago. "Now that you've realized this Sebastian Duarte is a moron with no talent, what are you going to do about it?"

She groaned, the world not opening to swallow her up fast enough. "What do you mean? He's in Paris," Rhaenyra admitted, another pang of chagrin washing over her. Daemon's smile was swift, and he seized her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles. His eyes, dark indigo veering toward black, gleamed with a vicious delight tinged with a promise of potential violence.

"You are a Targaryen and my only niece. Say the word and consider it done," he said, and she was mesmerized by his clear complexion, the white hair, not yet cut, pulled back in clips. She admired his confidence, his low voice, never rising in anger, even when he was infuriated. "Well, my little dragon? Do you want to burn his life down or not?"

Rhaenyra's lips twitched up, and she felt the embarrassment slowly ebb away. "What do you have in mind?"

Daemon's thumb moved in circles on her hand, the action easing away the stress and the hurt and the way her credit cards were frozen. Her eyes fluttered shut, before she breathed in deeply, catching the whiff of his cologne that made her senses go hazy. "Here I thought you would want to claim deniability."

Rhaenyra gently rested her left hand atop his, which cradled her right. A smile unfurled across her face. "I would rather burn his life with you than without."

His lips pursed, his amusem*nt a wicked thing and a mirror of her own.

Family gatherings usually ended with hellish affairs, brought about by misunderstandings and tensions finally imploding. Suffice it to say, there had never been a boring wedding when the Targaryens coordinated them. If it didn't end in chaos, perhaps a slap or a fight or two, it was a dull affair.

As was it to be when the first invitation for the wedding of Laenor Velaryon and Qarl Correy began to circulate through their community of socialites. There was a certain excitement about a grand wedding, even amongst those still a part of the medieval times and did not support love of all kinds.

"We just want a cake with two men," Laena said, her ear to the phone as she tapped her pen against the binder titled 'wedding planner'. Easily, everything could have been done by a hired hand, but Laena was ever the romantic, deciding that she wanted to take care of every detail on her own. She wanted to pick out the flowers, the decorations, the food, the venue, and every other aspect of every detail in order to make this event more intimate.

Rhaenyra had once dreamed of Alicent as her maid of honour, but watching Laena in action made those wishes shift.

"Yes," Laena continued, her frustration slowly creeping in as her fingers let go of her pen in order to run her palm along her thin neck. "Well, then why don't you take two grooms off other cakes and put it on top of what I am commissioning."

The conversation was teetering in between frustration and politeness while Rhaenyra continued her work on seating arrangements. With so many family members, distant cousins, and the like, it was easy to forget who had drama and who did not. Or, worse than that, who would gain drama prior to the wedding.

For example, the Starks would not sit near the Boltons due to Alys Bolton's child being the likely result of Tomard Stark and not her husband, Alaric Bolton. Rhaenyra had one hand on her pen and another on her phone, messaging family and friends inquiries on if they hated the person they'd be with during a portion of the night as needed. Jason Lannister, for example, would be as far from Rhaenyra as possible, perhaps in the kennels so long as Laenor did not find out.

"You know what," Laena's patient voice finally grew icy. "I'd respect you more if you just admitted that you were in a lonely marriage with a partner who can't find your g-spot on a map. You can give my cake to a heterosexual couple for all I care, since it's likely as dry and crusty as your c*nt." Laena hung up.

There was silence in the room while Laena rested her face in her hands. Rhaenyra nearly thought she'd start crying as her shoulders began to shake, but instead, a bright laugh began to emit from between Laena's fingers. Finally, the dark girl leaned backwards and draped over the back of her chair like a coat.

"That went well," Rhaenyra said, scrolling through her messages on her phone to find Yana Lancaster and text her a photo of her table.

"Laenor loved that cake," Laena said, still hysterically laughing.

"Laenor loves dick more than cake. He'll live," Rhaenyra said with a shrug as she held the camera over the table and snapped a few photos. She had to go home soon and study for her bar exam, but school and life balance required her to help her closest friend and cousin.

"Maybe I should call them back and apologize," Laena said, reaching for her phone again, but Rhaenyra had already grabbed it before she could.

"And say what? You said she had a crusty vagin*. Sorry dear, that is not something a 'just kidding' will fix," Rhaenyra said, tucking strands of hair behind her ear and untangling some of them from her hoop earrings. "No, I'll call Ryan, he owes me a favour. Hard to sell your conservative cakes if you can't renew your lease."

"I guess that makes me feel a bit better," Laena said, now staring over at the seating arrangement. It was a decorative whiteboard, filled with magnets shaped like tables and a little magnet name for each of their 600 guests. "Okay, that's pretty funny," Laena said, referring to the little magnet of a trashcan where Daemon's name rested atop it in the corner of the whiteboard layout.

While Laena did not know the extent of the feud, she knew what Rhaenyra was comfortable sharing. That Daemon was an arse who made a mockery of Dragonstone and humiliated her father. Rhaenyra vaguely remembered saying she was too busy to deal with Daemon's chaotic nature with her so focused on law school, and when she graduated a few months ago, she used the bar exam as a new excuse. After that, she'll just say that it had been years and she's not interested in attempts to rekindle the relationship that had once been so close.

She'd be nonchalant.

And all would be well.

"Oh, how did that get there," Rhaenyra said, grabbing the little magnet of Daemon's name and tossing it into her Shirley Temple. She watched it splash and float atop the ice, but she was still able to read his name.

"I know you don't want to hear it, but have you considered maybe burying the hatchet," Laena suggested carefully, and Rhaenyra's scowl darted to her with sharp intensity. "Jesus, fine. Hate him forever then."

Rhaenyra's scowl fell, and a pang cut through her. "I don't hate him," she said with a deep sigh. "He's just messy and we are still hiding his legal affairs from the press. Every time we cover one, he tops himself. How does an entire team bury a drug trade operation from the public? Very carefully." According to her father, Daemon is still saying he had nothing to do with it.

"Well, where did you put Rhea Royce?" Laena asked with a sigh, looking around her quiet condo. It was certainly a shame that Daemon was so close to the Velaryons, since Rhaenyra couldn't just uninvite him. Then again, since when did Daemon care? He'd show up out of spite with a cake of strippers most likely.

Rhaenyra pointed to Rhea's name from across the room layout, where she sat with her own family, since they were close business partners with Corlys Velaryon. A wedding to celebrate Laenor's love was a given, but so long as it was Corlys's money, there was no denying the turn it made towards creating stronger networking connections.

"It would look strange to see the divide, Rhae," Laena said, digging into Rhaenyra's Shirley Temple and pulling out Daemon's name. She grabbed a napkin and began to wipe away the liquid. She sent Rhaenyra an apologetic smile and placed Daemon's name at the table labelled 'Targaryen'. The only solace was the name was at least on the opposite side of the table as Rhaenyra's, but it offered little relief to the anxiety that settled about her.

"I love weddings," Rhaenyra said, wanting to strangle him.

"What about your plus one," Laena asked, taking a closer look at the Targaryen table where Criston Cole's name was nowhere to be seen. Rhaenyra gave her a sheepish smile.

"We're going good, really," Rhaenyra said, referring to the relationship that had been going on for three years. "I just haven't asked him yet."

"Ah," Laena said with a slow and deliberate pause that made Rhaenyra's apprehension grow. Stiffly, Laena glanced left, brows high as if to say 'good luck'.

By now, news of the wedding was buzzing, so loud and clear that even Criston would have heard of it by now. He was probably waiting for Rhaenyra to invite him, irritated and confused when she let that window pass on by without a word.

"Anyway, this is finished," Rhaenyra stated, gesturing to the seating arrangement as she stood up. She was already checking her phone when she said, "So long as the last of our dear friends find no problem with it."

Yana LancASSter: um why do I have to be near the Hightowers???? Doran eats like a donkey ass bitch. try again
read 3:58 pm

Rhaenyra sat back down with a sigh and Laena's laugh.

Well into the late evening, until the sun had already set, Rhaenyra answered irritating messages from family who, quite frankly, sucked. She placed Daemon back on the trash when she started to absentmindedly set their magnets side by side. Once she noticed, she had stared down at her own traitorous hands in horror, as if they had allowed those stupid feelings to resurface and bury her.

So, she walked home for the most part, down the streets of New York, after declining the offer of a ride from Laena. After graduating Law school, she spent much time in her New York penthouse, taking trains just to see where they went and when they stopped. She got to know the city again, learning the cobblestones of Soho, the nearly two-mile strip of the High Line, the records for sale at the markets in Brooklyn, and the kind old lady who taught her how to use a record player.

It was nice to not be behind the dark windows of tinted cars, where she had grown used to the sequestered life that made her lazy and spoiled. She learned that heels were not easy in Times Square, and adapted to wearing flats more often. She learned that nobody recognized her when she hid her silver hair in wigs, blending in like a chameleon instead of the richest heiress in New York.

She wandered the Flushing Meadows of Corona park, with the enduring mammoth steel globe and rolling green fields where she taught herself how to rollerblade again.

Today, she just wanted to walk and ignore his name in her jean jacket's left pocket. She may have taken it, but she refused to touch it. Certainly, no one has ever died from unrequited longing. Rhaenyra imagined, especially in her case, that should it be requited, then she'd be in real trouble. At that thought, her hand finally slipped in her pocket to hold his name, clutching it.

So what if she sometimes walked around Noho, picturing the grand piano in his penthouse, picturing the times they laughed and gossiped and where he always made her feel welcome? So what if she sometimes walked near his office and pictured how he always made her feel? Even when he wasn't here, and it was just his name written on a magnet, she was burning. The kindling had dwindled, and the anger had softened in the years, but fire was a tricky element. Fire was a liar. You'd grow complacent with the tiny kindlings, even thinking they went out, only for them to find something new to consume. You look away and it's burned you out.

So what if she stared at his contact number in her phone, imagining what she could say to fix the ruin and the hurt between them?

She kept walking, down the roads that forked, passed New Yorkers who would walk over her body in a stampede if she collapsed, and there was comfort in the anonymity. They would walk over your corpse, even as vultures fed on it, but find irritation in a suicide that halted the trains and made them late for work. They would walk past a child screaming.

They wouldn't care that a niece loved and missed her uncle.

Rhaenyra halted that thought, letting go of the magnet as she approached the club with the bright lights and made her way past the crowd of drunks lingering outside. She walked past the girls waiting for their Uber, the boys hitting on them, and the line of people trying to get inside. Rhaenyra's lips quirked up, and it was no coincidence that her dress this evening had been so short and tight, just in case. She blended in with the crowd but did not join the line.

Anomitity was nice. Nobody knowing who she was was a gift, but she was a chameleon and it was beneficial to be Rhaenyra Targaryen when it suited her. She took off her beanie, letting the loose silver waves fall over her shoulders, her indigo eyes visible as she approached the bouncer who took one look at the ID that she held in between two long fingers, red acrylics visible in the action. The two girls waiting to get in frowned as the bouncer nodded at her.

"Them too, please," Rhaenyra said, glancing at the two girls, who grinned back at her. Rhaenyra entered, feeling the music reverberate against her skin, the bright multicoloured lights glide over her dress like dust, turning parts purple and blue and red and yellow. She forced her way through the dancing crowd, away from hands that gripped her waist to force her to join the grinding, and random brushes of skin on skin that reminded her how long it had been since she had sex.

When she found the bar, and found the woman sitting there, surrounded by various people, Rhaenyra's lips spread into a wide smile. She called herself Lady Misery these days, now that she was no longer a random call girl and instead, a self-made entrepreneur who assembled her fortune on men who hoped their money would equate to her love. She built an empire of wealth with their desperate affection.

Rhaenyra forced her way forward, and Mysaria almost immediately tilted her head and grabbed the drink she was holding, offering it to Rhaenyra as she approached. Rhaenyra didn't hesitate, grabbing the rum and co*ke and taking a large swig. She ignored the men asking for her number as Mysaria smiled, standing now from the stool, and brushing away hands as she looped her arm around Rhaenyra's shoulders, steering them towards the back rooms where the private and exclusive guests could get away.

Rhaenyra was almost immediately ushered inside, not surprising since her dad was the one who owned the club.

"So," Mysaria said, grabbing the rum and co*ke still in Rhaenyra's hand. She sipped a small amount, her dress was asymmetrical with sequins that made her shine like a diamond. The cut-out o-ring front showed off her long, dark legs through the ruffle border. She always looked her best, with her hair and makeup permanently perfect. "What could you possibly want?"

Rhaenyra had never had a real chance to speak to her after meeting her three years ago, but morbid curiosity had made her perform a background check. Then, Mysaria's entire life was put on display. What a life it had been, and Rhaenyra respected what she made of it and the number of rumours along the socialites that now called her a miserable whor*. So, when she dubbed herself Lady Misery, Rhaenyra had laughed.

"I would like to employ you," Rhaenyra said with a smile, walking around her as she sat upon the cushioned couches that made up the entire circular room. Mysaria watched her all the while, eyes following along the path as she pressed a hand to her hip and leaned on it.

"Well, you'd be surprised how many rich ladies have bought my time," Mysaria said, sitting down next to her, the back of her dress riding up as she sat on her hip with her legs folded behind her. The bottom of her shoes was dark, a sign of a woman who walked and worked to look that good.

Rhaenyra snorted but turned to face her on the couch next. Mysaria handed her the drink. "No. I'm actually looking for a plus one at a wedding. We could pretend this is the plot of Pretty Woman without the shopping montage and the frisky hotel sex."

Mysaria hummed, "Shame. Those are my favourite parts. Why? You know it will not be well received."

Rhaenyra sloshed the drink in circles, watching the ice cubes click against one another. "Because, be it a Targaryen wedding or a Velaryon one, they are never dull. And with both Daemon and Rhea there, why not?"

"Ahh," Mysaria said carefully, no doubt remembering how her name became synonymous with Rhea and Daemon. The homewrecking whor* who f*cked a married man within days of his wedding. Rhaenyra didn't know the details, but she knew that he had been drunk when he married Rhea Royce since he publically used very beautiful words to describe her in an official statement.

"I was smashed enough to marry a broom. Just so happened she was there and I woke to a bronze bitch. I'd have preferred the broom," Daemon had said to a passing microphone when he was exiting his limo with a gorgeous Mysaria on his arm, just days after his wedding.

He truly was a romantic.

And now he was going through a grizzly divorce since Rhea had refused the annulment out of spite, instead choosing to use her endless wealth as heiress to the Runestone estate in order to financially burden him with legal battles. As Rhaenyra had said, he was messy.

Knowing that did very little to quell the want because Rhaenyra was starting to think she was too.

Mysaria laughed, and the sound was delectable enough that she rather understood the appeal of a confident woman who did not care what anyone had to say. She did not care how she made her millions or worry about the gossips and the snakes who called her a slu*t. Rhaenyra was actually rather enamoured with her and her broken Valyrian that told Rheanyra she had grown up in Lys, where they spoke a bastardized version of her ancestrial language.

"Well, if it's about causing drama," Mysaria said, and the heiress snorted.

"We won't be doing anything. Rhea and the other Royces will consider it an insult to them when I seat you next to Daemon himself," Rheanyra said with a smile as Mysaria opened up her clutch bag to pull out a small paper tablet that she ripped from the rest. She popped one in her mouth with a sultry smile.

"Ah," Mysaria said, pressing her fingers across Rhaenyra's chin and pulling her forward with a featherlike touch. "So everyone will think he brought me?"

Rhaenyra smiled, opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue. Mysaria placed the tablet on the wet surface, and Rhaenyra motioned to slide it beneath her tongue. She felt the woman's soft hand slide up the height of her cheekbone before Mysaria twisted a strand of silver hair in between her fingers. "You said it, not me."

"Well, you are certainly vindictive," Mysaria said, and perhaps Rhaenyra liked how she didn't ask why or attempt to pry open details like an amateur detective.

Rhaenyra spent the majority of that night out of her mind high, dancing and touching everyone in her passing. Amidst the throng of revellers, she found herself drawn to the flickering lights of a makeshift dance floor. Bodies moved in an intricate choreography, their movements a testament to their own intoxication. She joined them, her movements fluid yet uncoordinated, a symphony of limbs that defied the constraints of sobriety. Her laughter mingled with the pounding bass, a wild melody that echoed through the room. She twirled and spun, a whirlwind of uninhibited energy, her inhibitions cast aside like tattered garments. Her dress clung to her body, the fabric rippling in time with her fervent movements, a kaleidoscope of colours in motion. The room became a blur, the boundaries of space and time melting away in the haze of her intoxication. Faces transformed into shifting masks, their features morphing and contorting with each passing moment. She revelled in the anonymity, losing herself in the pulsating rhythm, becoming one with the cacophony of sounds and sensations.

Rhaenyra's mind was a haze of alcohol and reckless abandon as she stumbled outside the club with Mysaria by her side. The taste of Mysaria's skin lingered faintly on her lips, but it was the flickering flame of Mysaria's lighter that captivated her attention. In the dimly lit back alley, they leaned against the rough bricks of the club, revelling in the sensation against their intoxicated skin. Rhaenyra had lost her jacket somewhere along the way, but the fact that it was still tied around her waist only elicited laughter between them.

It all mixed terribly with rum and co*ke. The soda, of course, not cocaine.

The mixture of it coursed through Rhaenyra's veins, further fueling the sense of euphoria that enveloped her. With an impish grin, she urged Mysaria with a soft, "Wait, again!" attempting to force Mysaria to light the torch again, only to realize belatedly that she was the one holding the lighter. Both girls erupted into laughter, finding amusem*nt in their own antics. They would later debate and argue about whose idea it was to create a bigger fire.

As the flames danced and flickered, they watched in awe as the dumpster became a blazing inferno. The bright orange glow illuminated their faces, casting flickering shadows against the alley walls. The fire consumed everything in its path, fueled not only by the contents of the dumpster but also by the surprisingly flammable ivy clinging to the nearby walls. Their eyes remained fixed on the mesmerizing spectacle, oblivious to the approaching sirens and passing cars.

In the aftermath, their recollections of the night's events would clash and intertwine. They would scream accusations at each other, each insisting on a different version of the night. Mysaria would claim she tried to grab Rhaenyra, desperate to flee the scene, but that Rhaenyra had argued that she wanted to stay, enchanted by the alluring glow of the growing flames. Accusations of who had failed to mention the approaching sirens and cars would be hurled, their memories of the night's events entangled in a web of conflicting perspectives. The details would blur and fade—their memories fragmented and contradictory—but how it ended remained clear in both their minds.

With Rhaenyra Targaryen in jail.

Chapter 10: Four Hours to Crash

Chapter Text

Ｔｅｎ

𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝓇𝒶𝓈𝒽

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Jail probably would have sucked more if Rhaenyra hadn't been high for the first hour of it, where she spent those initial 60 minutes having a lovely conversation with a nice old woman with buttons for a mouth. Later, she did eventually realize she was talking to the toilet. It had been a profound conversation where Rhaenyra had discovered the meaning of life and written it down on her hand with the pen from her pocket that she swiped post-frisk.

Once the cops saw her, they yelled at her for having it, and asking where it came from. Rhaenyra only stared at them with a glazed-over expression, as if someone were giving her a presentation just in front of her face.

When they talked, their voice came out in iridescent colour. From then on, she spent some portions of the trip clutching the toilet by the time the jailer banged his hands against the bars. "She's annoying. Get her out of here."

Rhaenyra fell back, watching the fluorescent lights dance over the bars and through her fingertips as she held up her hand. She was missing a shoe, and when she rolled over to find it, she was in a loop, unable to stop rolling until she hit the opposite wall with another laugh. Her back hit her own bed where her jean jacket fell atop her head.

"Jesus," a familiar voice grumbled, and the jail doors opened. She was in the dark now, and the darkness was a living creature, crawling towards her and through her. "You didn't think to call a doctor?"

She saw eyes in the dark, and they were deep indigo. Hands dragged her up and the light returned until she was staring straight into those eyes, his smell so delectably vibrant that she was certain she could see the individual shades of the scents. Cool citrus was yellow, the pine-like musk was orange, and the warm and honeyed amber was a soft red. She leaned closer, just to feel it in her, to touch the colours. Her head nearly bashed into his and would have if his palm didn't all but slap in between the space of her brows, halting her descent.

"Daemon, she's not OD'ing. We had her under observation for an hour. Your niece is just dumb," the cop stated, and they were certainly words that Rhaenyra would remember in four hours.

She felt his hands on her, and they left searing imprints against her shoulders as he lifted her to her feet. She could see the steam rise from her skin, and she laughed, feeling hopeless. Daemon breathed out through his nose and pulled out a stack of cash from his pocket. She watched the noted bills with apt interest as he tossed it at the cop. The older gentleman caught it with a chuckle as if it was not the first time this had occurred.

"Wait," Rhaenyra said, looking around the jail for her shoe, her asymmetrical stance was made more apparent with her lack of heel. She forgot the word for it, so she just pointed to her heel that lacked its pair.

Daemon followed her pointing with an expression that was half amused and half irritated. "That's gone for good, idiot. Let's go." He gripped her sternly, unyielding as he forced her to leave behind her shoe.

She would not let that happen, so she tore out of his grip to grab it, clutching it to her chest to walk over to the guard counting his stack. The old man had a stereotypical mustache, an older white gentleman, with a scar just under his ear and wrinkles so profound that Rhaenyra began to count them. She was told much later that she had done this aloud.

"What the hell are you doing?" The old cop asked, and she practically stabbed him with the heel until he took it.

"The magic only lasts until midnight. Alas, I turn back into a maid," Rhaenyra said, and the cop stared at her with an incredulous expression while holding her left Jimmy Choo.

"Alright, let's go Cinderella," Daemon said, grabbing her arm to walk her out of the precinct. He had already turned to her, holding up a knitted beanie. His eyes weren't on her and he must have found something interesting behind her as he began to drag his fingers through her hair. The motion made her brows furrow as she leaned into his every touch, her fingers tingling as she traced up his shirt to feel the smooth cotton underneath. The sensations all melded together in a mixture of differing emotions that came overflowing. He let out a deep breath, and he quickly put her hair up in the beanie, hiding it.

Next, he put the sunglasses on her face, and the colors all muted, making her see through the hazy film of a black-and-white movie. She walked while putting her hand up, as if she could capture the filmy vision of the night as they exited the building. He held her to his side, his body close, as they walked down the stairs and allowed her to feel the cool breeze of the twilight.

She was put into a car the next moment, and every turn and bump of the ride made her entire body sway. She felt like she was on the world's best rollercoaster, swaying from side to side as a soft hand kept her from hitting her head against the window. The filmy movie was a dark one, with the inside offering little of the fluorescent lights that she could reach out to like a moth.

"When you come down," Daemon muttered with a groan as she fell into his arm, hitting her chin into his shoulder with a light laugh. He never once raised his voice, just guided her gently from the car, despite her laughing attempts to crawl out the other way, her ankle getting somehow tangled into the seat belt. When Daemon attempted to unravel it, he earned a kick to his gut with her free leg.

"I am so sorry," she said, leaning up to clutch onto him, rolling to reach him with her leg now looped inside the seatbelt. She clutched his shoulders, moving her palms down to feel for a bruise. Rhaenyra would remember each of these moments later with horrid embarrassment. "Don't hate me. I'm sorry," she said, and he just shook his head with a frown, untangling her leg.

"Just get out of the car, Rhaenyra," he ordered, and she obeyed, wondering when she lost her sunglasses and when the world lost the old movie feel that it had before. He eased her from the car, looking exhausted as he walked her back towards the tall structure that her high and acid-tripping mind chose to see as Aurora's tower.

She was barefoot, and her feet hit the pavement at a terrible angle that caused her to scrape her toe. The pain was so intense that it all but crippled her, but he grabbed her waist with a sigh. "Prince, I cannot go on," Rhaenyra said with a dramatic flourish as if she were giving a final monologue.

"I am not a prince," he muttered, and Rhaenyra giggled with the first bits of clarity were coming back to her.

"You most certainly are not," she said, pressing her pointer finger against his nose in so demeaning a manner that his nostrils flared. He lifted her bridal style, no longer asking permission. She let out a sound, a yelp, as she felt her head lose the ability of her neck muscles. She leaned back, letting it dangle as if she were this dead thing, as he carried her the remainder of the way.

In between the highs and the lows, there were bits of clarity where she remembered the golden elevator that she had once been so excited to ride or the lows that came with sudden anxiety that he was going to throw her off the roof. He nearly hit her hanging head on one of the sharper turns, and that was when he struggled to get her to stand on her own. His hand was on her waist, attempting to guide her reluctant legs into the right position so she could walk.

"Are you doing this on purpose?" Daemon asked, catching her as she fell backwards, his hand now sliding to the base of her skull as he tried to get her up the stairs.

"I do hope there are no poor unfortunate orgies in here," Rhaenyra shouted as he grabbed her by the waist to practically drag her up the remaining for steps. He was a strong man, as she could feel from through his shirt when she ran her fingers down his abs, but she was determined. Her arms were flailing, trying to move in another direction than the one he led her to. "If so, I'd certainly get tested."

"I think I liked it better when you couldn't form sentences," he said, now letting her go so she could collapse on the ground in a heap of laughter. "Also, orgy? Please. It's proper etiquette to get tested prior. If you don't know that much, obviously Mr. Cole is keeping you busy with your vanilla sex life." He sneered at her, the first bits of true and dark anger in his eyes that she was too dizzy to deal with.

"Kiss my arse," she said, her eyes on her hands, watching the way the bones of her carpals moved with each twitch of her fingers. "Go away. Shoo. I'll take care of myself." She tried to make the 'shooing' motion, but ended up falling backwards, her head slapping against the shag carpet of whatever room he had put her in. She attempted to sit back up, but her arms weren't working and she ended up looking like a turtle stuck on its back. "I'm not even high anymore." She managed to get up, sitting in the most painful ab crunch of her life.

She felt him lift her chin, the motion sudden and forcing her to stare directly into his dark eyes. He didn't look particularly angry, but she was counting his lashes, watching them grow before her eyes. Whenever he had grabbed it didn't matter as he raised a glass bottle of water to her lips. She attempted to slap it out of his hand, but he had seen that coming, using his knee as a rest for her back while he moved the bottle out of slapping distance above her head.

"I see you are not in an obedient mood," he said lowly, and she scowled, trying to not look too intently at how he held her or how he touched her cheek. His knuckles stroked the height of her cheekbone, and she could feel his family ring's cool metal inside her nerves.

Once distracted by his casual touch, he slipped the bottle to her lips and she drank until she could no longer keep her head up and it fell back. She heard his sigh, words she couldn't understand before he lifted her up again. Everything was spinning so fast that she nearly lost her balance despite not being the one walking. She was placed on soft cushions, where her head spun around and around again in slow circles that made the chandelier twist in on itself before her.

"Daemon," she said, staring up at the dancing lights, watching as lines of sunlight came up to waltz upon her outstretched fingers. On her hand was a small speck of black ink, moving along her wrist in loops. Her raven tattoo had come to life, and she watched the bits of sunlight creeping up through the blinds begin to light up the flapping wings. It flew off, scattered into the sunlight.

"Hmm?" Daemon whispered, and she hadn't even noticed him sitting near her head, his fingers dragging through her hair that was sprawled out near his thigh.

"My tattoo flew away," Rhaenyra told him, trying to look at him from her supine position on the couch. His fingers dusted along the wispy silver strands, but whatever his expression was, he made certain not to open to her. Something seemed to pass between them, with his languid touch and his eyes dangerously dark. Did he ever want her that way as well or was this all just a horrid game for him? He could be so brutal with her, but these last three years had been so damn long that it made her forget the tenderness.

"Do you want me to find it?" Daemon asked, his deep voice reaching somewhere deep in her consciousness that was floating and spinning away.

"No," Rhaenyra said, closing her eyes to block out the rising lights. "I want you to stay."

The silence grew, not unlike a child, as she closed her eyes. It clutched at her, fed off of her, and the world spun off its axis as a restless unconsciousness seemed to glide across the room from corner to corner. She was stuck to the sofa as if she were a magnet with its opposite charge, her entire body sinking further and further into the material. She didn't know when her blood began to grow heavy, but it now filled with enough iron that she'd need a powerful crane to lift her.

And in that paralyzed state, she felt his lips against her forehead, but there were no words that solidified him as real. She would never know how long he stayed or if the kiss was something her lonely brain had conjured into fruition just because she wanted it badly enough. It didn't matter, since she woke alone, some four hours later, feeling absolutely grotesque.

Her hair clung to her face from the sweat that had created a second layer upon her skin. She leaned over to twist with a groan as she stared at the empty room with glazed confusion. Her eyes swept from the great big desk, clean with everything in its meticulous place, to the towering bookcases with the books with leatherbound bindings on every row. She could feel each blink like a rusty window with her tired lids scraping against her cornea as she examined the room and attempted to remember anything past her need to pee.

She slowly stood from the brown leather couch that nearly refused to let her go as her bare feet slid against the red shaggy carpet. She slammed her foot against the middle table, the wood nearly bringing her back down as she let out a frustrated curse. She walked around the couch, towards the office desk as she attempted to drag a hand through her hair, only to see it had been placed in a braid that had mostly come undone in her sleep.

She walked around the desk, her fingers tracing the stacks of files as memory began to filter back in through the four brain cells she had operating this morning. "Oh my god," Rhaenyra said with slow realization as she dragged her palm over her face. She practically collapsed in his chair to slam her head into her arms that rested on his desk. The mortification was humbling, and she sat there for at least ten minutes, wondering if it would be easier to just drown herself.

She lifted her head from the desk, running a tongue against her dry lips and feeling like a baked egg. She ran her tongue over her teeth as her eyes swept over the surface of his desk in lethargic motions. She noticed the stacks of his papers, all aligned with precision as if he took a ruler to it, just to make certain that each item was five centimetres from another. She sniffed, her nose runny and her skin sensitive as she went to wipe it, all sense of care drained out of her as she reached over to the small box atop his desk where she remembered he kept his cigars. She opened it, finding them exactly as her memory visualized.

She reached for one, breaking it in half and putting it back. She reached for another, repeating that process and leaving one intact because she wasn't a monster. Rhaenyra yawned as she got to her feet, using the wooden surface as a cane while she attempted to open one of the drawers. She sat back down as she noted it was locked, she tried the others, all unyielding to each tug.

She sniffed again, her lips smacking together in a deadpan as she attempted to stand again. Her thighs were in shreds, which she would remember later came from her doing squats in the jail cell. The night was fantastic, so it was a shame that the morning had to come and remind her that her dad was going to absolutely murder her.

She walked towards the door to exit Daemon's study room, spotting the dark hallway that she followed with muscle memory. She didn't bother to do it quietly, yawning at least nine more times before she was facing the stairs. She wiped the sleep from her eyes, staring up at the wood panels with the living plants surrounding each side of the modern glass railings. The garden was certainly doing better than the one at her place back in Connecticut, so maybe she was the only one that couldn't keep anything alive.

"My greatest nemesis," she told the stairs, wincing as she climbed up one after another. She had to have done at least 200 squats for her to be in this much pain, officially making this the worst morning after a fun night out. She vaguely hoped that Mysaria was miserable.

Daemon's room was just below the roof, so that meant one more set of stairs before she could take out all her frustration on his bathroom. She was sweating rum and precipitating the last effects of acid by the time she opened his door.

Of course, it was empty since her uncle had always been an early riser. While she had known where his room was, she had never been inside it. She spotted the soft grey bedsheets, folded so neatly that she wasn't sure if it was a mattress underneath or a slab of sharp marble.

She'd certainly snoop after taking a shower.

She continued, opening the bathroom and sliding her clothes off her skin as if she were peeling an avocado. She groaned, letting the dark black dress drop to the ground in a heap that would require sanitation by fire. The underwear came next before she attempted to use his complicated Japanese toilet that shot a jet of water up her asshole, making her feel as if she got hit with a jacuzzi jet.

It was kind of nice.

The warm waters of his shower slid down her skin like silk, and she immediately felt the grime and the tension begin to conjoin with the water down below. She stood there, letting it hit her, for long enough that her skin grew pruny before she finally reached for the black, sleek-looking bottle that looked more like quality alcohol than shampoo.

She pressed it to her nose, inhaling it until she could feel it down to her lungs. Her head went nearly dizzy with the hint of citrus and edelweiss all blended together into a familiar aroma. She poured some into her hands, rubbing it into her damp hair as the smell surrounded her, and with it, came a longing so great that all the efforts she made these last three years went down the drain.

She pressed her back into the rock shower, a loud and frustrated groan blanketing her in as potent a way as it had years ago.

When she had left his penthouse, she had nearly gotten hit by two separate cars since she had been openly crying while walking down Noho. If it wasn't for her foresight to put her hair up in her hat and the sunglasses, she was sure there would be many videos and images floating around of her meltdown.

Since then, she had graduated, and she should be in a happy relationship and starting her life. Instead, all it took was his shampoo to make her crave him again. Her eyes were heavy and lidded as she began to picture him before her. She could close her eyes and he was here, naked, and so close.

Her hands began to slip down, imagining his lips on her stomach, imagining him going farther than that, and when she pressed her fingers to-

She heard the door open to his bedroom. It should have been a way to stop her, but her hands and her touch-starved body had other plans. Her brows furrowed together as the pleasure built with every motion of her rotating fingers, growing in pressure as she slid down, letting the water wash down her body.

She watched his shampoo slide down her skin, leaving his scent behind. There was something erotic, something shameful, about doing this with only an unlocked door and his clear glass shower separating them. She was so tired of the shame, and every time she thought herself healed or over it, over him, it took such a small thing to push her back over the edge.

Her fingers slipped inside and her eyes rolled back. By now, there was a part of her hoping he'd enter with her lust-filled brain mostly foggy, and any sense was gone. She'd regret it after, she might even hate herself, but at least she'd get to feel him again. She wanted him so badly that everything was falling away, and her touch quickened, her eyes shutting.

She imagined him between her legs, she imagined him at her neck, his tongue grazing up until he reached her ear and he tugged it between his teeth. Her hands sliding down his back, her nails digging down until she cut skin.

Rhaenyra's breath staggered, her other hand slapping over her mouth to quiet herself as the water washed away the shame moments before she found more. She could still feel his mouth against hers, his kiss not only seared into her memory, but her skin and her nervous system. She had yet to find something as painfully beautiful as it had been. She wished it was something she tell the world. She wished she could show the universe that this was how it should feel like when one finds someone so perfect that the world could burn down around her and she wouldn't care.

It had felt a bit like fear and lust and want and so obviously unrequited.

Rhaenyra hit her head against the marble of the shower, her anger mixing with her lust in such a way that felt like rock bottom but she didn't care.

She heard him from the other room, and it was enough to make her feel again. She whispered his name, not unlike a prayer, just before the pressure eased and the pleasure ignited.

She sat there, eyes closed, for so long that the water had already grown cold and the realization brought a sliver of self-hatred. She dropped her head to her knees and sat there, not minding the cold water that came down like rain. Eventually, she did angrily finish her shower, the tension and apprehension returning when she struggled for nearly five minutes to turn off the water, only to end up spraying herself directly in the face.

Only once she was out and clutching one of Daemon's towels to her, which she did sniff because she was a hopeless pervert, did she realize she had nothing to wear. She pressed his towel to her face as she stomped her foot to the ground, attempting to get a grip. She never found it as she cracked open the door. She scanned over the closed curtains and pristine space, only to spot him across the room, currently on the second button of his top.

He stood in front of a full-length mirror, his hair styled and his back muscles visible through the white shirt. Her eyes scanned down his slim black slacks, his styled silver hair, and most his front exposed, and wondered where her pride ran off to.

"Hey, when you're done with your makeup, do you have any clothes?" Rhaenyra managed to get out, and his gaze fit onto hers from through the mirror. His jaw clenched, the indigo color of his eyes almost entirely turning black. "Or if you'd rather take me home in a towel, that's cool too. Sure your image couldn't get any more disreputable."

His brow arched, moving onto the next button and by now, she wondered if he was taking his time just to punish her. Only her head was exposed from through the door, as if she had any right to modesty after f*cking herself in his shower. "It's nice to see you helping yourself to whatever you want. Shame you can't help yourself to a bit of gratitude."

Her nostrils flared, and she walked out of the bathroom with nought but a towel. His fingers paused, the slightest hesitation from one button to the next, before continuing without looking away from her. Somehow, he had gotten more handsome, and not just from three years ago, but even more handsome than yesterday. "Gratitude? My head is killing me. Did you let me hit every door on the way up or what?"

She spotted a dress lying on his bed, a gorgeous baby blue pencil-style dress that would make her look far more classy than she felt. Currently, she felt like the trashiest bitch in New York. Next to it was a cream cardigan that felt like cashmere when she grazed her fingers down the material. He even picked out some undergarments, and where ever he got them was of little concern to her.

"Honestly, I'm just relieved that it can still get sore considering how little it was used," Daemon said, and her jaw clenched, her canines actively digging into her tongue. Finally, she sneered, wanting to see him falter, wanting to see him flush.

She dropped the towel at her feet.

"I think I would have preferred waking up in jail, uncle," she told him, slipping on the panties first. She couldn't look at him, her bravery only going so far as she slipped on the bra next, a nude little number that fit her perfectly. And just that, she finally looked at him, but he was already adjusting his tie, gaze anywhere but on her.

He would have appeared put together, if not for the fumbling of his tie. She had watched him loop one with his eyes closed, but now, it appeared he forgot. She felt her lips twitch up as she dragged the baby blue dress over her body, letting it fit over her like a second layer of skin.

When she got it on, he was still fixing the silk tie.

It was odd, after all that time watching him through news articles, media exposure, and in the passing, she was finally in the same room as him. Alone in a room. Alone in his room. It was nearly enough to turn back the clock to a time she would have done and said anything for his approval. In the years without him, a part of her still sought it out. Even on her exit speech at Yale, she had gotten on the podium and all but said his name. It wasn't even written on her damn note cards.

She walked up to him, her bare feet padding against the hardwood floor. She didn't know what she was doing, but she hadn't been lying when she told Laena that she didn't hate him. How could she? Romantic feelings aside, he was family. That was the problem.

She was at his side, and gripped his tie, forcing him to turn to her, watching his eyes run up and down her as if he were memorizing her every detail. She let him, her eyes on the silk as she adjusted it. Part of the material was twisted over his collar, so she had to reach over to reshape it. Her arms nearly looked like the placement one would find in a dance as her fingertips grazed over his neck. She was close enough to see his shaking breath, his sharp jaw clenched, and his eyes heavy as he stared down at her. She refused to look, slowly dragging her fingers down the material of the black silk, adjusting it and making it a tad too tight.

She finally met his amused gaze with a slight lift of her lips, not at all innocent as she loosened it again. She almost immediately regretted meeting his gaze, as with it came all those feelings that she thought she had under control, that she thought she quelled. They had been on their last kindlings, but the moment he stared down at her, they reignited. They spread over her body like wildfire, until her clothes were entirely too hot.

She wet her lips, and his eyes followed the motion. She was reminded of the last time they kissed, where her heart had slid past her teeth, down into him, resting into the center of his chest. Rhaenyra's hand moved, pressing her palm against his ribcages, feeling the thumping pulse against her skin. She wondered if it was possible to reclaim it, perhaps if she took it back, she could give it to someone who wasn't born wicked. Someone who wasn't born related to her.

Her hand dragged up, tracing his tie as the silence stretched before them.

It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable, but it rather felt like she'd come home. When his head pressed against hers, and she heard him breathe out, she kept her eyes open, staring at him as she hadn't been able to do for three years. His face hadn't changed, as if he had been moulded this way from clay. However, there was a slight difference in his hair, which he had cut a bit shorter. Before, she could grip it easily, but now, she'd have to grip it from the base.

And the moment she began to lose control could have started with that thought, with her hands sliding up his face, over his cheekbones, to his hair. At the first touch, she was brought back a great magnitude of memories, of his smile and his laugh and their little talks about life and family and love. She missed them so badly that she nearly felt them pulsating in her chest. Her back touched the mirror, his fingers digging into the material bunched at her waist.

"You shouldn't be looking at me like that." His hushed words caressed her ears, resonating with a deep, rumbling timbre that seemed to carry an undertone of pleading. Yielding to the magnetic pull of his presence, she traced her gaze back to his countenance, her fingertips delicately traversing the path along his chin, gliding gently over his eyes, relishing the sensation of his lashes beneath her touch. Three arduous years had passed, a time characterized by the drought of his presence in her life. During that void, she discovered new avenues to fill her days, acquiring newfound independence and learning how to navigate the world on her own. And yet, beneath the facade of contentment, an unspoken yearning lingered—a sensation of being drawn inward and deflated.

A sharp sting pressed against her tongue as she bit down, her brows knitting together in a pained expression. She was overwhelmed with vivid recollections of the last encounter, of Mysaria, of his every cruel word. I should matter more. It should overpower herfeelings for him.

"I missed you," she admitted, just against his lips, his eyes staring down at her in so dark a way that were she a lesser person, or were she Rhaenyra from three years ago, she would have given in.

"You're the one who left," he told her, and then he pushed off the mirror, backing away. A hand wearily trailed down his face, a silent display that revealed his vulnerability, proving that he, too, was not impervious nor was he as immune as she once thought. But she wasn't a child who could be satiated with only his lust. Lust wasn't sustainable. It was a fleeting and unreliable thing. She yearned for something more substantial, something enduring and sustainable.

She didn't tell him that he was the one who pulled away, f*ck, he told her togo. How long does forgiveness take?

More than three years.

Daemon's thoughtfulness extended to charging her phone, yet his kindness did not extend to flinging it off the roof. As she unlocked the device, a flood of text messages overwhelmed her, numbering close to a hundred. The majority revolved around the upcoming wedding, their contents blending together as she scrolled through her notification bar. Amidst the sea of messages, she sought out those from her father with a mix of trepidation and apprehension. Worse still, she dreaded encountering any communication from Alicent, for her stepmother's disposition was known to be far less forgiving, and the weight of her disapproval could be crushing.

For what felt like an eternity, she anxiously swiped through her phone, her thumb caught between her teeth in a gesture of nervous tension. The minutes stretched on, each passing second intensifying her apprehension as she scoured the messages, desperately seeking any news regarding the unfortunate incident that resulted in the destruction of a humble café. Suddenly, breaking the oppressive silence that had enveloped the room, his voice resonated from across the space. "Oh, I almost forgot to mention," he began, his tone betraying a sense of nonchalance. "Your father remains oblivious to the café incident. The press, too, remains blissfully unaware." The pressure of her anxiety grew unbearable, her incisors sinking deeper into her trembling thumb, almost piercing through the delicate flesh.

Daemon remained immersed in his task, diligently signing document after document, flipping through the pages with practiced ease. The room had fallen into a stifling silence, their conversation suspended since she nearly begged him to f*ck her against a mirror. TThe intensity of her attraction towards him burned as brightly as a scorching star, a flame that showed no signs of extinguishing simply because she willed it away. Thankfully, for the preservation of her self-esteem, she had managed to resist the temptation, despite the fervent cravings that coursed through her veins. Nevertheless, her self-esteem perpetually clashed with the desires of her body, which relentlessly pleaded for him to seize her and indulge in wicked pleasures atop that very desk. Overwhelmed by her inner turmoil, she took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering shut as she attempted to regain composure.

Oh my god, chill,she silently chastised herself, a mantra whispered in the depths of her thoughts, as she sought solace in a momentary respite.

"Why didn't you tell me that an hour ago?" Rhaenyra's words spilled forth, tinged with a mix of frustration and bewilderment. With her thumb finally released from the confines of her mouth, she gestured her exasperation, her hand descending in a swift motion.

He glanced up at her, looking ever the dark prince she knew him to be. His eyes were narrowed, head tilted with just the barest hint of dark amusem*nt. She had patiently awaited his completion of the task, anticipating the moment when he would whisk her away and accompany her home. However, a dawning realization swept over her—he had likely concluded his work at least forty minutes prior, leaving her with an unsettling certainty that he had intentionally prolonged their stay.

"Did you lose the ability to say 'thank you, uncle' in these last three years?" Daemon asked, and her lips pressed together with increasing chagrin that made her feel like an incipient bitch.

"And what exactly did you do that I should thank you for?" Rhaenyra scrolled through messages again, just so she wouldn't have to look at him and face her own indignant mood. "Dad would have paid my bail in a heartbeat. I am a Targaryen."

"Your father will never hear of it because of me," Daemon said, and she heard the sound of his scraping pen against the soft paper. "So perhaps a bit of respect is due."

"You know what," Rhaenyra said, standing up and walking to his desk, placing her hands on it, and leaning forward so she was staring straight into his eyes. "I think I'll just take an Uber."

Daemon had the nerve to ask for her gratitude when he never offered her so much as an apology or an explanation for any of his many slights. And even now, he didn't look sorry for his actions. "An Uber? Rhaenyra, do you even know how to order one?"

His question brought out a spike of heat that worked like a catalyst to an enzyme and made her want to strangle him. "I am not ten years old, you twat. I actually do a lot of things on my own."

"And with your father's money. You must feel awfully independent," Daemon said, leaning back in his seat. She smiled at him, the kind bordering on a simper, and then she knocked off the pens and supplies straight onto the ground. Perhaps she wanted to see his anger, perhaps it would make her feel less crazy, but he only watched the motion of her arm with calming indifference. "Does that make you feel better?" He leaned forward at his desk, now interlocking his fingers in front of him, his elbows on the surface of the desk. "For all your 'grown-up' talk, you still lash out like a kid."

She nodded her head, and perhaps if she still had her earrings she'd be taking them off right now to jump him. Her tongue clicked, her fingers reaching up to her ears. "Where are my earrings?"

His brows arched, but his eyes went to the stack of junk she tossed on his rug. "I took them off. Currently, they are somewhere in your tantrum pile."

She scowled at him, bending down to find them, practically tossing aside his crap to look for them. She barely noticed her hands shaking or her heart palpitations coming back when she heard him stand and walk around the desk to lean himself on the corner and watch her search.

"Why are you so stressed?" Daemon's question was met with another scowl in his direction. "You probably have millions of gold hoops."

"Those were a gift from my mum. Do understand gifts like that or did your mother hate you as much as I do?" Rhaenyra said through her teeth, not meaning it, but it was nice to make the boundaries come alive. She wanted to hurt him because that was all he did to her, but it seemed that she couldn't make herself believe such a lie, making it come out weak.

"According to Viserys, I was actually the favourite," Daemon said, crossing his arms in a casual stance that she was certain he was doing to provoke her. She pulled one hoop from the pile, now getting on her hands and knees to find the next one, checking if it slid under his giant desk with stupidly locked drawers.

"Where is the other one?" Rhaenyra asked, and finally met his gaze again.

"You only had the one," he said, taking his time to release the information. She was in between stabbing him with his fountain pen and just up and leaving as the news somehow crushed her.

"Ah," was all she said, now sitting back on her calves as a cloud of thick despondency settled over her as potently as her cardigan. She tried to shrug it off, but it wasn't clothing that you could remove with a flippant whim. He seemed at a loss for a second, just a moment, not knowing how to handle her sadness.

It was an ironic thing, considering he had never had such a problem before. When her mother died and she was determined to settle into numb silence, he was the only one who treated her like a person instead of this wild dog. He brought the sorrow to her, yes, but only because he always made her face it and ultimately work through it. Perhaps they were two different people and perhaps the time was a wench they couldn't dislodge.

Somehow, that made it worse.

"Come on, I'll take you home," he told her, and he offered his hand to her. She stared at it for a while, longer than she wanted to. In the past, she would have simply grabbed it, she would have pressed her lips on his wrist just to feel his pulse beneath her skin. Perhaps their relationship had always been so inappropriate behind closed doors and the few photos floating around the Internet of him laughing at her jokes at a football game. Or his gentle kissing of her head at her cousin's wedding. Or his warm embrace that some insensitive f*ckhad taken at her mother's funeral.

She grabbed his hand, letting him drag her to her feet, not minding her disappointed silence.

"How did you know about the jail thing?" Rhaenyra asked from his passenger seat, after a long silence lingered between them with her looking out the window. He had to have arrived within the hour, which is actually faster than many news sources get word on a celebrity's arrest.

Daemon snorted, casually leaning back in his seat as his Tesla was put into auto drive. He was currently scrolling through his phone, not at all a safe role model for children. Rhaenyra almost laughed at the thought. "Are you going to tattle to your daddy that your uncle Daemon has cops in his pocket?" His eyes slid to hers in that slow perusal that activated her stupid labido. She clenched her hands into fists at his implication.

"I don't tell dad sh*t," Rhaenyra said with a scoff. Their relationship hadn't been great since her mother's death, and wouldn't be until he addressed it to her. Or perhaps never, Rhaenyra could never tell. At this point, she was taking larger strides with Alicent. "So that's how you manage to stay out of jail?"

"I certainly would never get caught standing in front of the fire I started," he said with a low chuckle at made her equal parts frustrated and equal parts turned on. "Seriously, Rhaenyra, why didn't you run?"

She felt her frown deepen as he pulled in front of her penthouse in a no-parking zone since Daemon Targaryen didn't give a f*ck. She turned her head in his direction, lips pursed as she attempted to bring forth the foggiest part of the night. "I was high," she said, waving her hand, which he promptly caught in his own.

Her breath pruned, trapped in her throat and threatened suffocation as he brought it closer to him. His thumb dragged over her skin, over her rising pulse, and she was nearly close enough that part of her was atop the middle section of the car. His eyes were rather cat-like, lips raised in slight amusem*nt as he turned her hand face up, his fingers grazing over the soft skin of her knuckles, to the guitar calluses. His touch was lazy, but curious when she finally followed his gaze to the centre of her hand.

"What's this?" Daemon asked, referring to the ink on her skin, written in faded pen. She vaguely remembered hearing about the meaning of life from an old lady with a button mouth, and it had been so profoundly beautiful that she had to write it down. Of course, it was a talking toilet and she knew that now. When she explained this part of her jail experience, they both looked down at her hand that just said, 'egg'. His head pressed against hers as they laughed.

His laugh was beautiful, sending flutters over her skin, and she vaguely remembered her skin sizzling when she was high and he was touching her. Their faces were close, their noses brushing, and his fingers were making circles against her palm. Her other hand was pressed against his neck, barely noticeable by her that she had moved it. Her thumb rubbed back and forth against his skin, back and forth against his sharp jaw, and back and forth her heart went too. Each time they both became all the more aware they were in a busy area of New York, and while the windows were nearly criminally tinted, someone could still peek their head down and gaze through the black. They could easily recognize her, a stupid girl and a stupider niece.

He had said not to look at him the way she did, but Daemon could do whatever he wanted apparently. His nose tapped hers once, twice, and on the third, his lips brushed her own. It was a slight touch, barely an inhale between one breath to the next. It didn't seem to matter and she felt it right down to her toes. Her hands tightened on his neck as if to both force him closer and push him away.

He pulled back, just slightly, and she didn't let him send her away. She separated the entire distance, letting her fingers drag down his skin, over his chin, a lasting touch before letting him go. "I guess I'll see you in another three years," she whispered, but it felt so loud in the car.

He leaned his head back against his seat, his gaze so intrusive. The silence was crowded with words that they hadn't said, and perhaps in the past she would try to reach through it, but she had learned her lesson the hard way. She had learned it when he'd just look away, acting as if there was nothing left to be said and she was just a stupid girl who loveda man who would rather go around and f*ck everything but her. He let out a breath when she opened the door, but grabbed her arm before she could step out.

"I missed you too," he whispered, and the heart she had hardened around him softened.

But she left on her own, stepping out into the crowded street.

And the next day, a package was delivered to her front door. She had paused, thinking it was the Amazon box of her new Lelo toy that she wanted to test out, but it was much too small. It was barely the size of her fist with a note that made her entire heart swell up. She knew was from him because she was a creepy stalker who could recognize his handwriting in the dark. She practically tore it open, revealing a gold earring.

Chapter 11: If You Were Me

Chapter Text

Ｅｌｅｖｅｎ

𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝑒

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Nothing looked appropriate this morning.

Those were the thoughts Rhaenyra Targaryen had on the eve of her father's birthday as she held up a red dress, switching to blue, and then back to red. Soft music played in the background, but she hadn't heard a single word while she once more zipped down the blue dress, letting it fall to her feet to search her closet in a state of half dress. She had Laenor on speaker, searching through each item in her closet to no avail.

"Why are you nervous?" Laenor finally asked, and Rhaenyra sneered at her phone, even as her nausea worsened. "You're acting like you're about to meet the queen. It's just Vaemond, Nyra."

"He doesn't like me," Rhaenyra replied, biting her bottom lip. She grabbed her phone, lifting it to her face so she could speak closely. "Why must he go?"

"I think you're paranoid," Laenor said, and she heard his laughter in the background, signifying that Qarl had likely entered the room. "He's just coming for your father."

"He doesn't like my father either," Rhaenyra stated, placing the phone down and trying on the next dress. Once it was on, she switched to FaceTime, spotting Laenor's handsome face staring back at her. "What about this one?" She turned the camera, half spinning in the full-length mirror. It was a modest little thing, which she hoped made her look appropriate. Vaemond had always been an unforgiving man, and he was also the loudest when her father named her heir to his entire fortune and subsequent businesses. This, of course, included Vaemond's own, which he liked to call the Driftmark throne.

"Uncle Vaemond likes your dad just fine," Laenor defended, ever seeking a middle ground.

Driftmark was the backbone of what made the Targaryens so ungodly rich, since most of the revenue coming in was associated with the distribution of oil and gas. The Velaryons were the sole family in charge of ocean exports, and Vaemond did not believe her up to the task of taking over once her father was gone. He would say that she was inexperienced or immature. He would say that she was spoiled or entitled.

He would mock her law degree as if it were useless in business. Completely false. Robert Rowling was a billionaire tycoon with a law degree and Vaemond met up with him nearly every spring for golf. If he wasn't such a c*nt, Rhaenyra wouldn't stress over her cousin. He wasn't even in charge of Driftmark, as that had gone to Corlys, who had more management over his tongue.

"Your uncle needs to learn to shut his mouth," Rhaenyra replied, running her fingers down the dress. "I don't care what he thinks, but when he starts whispering it to everyone in the room, we have a problem."

Laenor shooed away Qarl when the man attempted to lean in for a kiss. "My cousin is watching," Laenor said, slapping away his fiance's affectionate touch.

"Please, don't mind me. I'm not even looking," Rhaenyra said, smoothing out a wrinkle on her dress. "Lord knows at least one of us is getting some. Now, what do you think of this dress?"

"You look fab. Slay," Qarl said, unenthusiastically in a deep voice that contrasted the words. "Trouble in paradise with your 'white knight'?"

"I hope you bald prematurely," Rhaenyra bit out, staring at the white dress that ended just above her knees. It exposed her shoulders, which would certainly gain talk, but she was satisfied with the V-neck that exposed just enough cleavage that would make her look feminine. It would do, considering most of her dresses would likely make Vaemond blush and perhaps call her a whor* behind her back.

Or whatever her cousin whispered to make her other family judge her so. She doubted he'd use the word 'whor*', but one could never know for certain what the serpents said behind your back.

"You wanna talk about it, buttercup?" Laenor asked, and her lips pressed tightly together.

"There is nothing wrong between Criston and I," she defended, once more, as if pride would crush her if she admitted that she was miserable. Or worse, that she basically cheated on him two weeks ago. Normally, she'd just make her attempt at honesty, but how could she explain Daemon, and what would be the point?

Criston personified kindness and love in their purest forms. He possessed the qualities that princes in fairy tales could only aspire to emulate, and there was a ring nestled within her desk silently, yearning for her response. A whole year had passed without them engaging in the physical intimacy they once shared, the memory of their last conversation lingering like an incessant drumbeat, threatening to trigger a throbbing migraine. "I want to do this right," he had told her, and perhaps he thought the words sincerie, yet despite the sentiment behind his declaration, she couldn't help but find it somewhat arbitrary, given that they had been having sex justfine for two years.

I disregarded my vows for you, so you owe me your own in return, echoed relentlessly in her ears, each syllable carrying a sense of demand, of entitlement.

Rhaenyra thought it all so ridiculous that she didn't even know how to speak about it. After asking for time to consider his offer, how could she possibly invite him to her cousin's wedding? Not that it mattered since either way, she was an adulterous whor* and perhaps Vaemond was right.

"If you say so," Laenor said, sounding suspiciously like his sister. "Is he coming tonight?"

Rhaenyra felt the anxiety creep up and her only solace, despite the well of longing, was that at least Daemon was not to show. Her father said something along the lines of, 'your uncle was born second to make the first miserable'. There were few easy silences between her uncle and father since Daemon strived in chaos while her father would try and avoid it. Daemon would always be indolent, addicted to the pleasures in life while her father would rather build his models and avoid difficult conversation. Rhaenyra rubbed her temples, trying to dial down those thoughts as she said, "Yeah, he's picking me up in twenty."

"And you're wearing that?" Qarl queried, his gaze shifting from Laenor's tresses to the camera, his lips detaching momentarily from their entangled embrace. His scrutinizing gaze roamed over her attire, assessing it with a mix of curiosity and appraisal, as if evaluating her choice with a discerning eye.

"You said I slay," Rhaenyra said with dangerous slowness.

"Qarl's right," Laenor said with an apologetic smile as he accepted another of Qarl's kisses to his cheek with one eye closed. "You do slay, but only if you were going to a bachelorette party. Perhaps something that covers those pretty shoulders?"

She sneered, lifting the second dress that she had modelled with for the cover of Khaite's pre-fall collection some weeks back as a favour rather than a job. It was a long Ivory dress, off the shoulder, but far more conservative with its finely ribbed viscose. She held it up with a frown.

Laenor and Qarl's eyes scanned the matte finish and the stretchy material that fit her like a glove. She turned it around to show off the notched back. "It will do," Laenor finally announced.

"Thank you, I so looked forward to your approval," Rhaenyra said with a roll of her eyes, but it was true. She had already studied for nearly six hours straight before panicking at the last hour to put on her makeup when getting Criston's first phone call since her old-fashioned paramour preferred it to a text. She was more than a little nervous, especially because Criston was exceptional and considerate and everything she wanted.

He gifted her with whatever he thought she'd like, he went all out for anniversaries, and he used to be the most attentive lover she ever had. This was prior to his deciding to make amends with god, gifting her instead with a ring and an ultimatum.

She heard her phone ping from her Google Nest doorbell.

He was also punctual or always early.

"You will look stunning. Make sure to wear the pearl heels," Laenor suggested, hearing the phone ping again. "Better meet up with your man while I take care of the clinginess of my own."

"Perhaps get undressed and redressed while we're at it," Qarl suggested with a smile.

"Gag me," Rhaenyra said, rolling her eyes and saying her goodbyes.

She took a deep breath, quickly slipping off one dress to put on the next. It was quick work before she padded down her flight of stairs and opened the door. She practically threw it open, and it was barely a moment's pause before she felt him grab her, wrapping his arms around her back in order to lift her into his embrace. Somehow it felt both amazing and terrible all at once.

He always smelled amazing, his hands always gentle, but firm when he used to actually sleep with her. Today they were rough as he pulled back to scan her, memorize her, before he smiled and showed off pretty little dimples that should have made her heart flutter. Instead, she was aware that she wasn't wearing shoes, which she awkwardly attempted to hide by resting one foot atop the other. "You're not ready?"

She licked her lips with a smile that made her feel fake. "You're early."

"And you're always late," Criston said, kissing her head, but she turned away at the last second, grabbing his hand to walk him back upstairs so she could finish. He was silent the entire way up the stairs, up until he sat on her bed, moving aside dresses that didn't work. Up against her floral duvet sheets, he looked as if he belonged or like he was everything she should want.

She was still putting on her earrings when she finally glanced over to him from the corner of her eyes, only to catch him staring at her with a slight smile from through the mirror. He was leaning back on his elbows as she bent down to put in her helix piercing, followed by the auricle. His stare left a slight mark on her skin, but it was a comfortable one that only time could bring about.

"What?" Rhaenyra inquired, her fingers swiftly reaching for the perfume bottle. With deftness, she spritzed a delicate amount of Tom Ford fragrance onto her wrists, imbuing herself with a captivating scent reminiscent of luscious cherries.

"Nothing. You're just the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," he told her, watching her dab it against her neck. She smiled and a slight buzz of muted warmth spread over her heart, but it didn't ease away the guilt that had been a dark cloud over her head since he first got on one knee two months ago.

She stood up straight, walking over to him and standing in between his legs to caress her hands over his face, gripping him firmly in her palms and pulling him close. Her thumbs stroked down his jaw the same way Daemon had cradled her. She pushed that thought down, lest the unchangeable guilt threaten to kill her slowly.

His hands went to her waist as if he wanted to pull her to him and love her the way he once had. The way she wanted him to, just to feel it again. "I don't much care for this particular scent," he told her softly and his voice peaked with his smile.

"Well, you'll have to get used to it. It's my favourite," she told him in return, attempting to push away her own doubts.

He leaned forward, kissing her softly, his hands bunching the fabric of her dress into his fists. The material began to lift, exposing more of her calves as it slid over her skin. It felt amazing, as being desired always would. She tilted her head to get more access, her hands sliding into his hair and tugging.

"Have you thought about it?" Criston whispered against her lips, and it felt rather like a bucket of ice water had been dumped upon her. She pulled away, staring down at him, at his suit that she bought him for his birthday, at his loving eyes that bared out his soul to her, and she felt vile.

It had been two months. He had been subtly and passively nagging her about it, despite her saying she needed time to consider. Her throat already felt dry, her hands uncertain as they continued to grip and finally release his hair. She let out a breath and watched his entire face fall as he let go of her dress. She felt the material brush back against her calves like a soft rejection.

"Criston," she whispered, but he dropped his head on her chest, the silence stifling. That was all she had been giving him lately, keeping him in a perpetual state of the unknown just because she was too selfish to let him go. "Why can't we just continue as we have been?"

He scoffed into her chest, his forehead against her ribs so she could feel him shake it. "Why don't you want to marry me?"

A momentary pause engulfed the room, as Rhaenyra's gaze drifted upwards, fixated on the expanse of the ceiling above. It was as if she sought solace in the wooden panels, hoping to discover the elusive answer inscribed within their intricate patterns. Her eyes shifted towards the delicate carving adorning the canopy of her bed, a testament to her late mother's craftsmanship, and an ache welled within her. In a tender gesture, she pressed her lips against the crown of his head, drawing him closer, seeking solace in the warmth of their embrace. Yet, she found nothing. A whirlwind of thoughts and excuses swirled within her mind, forming a tangled web of reasons that could sustain her facade for days. She had only just graduated, she wanted to focus on her career, or her family was filled with vipers who would rather anyone else be named heir.

She was in love with someone else.

She wouldn't say that. Shecouldn'tsay that.

"I don't know what I want," she said, dragging her tongue between her teeth to bite it and to keep everything else inside. She didn't care about the party or being late or anything at all.

He paused and she felt his fists clench against her waist before he pushed back from her. His face had a hint of stubble on his dark complexion. There were swoops of black hair over his cheeks, cupping them as he stared up at her. "Did you know that this entire time?"

"I don't know," she said, and now she stepped back.

"I waited for your answer for two months," Criston said, his palm plodding over his face, pushing back strands of ebony hair. "Two months, Rhaenyra. I've been patient with you. I haven't said a word about the drinking. The drugs." Her eyes narrowed, and he had both elbows on his knees now, leaning forward. "I know about the drugs, Rhaenyra."

She clicked her tongue, her eyes narrow. "I'm not an addict. It's just a couple of pills sometimes when I go out. I've been safe." She never went to the hospital, she never OD'ed, and the jail incident was one time. It was just fun and she was allowed to have it without feeling guilty for a bit of molly when she felt like it. She was allowed to make it her decision to accept a bit of acid when she wanted to and it was certainly not a reason for her reluctance to marry.

He let out a derisive laugh, staring back up at her. "Is there someone else?"

"I barely have time for you," she snapped, the vile emotions rising up her throat before she could stomp them out. She walked to her vanity, pulling out the ring from one of the drawers. The velvet box was light, but now it felt like a solid iron brick. "I stare at this every day and I don't have an answer."

"Why couldn't you just say that then?" Criston was standing now and the first signs of genuine anger appeared on his face. The patient man had finally snapped in two, and for a moment, she was nervous. Three years was a long time to never see a man angry. They had fights, of course, but they had been so civil, so uneventful, and often about nothing at all. Most of the time, it was her snapping at him.

"Congratulations on the internship," Criston had said, only for her to have grown irrationally angry and she couldn't remember why.

"Stop congratulating me!" Rhaenyra had snapped back, and he had given in, letting her have her way.

Criston was not that person right now, and instead, he grabbed the box from her hand and tossed it at the opposite wall. The velvet crashed against the wall with a violent pang, bouncing against the hardwood floor thrice before rolling the rest of the way. She flinched, and a flicker of guilt swept away some of his ire. She didn't much mind the anger, but the hurt was what made something in her snap in half like a dry twig. She would rather he threw things at the wall, f*ck, she wished he'd hit her. She stepped closer, trying to appear bigger than she was, as if it would provoke him.

She was exhausted with the number of times they would 'fight' and he would just stop midsentence, giving her dead silence in return. He made certain that she couldn't take issue with a thing he said, but she always knew exactly what he was going to say. Which he would deny, just because it was easier for him to end the talk on his terms, instead of solving it.

"Why didn't you just say you didn't want me? That you didn't love me?" Criston was a fantastic boyfriend, always opening the doors for her, always kissing her cheek or her forehead whenever he saw her, and always doing everything that a person should. She was the problem. She was always the f*cking problem.

"Just because I don't want to marry you doesn't mean I don't want you," she finally snapped and covered her mouth as the words came out without her say so. She kept her palm against her face, her brows drawn, and the panic rising in her throat.

"You know what is so crazy to me," he said, his voice low as he hauled his hand back. "It never f*cking occurred to me that we wouldn't make it, but you know what? I don't think you ever thought it would. You'd have me at your beck and call, just to fill the empty space beside you."

Her chest was rising and falling too quickly, and she felt like she was suffocating. They had been fine just a moment ago and he had been holding her. It was like their relationship had been doused in gasoline, just waiting for the first spark.

"Were you just waiting for us to implode?" Criston was in her face, his hands gliding to her arms, his touch was sensual, but it felt like an ending to something, not a beginning.

"I said I needed time. Space," she whispered, digging the words out as he slid his hands down her arms before letting her go.

"And I listened for two months, but this isn't physics, Rhaenyra, it's a relationship," Criston whispered, the anger still potent. He had always asked her to love him, but love was spontaneous energy and she couldn't direct it just because she willed it hard enough. And she couldn't turn the love she had for him into the kind that brought them into a marriage, where it would eventually become a duty. The affection she had for him might vanish entirely, not strong enough to hold onto. What then? They'd go on, never quarrelling or communicating, staying in a state of unhappiness because she didn't want to let him go.

"Then leave," she whispered, watching the hurt spread over his face in so potent a way that she felt vile. She felt like they were both starving, but for different hearts than each could give.

She felt trapped in his stare, the seconds growing from one to the next. Criston Cole was a perfect man, and that much was perhaps what made it so hard to be with him. Everything she did came subpar. She was never moral enough, never good enough, her jokes never funny enough, and nothing ever felt right enough. Even now, what she wanted was a reason to scream at him or some mistake that he made that would for once not end up her fault.

Criston only looked at her steadily, calmly, as if he was already prepared to accept or even release her. In that, she saw the diminished expectation in his eyes, nearly melancholy, but it was clear who was to blame. The pain flirting with the shape of her face was likely what stopped the last bits of him from detonating. He likely saw her eyes growing glassy and pink, despite her being the one who ruined everything. She didn't much mind hurting people, and was good at it, but hurting him?

Thoughts of leaving had moved into her mind weeks ago, perhaps even months, or perhaps since the beginning. They had created bivouacs throughout her bedroom where they once spent late nights talking about the future. She wondered if he noticed that they had never talked about their future.

He covered his eyes, as if to shield her from his hurt.

When he walked away, she had to stop herself from going after him, from trapping him into this loveless limbo from which she had imprisoned him because she couldn't let another man go. A pang of self-doubt crept into her thoughts, causing her to question if all the fault lay with her. Perhaps anything with Criston was self-sabotage, thinking a new love could mend what an old love had demolished.

When Criston left, she sat on her bed and stared out into nothing, watching the last pieces of her life that fit together like a perfect puzzle, all shatter. She laid back on her bed, staring at the top of the white dress of her canopy. The fight that had sizzled in her had been suctioned out, and she felt like an air mattress with holes. Deflated. Uncomfortable. Useless.

She wanted to crawl under the blankets, burrowing herself so deep that nobody would find her. She didn't do that, instead sitting up, her eyes half open as she reached for her phone to check the time. There were some missed messages, but she didn't have it in her to read them.

Party first, self-sabotage later, she thought with a frown of finality.

Nobody truly looked forward to seeing their family. Rhaenyra Targaryen refused to believe anyone stayed up the night prior, thinking 'I can't wait to be passive-aggressively insulted for seven hours and embarrassed for the last two'. She was ready to leave from the moment she had pulled up to her father's Southampton home and parked on the driveway that was filled with rows of cars. She placed her head against the steering wheel, wishing it would swallow her up.

The house had white lights up on the trees, decorating the long driveway and giving her gleaming illumination when all she wanted was complete dusk. Where she and her uncle preferred the chaotic city, deep in its bowels, Viserys Targaryen favoured the quiet and green land that was Southampton. It made her antsy and agitated. It made her an outsider and it made her wish she had brought her lithium.

She took her time to get out of her car and approach the gleaming bright porch where her father's men stood outside. She forced a smile, letting them open the double doors for her as she pretended like she didn't just end a three-year relationship. Or while she pretended Daemon Targaryen had nothing to do with it.

The inside was a pristine white with a leather bench resting on her left and an entry table with a lamp on her right. There were loud, clamorous cries melding with laughter and Rhaenyra could hear her family from each intersection of rooms. She was likely the last one to arrive, considering she had sobbed onto her pillows for twenty minutes before covering the redness with makeup hacks that she had to Google.

She took out her phone, turning it to her front camera just to check her face one last time. She was still inspecting her red eyes when she saw Alicent walk through one of the crossroad entries. She wore a stunning green dress, radiant and glowing with her bulgingbelly. Rhaenyra smiled weakly, even as a three-year-old Aegon stood beside his mother. Wherever Aemond was, Rhaenyra could only guess. Likely, since Rhaenyra knew Alicent well enough, he was with the nanny.

"Rhaenyra," Alicent greeted, gazing over Rhaenyra's skin with slow scrutinization that made her nearly squirm. "You're nearly two hours late," Alicent's scolding was weak, but still evident enough to make Rhaenyra weary. Their relationship had mended with little progress these last three years, and not entirely because of the finite resentment. It could just be so hard to determine the correct mixture of sacrifice and growth that a friendship deserves. Friends weren't like lovers or family, where you are taught that stretching was natural. Rhaenyra had always thought that abandonment was completely appropriate, even without conversation.

But Alicent had welded herself into her family and strife would only divide the house.

"Alicent." Rhaenyra allowed her stepmother to grab her hand, bringing her palm up to her ribs in that same affectionate way she had when they were children. "I'm sorry, I lost track of time."

They had tried going through the motions and attempting to get to know one another again. In between classes and babies and bitterness, what stood out were the uneasy silences and awkward dinners. Even on the spa getaway that Alicent had invited her to with some of the other socialites, there hadn't been much progress on bridging the chasm between them. In hindsight, it was likely due to Alicent's new friends being absolutely rotten. They were the worst their community had to offer. They were shuttered in their own world, determined to suck the life out of others that did not fit.

So, if you're going to take a depressing, relationship-saving vacation, Rhaenyra would disinvite the rich bitches and recommend a hot spring spa in its stead. If they truly were too different to approach a friendship, at least they could be silky soft.

"He was so excited to see you," Alicent said, bringing Aegon a degree closer and gently guiding his steps.

Rhaenyra's eyes were on Aegon, still not certain how to approach a child, especially one who she thought was a bit of a c*nt. It was a terrible thing to say about a kid, but she had accepted that she could be awful. It seemed like despite it having been three months, with all of them constantly shifting into different people, it was all exactly the same in House Targaryen. It was always the same politicking and family drama that she and Alicent were swept or forced into by old men who thought they owned them.

She missed the old days, before complicated feelings and changes in station got in the way. Back then, they would meander about, sipping bubble tea in Queens, coffee on the east side, and chatting about anything at all. Rhaenyra knew about Alicent's mother, who died of lung cancer years ago. She knew all her old fears and sadnesses, but Rhaenyra could never be certain if those still existed or if motherhood truly blotted out pieces of a person's individuality.

It was hard to tell because they simply could not find time for one another.

Alicent smiled down at little Aegon, but Rhaenyra was staring down at the subtle bump on her stomach that would have just looked like excess weight if Alicent hadn't already told her. Does my father not know how to pull out? Rhaenyra decided that voicing this would not be kindly received with such an unstable relationship. "Come on, offer it up to your sister."

Rhaenyra hated the word, but she swallowed the urge to say 'half' with bitter resentment. She wanted to be different, reserved even. If she could just reign in that tongue, she'd get through tonight and go home to her bed where she could huddle under the covers and cry. She allocated 20 minutes earlier, but the well of despair had made a canyon in her stomach.

Aegon slowly lifted a small clay somethingto her and Rhaenyra's eyes went from it, back to Alicent, trying to keep her expression clear. "He made a clay dragon in his lessons today," Alicent said with a slight twitch of her lips. "He wanted to gift it to you."

Aegon frowned and she watched her half-brother's face contort with ornery indignation. For all his tantrums, Rhaenyra thought he lasted pretty well before shouting, "I made it for me!"

Rhaenyra's brow arched, but she slowly knelt down to pluck the little dragon from his fingers with a smile that she hoped was friendly. She examined the dragon in her hands, but besides the name, she saw little features that made it so. "You're quite the talent," she said, glancing up to meet Alicent's hopeful smile. Rhaenyra felt as if this was a manipulation, but at the very least, an unharmful one. Except for Aegon's frown, the gesture was rather sweet. "Does he have a name?"

Aegon was still frowning, his arms crossed over his chest, but it appeared he wasn't about to start sobbing as he might have months prior when Rhaenyra saw him last. If she had to choose, she'd sooner spend an afternoon with Aemond. He was a quiet baby and a watchful one at that."Sunfyre and he's mine." As if to accentuate his point, Rhaenyra watched him stomp his foot against the ground. His tone was guttural, the sort belonging to a boy used to others obeying his every whim.

It was odd to see a child who looked so much like her own father behave like a twat.

"It is yours. He looks strong, I hope to one day make one of my own,Hae Dārilarot Āegot Vēsperzomy," Rhaenyra said, switching to high Valyrian mid-sentence, not wanting his sh*t dragon anyway.Aegon stared up at her, his expression vacant. Alicent was shaking her head back and forth, a tiny smile peaking as she watched the flicker of a discombobulated uncertainty pass over Rhaenyra's eyes. "Does he not know High Valyrian?"

"He is in the process," Alicent said carefully, which—in Hightower speak—meant her son was terrible at it.

"I simply said," Rhaenyra began, turning back towards her half-brother who resembled the many portraits of her father at 4 years old. "As prince Aegon has with Sunfyre." Somehow, it had the opposite effect that she had been aiming for.

"I hate that stupid, dead language," Aegon said, and now his cheeks were ignited with his mother's grip tightening.

"Aegon," she warned, staring down at her son. "That's enough."

Aegon twisted out of her hold, grabbing the dragon from Rhaenyra's grasp. The clay crushed in his fist, and bits of what was supposed to be a dragon tail fell to the ground and shattered into pieces against the tiles. "I don't even know her. It's mine," Aegon shouted and both of them watched as his tiny steps pattered across the room in a run that was surprisingly fast for how gauche and uncoordinated he was.

"I am so sorry," Alicent said, shaking her head. "We were moulding clay yesterday, and I wanted him to-" Alicent broke off, her fingers twisting in her hair, digging into the soft chestnut curls as if she wanted to tear them from her head. "I guess I wanted you to like him."

Rhaenyra had wondered to herself—as she had many times throughout the last few years—if it were possible to ever have a true friendship with Alicent. How could friendship endure if one person always expects betrayal? It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, but those thoughts lingered, even now as she wondered if Alicent would push for her selfish and greedy son to have more than birthright or inheritance demanded. It would certainly make Vaemond and Otto happy.

"I do like him, Alicent," Rhaenyra said carefully, wondering how long they'd be standing at the entrance, forcing something that was as incorporeal as fog. Alicent's brows hiked, glancing over to where Aegon had just run off. She was likely remembering the last visit where the little bastard tugged on Rhaenyra's hair so hard that he pulled pieces from her scalp. Or perhaps the time before that, when he had thrown his applesauce at her face, ruining her coat and solidifying the first act that made Rhaenyra abhor kids. "Maybe not right now," Rhaenyra said, biting her bottom lip to hold in the smile that began to creep out. "If anything, I don't think he likes me."

Alicent's gentle expression continued to morph into a familiar one from their youth. "Maybe if you'd come with gifts, he might be inclined to associate you with good fortune."

A bit of her old self—something that was shelved in replacement for motherhood—came out. Strict, funny, no-nonsense Alicent, how Rhaenyra had feigned dislike of it. "Are you attempting to make me buy your son's affections?"

"He likes legos," she told her with a smile, offering her hand. Rhaenyra took it with slight hesitation, allowing her stepmother to walk her into the sitting room. It was empty, away from the party where she had yet to announce her presence. Rhaenyra kept her questions to herself, holding them in her throat for a while longer as Alicent grabbed her clutch bag from the little table near the unlit fireplace.

Rhaenyra always loved to watch her father read in this room, sitting by the fireplace as he recited aloud fairytales and all manner of books in his little voices. She wondered where that man had gone or if he was now reading them to Aegon and Aemond in her stead. She wet her lips, attempting to block off those thoughts as she watched Alicent pull out a tiny tube of concealer.

"What's that for?" Rhaenyra asked as Alicent offered it to her, outstretching her hand to reach her. The sitting room had been her space, where she had fallen asleep on the Persian carpet, scattered her dolls atop the shelving of the books, and admired the portraits upon the walls of old ancestors.

It hadn't changed, but somehow she felt like an outsider.

"You've been crying," Alicent told her, watching carefully as Rhaenyra took the concealer from her outstretched hand. "And I see Criston is not at your side."

Rhaenyra stared down at the concealer before Alicent handed her a compact mirror. She was numb at the reminder, but Alicent's eyes softened, closing the distance and gently taking back the tube. She opened it and gradually began to dab bits underneath Rhaenyra's eyes as the gentle adagio echoed from two rooms away. It had a soft melody, calming even when so low in tempo. Rhaenyra stared at her while Alicent worked, the soft pads of her fingers tapping to blend away the colour from Rhaenyra's puffy eyes, likely from the few tears shed in her car.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Alicent asked carefully, but Rhaenyra shook her head. "Do you want me to talk?"

The words were familiar and with it came an old ache. The girls stared at each other and Rhaenyra thought, there you are, before the tears began to gather in her eyes. She nodded, as if time had reversed and they were back in that hospital on the worst day of Rhaenyra's life. Alicent slowly wiped away the trail with her thumbs, lingering on the touch that reminded Rhaenyra of Alicent's individuality, outside of the consuming nature of motherhood.

So, Alicent talked, walking Rhaenyra to the little reading couch, curled to the cushions and spoke of nothing at all. Nothing substantial or even memorable, but it was all familiar. That was what she always did, what they used to do, before the awkward silences and uncomfortable dinners. As if to say, 'now your mess is my mess. I'll stay and we both clean it up.'

It was at least twenty minutes into the night, twenty minutes more that she had yet to greet her father, when Rhaenyra finally said, "He asked me to marry him."

Rhaenyra never would have guessed that Alicent would be the first one she'd tell, always thinking that would be reserved for Laena or even Laenor. Her cousins were the closest thing in her life and the most stable. But there was history, past the hurt, that she had only with Alicent. After all, who else had truly seen the wreck that Rhaenyra had been after her mother's death quite as closely? That was what made the betrayal sting, as if Alicent had slit Rhaenyra's wrists, just to see the blood drop.

Now, Alicent's fingers were brushing through Rhaenyra's hair, rather like a mother, rather like a friend, mixing and meeting in the middle.

"I couldn't do it," Rhaenyra's voice was in a whisper, even as Alicent's stroking fingers paused, a small beat of a movement, before continuing. "And I hurt him more than need be."

"Do you love him?" Alicent asked carefully, slowly, her touch not unlike sympathy, not unlike condolences.

"I wanted to," Rhaenyra said, feeling the break nearly cleave her. She had been telling herself that it was love for so long that the words were unfamiliar. They disagreed with everything she'd been shouting to him, to her family, to the press, and to herself. "I feel like I needed to."

"Why?" Alicent asked, and Rhaenyra pressed her head into her friend's shoulder. She let Alicent's arm slip around her and both their dresses hiked up, cuddled together as they had when they were children.

Because the person she pictured with her would never be as she wished. It was himwho she imagined calling first when she had received her letter from Yale, the audience that she imagined when she recalled all the important and even insignificant details of her day. He was who she saw in the crowd in her exit speech at Yale, looking up at her as if to say 'I knew you'd do it'. When she imagined calamities or disasters, like hurricanes or storms that would wipe out and flood New York, it was him who she wanted near her. When the night was quiet, when it was loud, when she was in the arms of someone else, he was who she felt beside her. The only hand she ever wanted to reach for in the dark was his.

"Why?" Rhaenyra repeated, feeling her stomach lurch as a sense of self-hatred overwhelmed her.

"Why are you punishing yourself?" Alicent asked. There was a pause in her motion as if she saw all these thoughts. It was as if she was carrying half the burden, even if she didn't know the nature of the weight.

"He hates me," Rhaenyra said and Alicent pressed her lips into the side of her head, just over her temple.

And she held her there, for long moments bleeding into the next. It was comfortable. It was a silence they hadn't had in the years filled with chaotic tension and old resentments. It felt as if it were finally beginning to ebb away within the room. This room was a reminder of an old life when they used to play with puzzles. The room where Viserys and Aemma cuddled together and chatted about their day. The walls were the same, with the green little leaves and black flowers on the wallpaper, mixed with cream backgrounds and small initials written somewhere in the corner. Alicent had cried, thinking Aemma would yell at them for marking the wall.

But Rhaenyra's mother had been a rare soul, never one to raise her voice. Instead, she had lifted the pen from Rhaenyra's fingers and wrote her own name, just underneath Alicent and her daughter's scribble. Elegant and beautiful and so easy to have replaced. Rhaenyra could see it from next to her estranged friend, see the black ink near the black lamp that filled the room with bits of light.

It was still intact, something even Alicent wouldn't change, despite the betrayal that had split them. It made Rhaenyra feel like she was home again.

Just as the peace fell between them, there was shouting from the other room, chaos followed by laughter. It cut through the sitting room where both girls jerked at the shattering of tranquil peace between them. Their heads had begun to rest against one another, but now they divided and stood in one fell swoop. Alicent was the first one to the door, opening it with a creak as Rhaenyra dabbed her fingers against her eyes. She approached her friend, creeping up behind her to peer into the entryway where her uncle and a group of gorgeous dancers came into view.

He had briefly glanced left, his eyes filled with wicked amusem*nt that glossed right over her. It was barely half a second before he was facing his brother, who entered with a fury that only Daemon Targaryen could illicit from her father.

"Brother," Daemon greets—ever the uninvited and unwanted guest—arriving with belly dancers and shattering the peace. "I heard there was to be a party. I thought it might be due for some entertainment to celebrate your birthday." Daemon's eyes wandered to Alicent's belly, directed to the barely noticeable swelling that Alicent had been telling everyone was old baby weight. For once she had told Rhaenyra straight away, but she was waiting until the sex was confirmed to notify the family. It was supposed to be a surprise. "And yet another baby to bless our House, I see." His eyes finally roamed Rhaenyra, but there was nothing kind about his malicious stare. "Shall I toast to the vitality of your seed? Soon this house will be overflowing with sons."

Alicent's face reddened with a fury that nearly morphed her, but Daemon only smiled in the face of it. The clattering and clamouring of the guests all ebbed away when Rhaenyra walked back into the reading room with an exasperated sigh.

There, Rhaenyra rested her body into the sitting chair and drew her face into her open palms.

Chapter 12: We Are Fire

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｌｖｅ

𝓌𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝑒

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Just when you think your family is dysfunctional enough, the estranged uncle who you're in love with walks into your father's birthday celebration—to which he was not invited—interrupting the new relationship you are attempting to re-establish with your stepmother. The same stepmother who was also your childhood friend and first love. Meanwhile, your new half-brother—who you are convinced wants to murder you—was in the background eating potpourri.

"Is that any good?" Rhaenyra asked without any interest as she witnessed some of her father's friends chatting with the dancers. They were certainly not in kid-friendly attire, mingling with the guests in the barest of fabric. Rhaenyra had to admit that the party was certainly livened up with their presence, but she wouldn't tell her father that she found the inclusion hilarious. Aegon looked up at her, sitting in the small chair and ignoring his peas in lieu of perfumed flowers.

"No," Aegon said and at this point, deep in her second glass of wine, Rhaenyra was certain that this kid only knew how to string together 40 sentences. Most started with the word 'no'.

"Your mum told you to go to your room," Rhaenyra reminded him, not much caring as she spotted Laena chatting with Qarl in a passionate debate, likely on flower arrangement. Alicent hadn't been seen since she stormed out half an hour ago. Viserys had only let out that fake laugh of his, attempting to diffuse the situation as if nothing his brother did or said was of any surprise. Rhaenyra had waited for him to follow after his wife, but Viserys had taken his sweet time before his steps clattered away. Daemon was mingling in the yard with the business side of the family, consisting of Corlys and whoever else was of import to Driftmark. Rhaenyra cared little at the moment, waiting for her father to come back so she could give him his happy birthday wishes and go home where she could perhaps take a bath with more wine.

"No," Aegon said again and Rhaenyra only drank longer sips in reply. He scooted the potpourri towards her and she was convinced that his underdeveloped brain was attempting to make her choke to her death on them. She narrowed her eyes in his direction, trying to find her own answer in his silence.

She lifted one of the petals, rolling the dry thing in between her fingers with a suspicious glance in his direction. He stared intently at her in return, unblinking. She set her glass down, straightening to face him. He spits out one of the petals on the table, echoing her. "Do you know any Valyrian at all, Aegon?"

"You are scaly than a dragon," he said and his grammar was incorrect, but Rhaenyra couldn't help the surge of amusem*nt that overcame her. She let out a surprised laugh that made his lip curl down.

She was about to absolutely crush this kid in Valyrian—really come for his entire birth—when her father sat down at the circular table. Most of the crowd was out near the pool or enjoying the many games in the pool house, leaving the house with scattered guests who chatted with unintelligible, prattling gossip. She had decided to stay inside and finish her wine, in no mood to see her uncle flirt with belly dancers all night.

"You haven't the faintest idea how much it warms my heart to see you two together," Viserys said, placing a palm on his chest as he leaned over to her and kissed each of her cheeks in greeting. He proceeded to drag a chair between his children, his eyes exhausted yet his smile bright.

She and Aegon stared at each other, the mutual dislike shifting to a reluctant truce. "I was just teaching him a bit of our language, be it dead or otherwise, we are all that is left of it."

Viserys's smile came out again, emitting a warmth that was a nice dichotomy to the wrath he had to immediately swallow down when Daemon arrived. New York had taught them many frivolous metiers, but her father had learned the optimal ways to avoid any confrontation or scene. "And who taught you that bit of enlightenment?"

Rhaenyra always suspected her father did not trust her and while he loved her dearly, he likely was on the proverbial fritz since the time she was 14 and called the police on her sitter, accusing him of child molesting. The entire ordeal had been completely made up, but Rhaenyra had wanted to invite friends for a huge party. In order to do that, she needed him out of the house.

Rhaenyra sloshed her wine in circles with a smile that was two parts devious, one part fond, "Uncle Daemon, of course."

And when Viserys asked her whose idea it was to put her sitter on the registered sex offender's list, Rhaenyra had proudly said 'Uncle Daemon'. She had discovered—at her uncle's expense—that his name was a sort of get out of 'jail free card', in that he got put in jail in her stead. She gets kicked out of school for fighting? 'Uncle Daemon taught me'.

She tosses a bowling ball at her friends, she calls Daemon to pick her up. She still remembered the phone call where he had laughed for forty seconds at her story and she didn't leave out that she had only brokenone arm and that it wasn't a big deal. Rhaenyra feigned that she was being screamed at by her father in front of the police. Once he had gotten her out of the entire mess, he walked her out of the station—absent of any ire—and even high fived her in his car. Daemon was her way to both bury and exasperate her own misdeeds.

So now anytime she uses his name in any context, her father associates it with something awful. As if she were teaching Aegon how to be a degenerate in High Valyrian.

Viserys's smile dissipated, and he was about to say something more when they heard the sound of Aegon's jaws crunching the potpourri. Almost immediately she watches as her father tries to get him to stop, which Aegon ignores, attempting to run away before Viserys lifts him up by his waist. "I better get him back to the nanny. Wait here, Rhaenyra, I'll be back."

She didn't even get the chance to say happy birthday, so she leans back in her seat and drank. She was already on her second glass, having made Brya Baratheon call her a giant bitch after making Lucy cry. Rhaenyra had told her to go away, but Lucy had a habit of asking the same question 100+ times until she gets the answer she wanted.

And all of those questions pertained to Criston Cole, who Rhaenyra suspected her cousins held in higher regard than she did.

"You better watch what you say to my sister. It's not Lucy's fault your dry ass puss* is clapping dust," Brya said, walking up to Rhaenyra's solitude table, despite how deeply she wanted to be left alone. She was about to lose her mind. She was going to actually bitch slap a 17-year-old. If Rhaenyra could only wait one more month, she could punch Brya in the face and not assault a minor.

"You have a filthy mouth," Rhaenyra said, taking a sip and doing the math.

"Bitch, I see you scheming to jump me in a month," Brya said, placing both hands on the table and getting in Rhaenyra's face. Rhaenyra, who was slowly losing the will to live, only gave her a languid and unbothered blink. "I will kick your ass so hard that one of your vertebrae will pop out of your mouth like a Pez dispenser."

Rhaenyra said nothing, grabbing her phone that lay face down on the table. She lazily opened it and began to play solitaire, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other.

"What are you doing?" Brya asked, her anger potent enough to overcrowd the soft lull of her voice. It was quite similar to Brya's father Boremund, who somehow seduced Rhaenyra's great-aunt into marriage, forcing Brya and her family into existence. "Ah, you're taking the high road. I get it. You are single now, representing all the old spinsters with flappy vagin*s."

Rhaenyra moved an ace up, not bothering to look up at her cousin.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" Brya was ever the impatient girl who couldn't hide a single expression.

"Your parents are going through that nasty divorce. I'll be sure to send letters to your sisters in foster care, but meanwhile, I think you need this." Rhaenyra swiftly won the game, motioning to play another. Brya's face fell for seconds before it hardened right back up since her cousin fancied herself a bad bitch.

"The f*ck do you mean divorce?" There was no way that Brya Baratheon didn't know about the split that was put into motion last month, but everyone had made a point to never talk about it out loud. Rhaenyra was going to respect that, but she immediately stopped caring about anything after the dry puss* comment.

"Brya, your little sister just got pushed in the pool," said the voice of Harwin Strong from just behind the girl. He wasn't someone Rhaenyra often associated with, not out of outwardly choice, but more so because their standings never actually crossed paths.

"Motherf*cker," Brya muttered, sending her cousin one last stink eye before knocking over the wine on the table and walking away. Rhaenyra watched the red slowly sink into the white tablecloth, spreading and dispersing into the fabric.

"That's convenient," Rhaenyra said, not bothering to clean the growing stain. She just leaned back into her seat, watching as the pristine white turned dark red.

"Not really. I'm the one who pushed her," Harwin said and Rhaenyra finally scrutinised him. He had grown taller somehow, with a beard that made him look rugged, yet gorgeous. He had curly brown hair that couldn't have been styled for more than ten minutes, but his natural good looks peeked out at her from through the unruly strands of dark hair.

Her lips twitched up before she finally let out a laugh, covering her face with the back of her hand. His expression was a soft one and the kind that didn't care what anyone thought of him. His eyes were a gentle brown, narrow with amusem*nt and bits of mirth.

He slowly grabbed the tipped-over cup, bits of red droplets spilling over the glass and she watched each one's individual descent. "You looked like you needed a rescue."

Rhaenyra's gaze travelled up his fingers, up his white shirt, not even bothering with his blazer. They finally met his eyes in what she hoped didn't come off to make her out as a bitch. "I didn't."

"Ah," Harwin said, and his smile was one of a subtle conspirator. "My apologies then. I did it because Lucy Baratheon is annoying."

"Actually, I was hoping for a favour," Harwin said, refilling her spilt wine with the bottle she had dragged to her table forty minutes ago. Did she have to steal it from her father's liqueur cabinet? Of course. He filled it to the brim, not bothering to pull a Criston and give her a quarter of wine because it was what he preferred she drink. As if Rhaenyra was an alcoholic who needed management.

Rhaenyra grabbed the glass, "A favour?"

"I heard that your father was looking for someone to oversee the launch of the new tower on the east side," Harwin said, watching as Rhaenyra slowly grabbed her cup and pressed it to her lips, pausing as their eyes met from over the glass. She took a slow sip, not minding the dryness of the red.

She slowly lowered the glass and said, "Yes. I assume he'll hand that over to Mr Hightower." Not surprising, considering her father trusted Otto with far more in business than he did his own heir. Even the new tower, which would be called the 'Targaryen Tower', would be the second one of its kind in the United States, featuring luxury condominiums, world-class restaurants, and high-end stores that would turn it into a building of unparalleled luxury. Otto had been the one who organized the first one in Vegas, which he had used to climb the social ladder and solidify his placement at her father's side.

"I am here to propose you vote for my father in his stead," Harwin told her, tapping his fingers against the table. Rhaenyra tilted her head sideways, bits of surprise on her face before they slowly disappeared in replacement for her interest in her wine.

"Why aren't you petitioning my father?" Rhaenyra asked, taking another sip.

"Because I'm asking you," Harwin said with careful emphasis and she liked how he actually looked her in the eyes when he spoke. So many of her father's associates often avoided it, as if they were more interested in the carpet or the people around her than anything she had to say. When they did meet her inquisitive gaze, it was often from beneath their nose. Rhaenyra often wondered if they realized they were even doing it. She wondered if they noticed their subtle interruptions to anything she had to say or how they'd give her a task and proceed to micromanage every aspect of the work. She had emails, faxes, and voicemails that proved it.

"So you are," Rhaenyra said, now setting down the wine atop the table. If she had a dime for the number of times her father's associates said the words ' no offence, don't take me wrong' and followed it with something that would offend anyone. "Why wouldn't Lyonel be asking in your stead?" She noticed the pack of cigarettes peeking from his breast pocket.

"You know my father," Harwin said with a slight smile and he followed her gaze, opening the pack and holding it out to her. Technically, she wasn't supposed to smoke inside, but Rhaenyra had done cocaine in this house the first time, and she imagined her father would let this slide as well. She grabbed one, allowing him to light it. He lit his own, both unconcerned with the air of smoke that would make a dense cloud over the lounge.

The cleaners were going to lose their mind.

"If he's content with his placement and without his own ambition, perhaps he's not a good fit to move up," Rhaenyra said, breathing out the fumes as Harwin's smile flickered away. He was ever the easygoing sort, but she respected that he could get serious when he wished to.

There were usually two types of powerful men in her life: those like her uncle Daemon or Otto Hightower, remorseless and pitiless about making their money. Then there were those like her father and Lyonel Strong, who were ruthless in their obedience to fair play. Rhaenyra hardly knew which category she fell into, but knew she admired each in their own way.

"I'm not just pushing my father because he's good," Harwin said, pulling out his phone and opening up files so he could show her modules and graphs that forced her to read on her day off. She grabbed it from his fingers, scrolling down with arched brows. "His successes are as impressive as Otto Hightower. He's just too humble to push his own name to your father and too prideful to accept my direct aid. I only want to respect his own wishes to the best of my own ability."

"If I leave two packs, would better my chances?" Harwin was a playful one, and certainly not one who people could easily dislike. He was loyal, rather like Laena if Rhaenyra had to compare. They were two steadfast individuals, but she was not in the mood to play cupid.

"You would have merely my gratitude," she said in return, her eyes deadpan. "Nothing more."

"Well, I'd hope it'd gain me your friendship."

"I reserve friendship with men who know how to put on a tie," Rhaenyra said, her eyes scanning down his partly undone article of clothing. It was loose, hanging around his neck like a chain rather than formalwear. His smile was infectious, but she had taken her vaccine for amusem*nt today.

"Tough crowd, but I'll wear you down," Harwin said, and only because of his bright smile did she decide not to take that on as a come-on. Everyone knew she was in a relationship, and nobody sans Alicent knew that it ended. So she'd be offended if she was being flirted with as if they thought she'd cheat.

Which I did,she thought with another spike of self-loathing. She spent the entire relationship cheating, holding him, and going crazy over one another.

"We'll see. Now go before I decide to delete the email you send," she said with a thin smile that made him laugh again. He turned to walk away but pivoted back to her in the same breath.

"Oh, before I forget," Harwin said, digging into his back pocket and taking out a little slip of paper that he had obviously crumpled when he sat. He offered it to her and she took it with another sip of her wine. "Was told to give this to you."

She nodded, spotting her father coming back. "Bye," she said stiffly, and he laughed again.

"You are seriously cold," he said with another laugh, walking away.

She shoved the note into her bag as Viserys sat down with a huff of air. "He is truly a wild one," he said, looking as if he aged five years in the last thirty minutes. "Reminds me a bit of you."

"Well," she said, sloshing her wine in circles. "That's rude."

"I think if you came by more often," Viserys said with a careful pause. "You'd like him more."

"What happened to the tapestry?" Rhaenyra asked, not bothering to turn around and look at the empty wall that once held her mother's work. Aemma Targaryen was an artist who could make magic with crayons or make worlds with fire. Her work had once been proudly displayed on the wall just behind her. Rhaenyra wasn't going to say anything, was going to just let it pass, but the empty wall had been crushing.

"Ah," Viserys said, looking over her shoulder with that expression he had at her mother's funeral. He was disappearing as though it was better for him to leave than to talk to her. "I took it down."

Rhaenyra took a longer sip of her wine, wishing to make it cloud her senses until she couldn't see white walls. "Happy birthday, dad."

Viserys took her hand, cradling it between his thin and bony fingers. "I want you to come by more. Take part in the family more."

Rhaenyra watched with an expression of indifference, even as she felt the overpowering emotions that threatened to make her explode. She was going to erupt.

"You are done with law school, done with Connecticut, done with the city, come back to Southampton," he said, gesturing to the mansion, speaking as if 3 hours were equivalent to 30. Or 5 hours was 100, if she went back to New Haven.

"I'm not leaving," Rhaenyra said, trying to be gentle. She just wanted to tell him happy birthday and go. She wasn't ready for serious conversations with a father who had been absent for over five years. "I like the city. I like my life." And she did, sometimes, but not today.

"You have been alone," he said, dropping her hands. "Alone and angry and growing farther away. Of that, I know."

"Why did you take down the tapestry?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice dangerous, leaning forward with narrowed eyes. He was silent, as silent as he had been five years ago, but she wanted him to answer the question. The sudden loss of her mother had been devastating, but Aemma had taken Viserys with her too and that was a soul-crushing, all-encompassing loneliness. It had been like living with an injury that refused to close, yet her memories of him were fading more and more every day.

Which made no sense because he was right here.

"Rhaenyra," he said, covering his face with his hand. "I can't do this with you right now."

She nearly laughed, nearly told him off. Sometimes, all she wanted was to feel like a child, just to know that he would stand in front of her while the waters rose. She always stopped the impulse, too afraid to know, as if he'd let the waves crash over the both of them.

"Then I will stay 'alone' and 'angry'," she told him, standing before she did something childish like knock over the centrepiece of flowers. Or perhaps she'd find one of the random belly dancers to make out with, somewhere in the middle of the party, just to shame him. Or burn this entire house down so they could both be angry.

"Rhaenyra," he said, but that was all he said, and it was the inflexion that made her pause. He was going to say something, but that was when the fight started. Both daughter and father turned their heads towards the source of the sound, her father standing and looking exhausted. "f*cking Daemon," he muttered, and she felt a sense of defensiveness rise in her, but she stomped it down.

"You don't know it's him," she said weakly, but her father pushed past her, looking old as he made his way through the once pristine home that was being clouded with chaos. She followed, her heels clicking against wood as she let out a sigh. Before long, she was amongst the crowd of family and friends, most of who she could not recognize, just outside near the pool. She attempted to jump up, to see past the circle her family made around the violence.

"What's this?" Rhaenyra asked, standing near Laenor, who was on his phone and texting as if there wasn't a fight.

"Pretty sure this is the effect of the co*ke Daemon passed out to Diego," Laenor said with a snort, causing Rhaenyra to stare up at the sky wondering what the f*ck was happening. She tried to peer over the many shoulders, but her heels gave her centimetres when she needed meters.

Of all the friends of her father's, Diego was the most obnoxious, but when he was clean, he was tolerable. She vaguely remembered her uncle saying he'd be less of a bore if he'd fall off the wagon. "So?" Rhaenyra asked and Laenor shrugged.

"Apparently, someone here f*cked his wife." Laenor showed her his phone, exposing the text messages from Qarl. "He's always sending memes, but this one's pretty funny."

"What?" Rhaenyra said, confused at the topic as she looked down at his phone to see an image of Pikachu looking surprised. It just said 'horoscope: you're probably breathing right now.' Underneath were the words 'me:' with the surprised Pikachu face underneath.

"What are you even showing me," Rhaenyra said with an exasperated sigh as she stared down at her cousin's phone.

"He sends memes when on the toilet. It's our love language," Laenor said with a nonchalant shrug.

Rhaenyra just stared at him for a long while, ignoring the obvious fight and her cousin, a Baratheon, screaming for Diego to 'murder him'. Rhaenyra didn't much care at this point, but now she was looking around the crowd for her uncle. "You guys are insane," she told her cousin, who only shrugged again.

She found Daemon leaning against the entrance to the pool house, vaping like a douche. Rhaenyra breathed out through her nose, wondering how this night could somehow exceed her already low expectations. Trusting that her father would find a way to end the fight, she pressed a hand against Laenor's shoulder with a light and affectionate touch, before walking past him. Her steps sunk into the grass towards her uncle.

His eyes immediately went to her and he didn't bother to hide his smirk as his arms were nonchalantly crossed over his chest.Rhaenyra's mouth went firm, but didn't turn into a scowl. Rather, it looked as if she were gathering together the pieces of one, not unlike a puzzle, just in case she needed to pull it out in a rush.

"Alicent put a lot of work into this," Rhaenyra said, and he only raised the vape to his lips, blowing out the cherry-smelling fog.

"Really? Seemed a bit droll until I arrived," Daemon said, glancing over her shoulder toward the fight.

"Are you using?" Rhaenyra asked and scanning his eyes for any sign of it. Besides the dilated pupils, she saw no indication of aggression or animation. If anything, he looked calmer than he normally was, as if he genuinely enjoyed the damage he wrought. Which he obviously did, so she was not surprised.

His lips twitched up, and he handed her his vape, reminding her of the cigarettes she left on the table back inside. She stared at it for a moment, not truly minding the chaos behind her. She grabbed the vape, staring him in the eyes as she took a deep breath and pressed her lips to it. His lips were parted, scrutinising her in a way so unlike when he had arrived where his eyes had passed over her as if she were insignificant.

Each puff was like sucking in the abyss and yet she inhaled until her lungs filled with the toxic vapour that clouded her thoughts of him. But, of course, the fog dissipated, dispersing around her and she was filled with him. She was consumed by his wrath, his pandemonium, and his way of gliding through this world as he pleased, even if places would rather he were bared out. He could turn any space he occupied into a bedlam, and she'd know since he occupied her. She wanted all of it.

"I don't much care for cocaine," he finally answered with a tilt of his head. He was wholly unperturbed with his eyes so focused on her own that she could almost read what he was going to say in the cloud of vapour. "You were saying something about Alicent. Since when did that matter to you?"

She respected that he made an effort in understanding any of her problems, even if he was immediate in his ability to use them against her. "Since I decided to try letting go of some of the anger holding me back."

"That's big of you," he said with a nonchalant shrug as she handed him back his vape. "Very mature indeed."

Her answering smile was more of a sneer. "However, do not be concerned, uncle, I will continue to closely hold my irritation and growing disdain that I now wield for you."

His playfulness was infectious, as it always was when he wielded that against her too. "Disdain is it?" The heat in his eyes was something that thawed her, liquifying even her anger that had been bunching up and tangling in her stomach. "I seem to recall different."

It was the closest that he had ever come to actually talking about the unspoken sins they committed, which nearly made her laugh and hysterically at that. You would broach the subject when you know I can't take it further.She was all too aware of her family surrounding her and Daemon's growing, dark amusem*nt.

Truly, he stole her breath and her goddamned common sense when he was near her. When he actually touched her, however, she worried she'd never get it back. "I know you don't care about anything but yourself," she said, watching both brows arch once more as he dragged his vape back up to his lips. The sounds of the fight were all muted again and she didn't care about anything. "But tonight, you were determined to demolish the low bar of expectations I had for you."

She wanted to make him angry, but Daemon only looked down and laughed. "Once more, Rhaenyra," his voice was low, reaching her despite how she tried to distance herself. "Do you strap your weapons on the same way you did thatdress?"

Careful Daemon, I'm already turned on. I'll burn up if you are mean to me,Rhaenyra thought, intrusively. She had heard how many women spoke of him online, speaking of his haunting indigo eyes that smouldered with lazy heat, contrasting the thick, shiny white hair. They'd comment on his shirts that clung to his torso, completing the handsome package that they wanted to bite into. Wicked, playful, dangerous, and charming. He was nearly irresistible. They'd say his only flaw was that he knew it too well.

But Rhaenyra knew him and that was hardly his only flaw.

"You brought cocaine to a party with kids," she said, and even as she said it aloud, the words made her want to laugh.

"I didn't give any to the kids," he told her, passing the vape again, but when she went to reach for it, he grabbed her hand instead. "Come." He wasn't asking, dragging her into the pool house and leaving the chaos that he caused behind him. She, ever the stupid girl, followed him. She didn't think she could hate herself more for all of it until then, until the feelings that arose in her when the door closed behind her, leaving them alone.

The sight of him was like fire in her stomach. It was some kind of visceral and animal reaction to the mere vicinity of this man. The memory of two weeks ago had been engraved on her mind every time she closed her eyes. It all rushed back now, forcing her to picture his hands on her, of the light and gentle press of his lips. It was barely a touch and not one he'd likely bring up. He wasn't the last man who touched her, but thoughts of Criston made her feel as if she was held underwater.

"Why are you here?" Rhaenyra probed, lips pursed as she followed him through the room, noting how he stood near the pool table that was not in the vision of the window planes. Out of all of them, he chose the one that was the most private. The seclusion ensured that the guests couldn't look over and see them. Why are you doing this to me?"Surely it's not because of sentimentalities, for you have none of that."

He stared up at her while he removed the triangle rack from the gathered object balls. She didn't much want to play, but she didn't want to do anything. She wanted to cry, but that need felt lessened in his presence.

"I enjoy the comforts of home, at times," he said and her lips quirked. She had envisioned him so many times these last few years. She could picture the rough glide of his palm against her cheek, the press of his lips against her own, the heat that spread from his body to her own and ensuring that they burned together. At least, in her fantasies they did, but she was also aware that he was working his way through every pretty face and gorgeous socialite in the last three years. She was aware that his life didn't stop for her then and would move on without her now.

"You enjoy making it uncomfortable," she told him, watching as he dragged the cue ball toward the far end of the table.

"You got my note?" Daemon asked, grabbing the pool stick and handing it to her. She tilted her head, before her lips formed an 'o' and she dug into her purse for Harwin's crumpled slip of paper. Daemon laughed as she dug it out, and read it with a scowl.

It just said, 'unless you are searching for blood, stay away from Diego'.

"You're a c*nt," Rhaenyra said, glancing up at him. He only twisted the watch on his wrist, slipping his hands around his own pool stick with subtle amusem*nt. "You could have texted."

"You blocked me," he said with an arched brow. "How else does a man get in contact with his niece."

"A man wouldn't be passing notes like a middle schooler," Rhaenyra shot back.

He gestured for her to begin, not offended, which was a damnshame because she wanted to. She sneered, leaning over and getting into position. She hit the cue ball, trying to feign indifference, despite the competitive need to win, rising up her throat. She swallowed it down, suppressing it as those feelings all made a melting pot of heat.

"You are making apt strides," he said, leaning over and whispering in her ear before she had to chance to stand back up. She could feel the heat of his body lightly pressed against her own. The unmoving hand that rested upon her lower back had managed to overwhelm her senses. If not for how her body lit up from the inside out, it would be nearly appropriate, i. "Law degree, mending bridges, a sweet boyfriend who buys you pretty things." He inhaled as if it were against his will, but as if he wanted to consume her anyway. She didn't know what to believe.

Each word he said had a way of dousing her with gasoline and making her want to set him on fire. It was a hazy wave inside her mind with a wasted breath that she couldn't seem to inhale. She turned to him, to meet his gaze and find the air to speak. His lips were raised, his confidence likely meant he saw no issues in his observations, despite how wrong they were.

"Your turn," she said, allowing his hand to slide from her back, but the ivory viscose still warm after he let her go. He smiled, devious, monstrous, and she wanted to beat him with the stick in her hands.

He barely looked, just hitting the cue ball. Unlike how he did with cards, he couldn't cheat with pool. It also seemed he didn't need to, and his strike was true. "I am making an effort," she told him, leaning on one hip, hating him, wanting him, loving him.

His eyes were dark and terrifying and they were everything she imagined when she felt her inhibitions lower. Criston deserved better, she thought with a pang of regret. "What effort is being made for you?"

Her lips parted, but he only motioned for her to go next as if he were a quintessential gentleman and not a spreading infection in her goddamned life. She didn't move. "What do you mean?"

"You're still fetching coffee, fetching contracts, reading over decisions you don't get to make," he told her, lazily leaning against his own pool stick. "And men, sheep, like Deigo Russo get to speak lowly of you with no consequence to the ones who hear."

She lifted her pool stick, leaning over to hit the ball, despite the shaking of her hand that she quelled. She stood back up again, facing him, abandoning her turn. "What do you mean speak lowly of me?"

Daemon only tilted his head sideways, and his gaze was so cold that it gave her chills. She was angry in the same careless manner that she had the night she took a bat to her ex-boyfriend's guitar before hitting him with the broken pieces. "So you do care," he said, his shoulders tensing before easing back into his own form of indifference.

"What did he say?" Rhaenyra asked, and Daemon only shrugged.

"He's back off the wagon, niece," Daemon said, walking closer, dragging his fingers down her arm and driving her crazy. She followed his motion from the corner of her eyes. "He won't be saying much about you."

"What did he say?" Rhaenyra asked, her fists clenched around the wooden stick. Daemon's lips twitched up, igniting her like a live wire.

"There she is," he said, dragging the backs of his knuckles against her, against the height of her cheekbone. "Something about your ineptitude and interests that align more with shopping and—well, I paraphrase the vulgarity, for it is beneath the both of us."

Her eyes darkened, her neck practically snapping over to where the fight was dispersing. She was going to cave in Deigo's skull. "Who did he say this to?" How many think this of me?

"What does it matter what they think," he told her in High Valyrian, something that made her brain fill with fog once again. "You are a dragon. A Targaryen. You can f*ck whoever you want and it wouldn't matter. They don't need to like you. They need to obey you as they would your father."

Each word dragged over her skin, submerging her deeper into his depravity that fit so well with her own. His eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them, as if the black of his pupil was bleeding into the hard indigo. His touch didn't feel like a mere brush of skin on skin, it felt like f*cking alchemy, transforming her ire into ardent lust.

She bent down, lifting the stick to hit the cue ball, but he wasn't done. His lips were against her ear, worsening the pure lust in so violent a way that she grew unsteady. She missed the cue ball, hitting the cushion of the table in its stead.

"Stop asking, Rhaenyra. You are a dragon. Take it," he told her, and she knew he was talking about the lack of duties, the lack of her father placing her in a higher position, of the disrespect these vultures got to flippantly say behind her back. She knew that, but with his caress of her fluttering pulse against her neck, a soft touch, and she was nearly taken back to three years ago.

"You missed three birthdays," she whispered and met his eyes again. "Three Christmases. You probably already feel terrible about it."

"Awful," he agreed, and maybe it was true, but his voice was dry.

"Do you want to know what I want?" Rhaenyra asked, and his fingers trailed over her neck, back and forth his thumb stroked her pulse. It was as if he couldn't stop himself and yet he wanted to.

His amused gaze was back on her, his elbow leaning against the table. "And what is that?" Daemon had never been one to hold back on gifts, always giving her everything she ever asked for. Nearly. Not quite. Never.

"For you to back off," she told him, and his brow arched. "For you to apologize to Alicent for ruining her baby reveal."

His nose wrinkled, as if he couldn't think of anything worse than apologizing. However, there was an obvious sign of amusem*nt in his face that she hadn't the faintest idea how to quell. Her eyes scanned behind him, just a bit out of the dark expanse of the outside gardens and pool. By now, the crowd was gone, dispersed to go back inside.

"For you to make amends with your brother," Rhaenyra said, lips drawn into a slight, mocking smile. His touch was still so warm, and the desire was all-encompassing, consuming her so thoroughly that these three years were nearly effaced.

His amusem*nt dimmed at the notion, as if thatwas the most repugnant thought. As if he had been so completely wronged by her father that amends would take more than her pretty orders.

"Anything else?"Daemon's High Valyrian was sensual, his accent seductive and one she had been replicating for years. He was her teacher, her best friend, her entire consumed mind. His eyes were usually hard to pin on only her, but now, in these moments, were darting down her face.

She finally raised her hand to his cheek, trying to be confident, but her hands shook as they pressed against his skin. The pain with Criston was still so fresh, a wound that was bleeding between them, but heartache often drives people to consume what they otherwise wouldn't. Such as the entire pint of ice cream she had waiting for her at home, high in fat and certainly an easy way to get rid of the Kardashian arse she worked so hard to get. Or perhaps some of her uncle's cocaine that she was fairly certain could kill Diego if she wanted it to.

Killing a man, however satisfying, would only dull the pain for a moment, and the ice cream would have her standing in a fog of carbs and feeling used. It would leave your hands sticky and empty and your heart in shattered bits, except, now you're mad at the ice cream too. And the ice cream didn't do anything wrong.

So she refused to use her love for him and make it a salve for a bleeding wound. She'd rather consume 5000 calories and fall asleep in her own wine than throw herself at someone just to mend the pain.

Her fingers stroked up his face, his careful stare sinking into her own."Why did you make him fall off the wagon?"Rhaenyra asked, referring to Deigo and her father's men who were likely dragging him away for causing such a classless scene. Daemon scoffed, his fingers brushing back little strands of hair behind her shoulder.

"He asked." Daemon answered, and perhaps the sad*stic tone should not have caressed her back as it did. She felt it against her veins, as potent as his touch. She needed to stop reading into everything he said. She heard asterisks instead of periods and filled the rest every time, however she wanted.

And she leaned her head onto the junction of his neck, her other hand dragging to his chest, resting there against his heart. The drumming pulse, tandem, right, perfect, and nearly everything she fantasized about these last few years. Her fingers played with the ends of his hair, just above his collar, light, feather-like touches when she wanted to consume him.

His hand finally moved, resting against the back of her neck, moving aside strands of silver hair to touch her skin as his lips pressed against her head. Soft, feather-light, and not nearly enough.

Despite the lights of her family house, she stood there with Daemon in the dark.

Chapter 13: Nightcaps & Tchaikovsky

Chapter Text

Ｔｈｉｒｔｅｅｎ

𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝒸𝒶𝓅𝓈 & 𝓉𝒸𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓀𝑜𝓋𝓈𝓀𝓎

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

"Drugs Rhaenyra." Daemon Targaryen's weary figure entered the room, his keys clattering onto the table with a hollow thud. He exhaled a heavy sigh, exhaustion etched upon his face. Leaning against the table, he brought his fingertips to the temples, applying gentle pressure as if trying to alleviate the mounting tension. Slowly, his fingers trailed down, dragging across his features, his scowl forming a complex blend of endearment and intimidation.

The respite of silence during the ride home had been shattered, replaced by the weight of their unspoken turmoil. Rhaenyra, at the tender age of nineteen, felt the icy tendrils of rock bottom tightening their grip as the consequences of her involvement in a miniature drug bust loomed over her. It was not solely the gravity of the crime itself, but the realization that her uncle was now high-roading her.

"And heroin at that," he uttered, the words laced with a mixture of disappointment and concern.

Rhaenyra shifted uncomfortably in her seat, a nervous energy coursing like live wire. She cleared her throat, summoning the courage to speak, to potentially offer some form of defence. The weight of the past five months since the funeral hung heavy upon her, and she couldn't deny that she had been capitalizing on her grief for all it was worth. Or perhaps this was a sign of her grief. It was difficult to tell when she was high, which she was,often.

"Why didn't Dad come?" Rhaenyra inquired, perched on Daemon's couch, her fingers idly toying with the hem of her dress. Her voice held a tinge of vulnerability, and her eyes, searching for answers, trained on him.

"I thought it best if we kept this one from him," Daemon said, now turning to her with narrowed eyes. She had been quiet since the moment he walked in with two lawyers and a briefcase of cash, a stark contrast to the white knights of fairy tales. Those men wouldn't subtly threaten a man for doing right by a community that she was trying to poison. "Unless you want him to know."

"I don't care," she replied, her tone flippant as she casually tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I wasn't using. It's not my fault they were looking to buy." She dismissed the responsibility, her words carrying a sense of detachment. There was no concrete evidence linking the product she had brought to the girl's overdose. In fact, Rhaenyra's memory of the girl was hazy and distant, barely leaving an impression.

"Do you have any idea how many favours I had to call in just to keep you out of jail?" Daemon's voice remained steady, but there was an undercurrent of tension in his words.

"I didn't ask for favours," she replied, her gaze fixed on some invisible spot in the room.

"And I didn't ask to abandon my responsibilities, drive two hours across New York, spend five hours discussing your case with lawyers and your dean, only to be met with this level of hostility," he said, his tone calm as he leaned against the table beside her.

"I have not been hostile," she retorted, her voice tinged with defensiveness.

Daemon's anger was palpable, that much Rhaenyra knew without a doubt. But amidst his simmering fury, she sensed that the source of his agitation extended far beyond the realm of the drug trade. Nonetheless, there was a curious allure in his tone, a blend of charm and sternness that contradicted how he usually pretended to be an adult. "Haven't you?"

Was he really trying to rescue her? Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, glancing off toward the wall. Men.

"Did you at least get a good enough cut?" Daemon's exasperation was unmistakable in his voice as he finally posed the question. Rhaenyra, however, remained fixated on her dress, her fingers restlessly toying with the hem, twisting and fidgeting with the supple fabric. She traced the intricate pattern of the viscose, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.

"It wasn't about the money," she uttered, her voice filled with a mixture of trepidation and conviction. Her words hung in the air, her breath held in anticipation of his reaction. A groan of exasperation escaped his lips, and suddenly he was right in front of her, commanding her attention. Her eyes darted downward, taking in the sight of his long, lean legs clad in black slim slacks, and the impeccable craftsmanship of his expensive shoes. She swallowed, her gaze slowly ascending, tracing the path from his legs to his crossed arms and the stern expression etched upon his face.

"Do you mean to tell me that I bailed your arse out, and it was all for a drug operation where you gained nothing?" Daemon's hair was a long silver, clipped back in a way that beach boys in California would be jealous over. However, he didn't look like a douche from Berkley, sitting under a tree and singing songs about nature on his guitar. He looked every bit like the man who helped her destroy her ex-boyfriend's entire life, one day at a time.

He looked dangerous.

"It wasn't about the gain," she told him with measured care, trying to appear calm even as the nervous flutter came alive in her stomach. She marvelled at the stark contrast of Daemon and her father, two so disparate that it was a wonder to her how they were ever incubated in the same womb. If it wasn't for signiture Targaryen features, they could easily pass as strangers.

But it was moments like these that accentuated their inherent differences. Her father, she knew, would adamantly proclaim that crime could never serve as a means to an end or be justified away. Daemon, on the other hand, seemed to embrace crime as an end in itself, devoid of any need for reason. She wondered if there was an act she could take to earn his ire, or if she could ever go too far. Then, she wondered why she wanted to know.

"It's always about gain, Rhaenyra," he asserted, his firm grip on her chin compelling her to meet his gaze. The touch of his hand against her skin elicited a visceral sensation, causing a smile to curl upon her lips. It was a smile that might have appeared angelic, if not for the split lip and traces of blood adorning the corner of her chin. "And you let that girl jump you for nothing."

"You saw her," Rhaenyra murmured softly, sensing the gentle pressure of his thumb against her chin as he wiped away the blood. "You'd never know who jumped who."

A subtle curl tugged at the corners of his lips, an enigmatic smile that exuded both charm and mystery from his captivating, shadowed eyes. She thought it was weird how beautiful he could be, but that thought felt rather bordering on taboo, so she shrugged it off like an itchy cloak. "Let's get you cleaned up, kid. After, maybe I will yell at you some more."

His thumb continued to caress the tender curve of her jaw, a familiar gesture that carried an air of affection accumulated over the years. In response to his touch, she rose swiftly, almost instinctively, her body gliding against his retreating figure. He began walking towards the restroom tucked away behind the stairs, and she soon followed. Her hand met her cheek in a self-administered slap, as if trying to jolt herself back to reality.

"You can yell at me during," she declared as she stepped into the bathroom, the sound of his snort reaching her ears. With a light hop, she perched herself on the counter, her feet swinging back and forth, causing her heels to tap against the wooden cabinets. From her elevated position, she gazed at him, her eyes weary but attentive, tracing the faint, yet emerging lines etched around his own. They'd become a reminder, and eventually a permanent one, of his ever-smiling face. She sometimes wished, particularly during these long months, that she could absorb some of his contentment, bottling it for each long night. "Get it out of the way."

"I should," Daemon acknowledged, pouring a small amount of alcohol onto the cotton. His gaze remained fixed elsewhere, but she found herself unable to look away from him. It was a familiar experience, as Daemon possessed an inherent magnetism that commanded attention in any room he entered, seemingly born to captivate others. Perhaps it was his deliberate intention, to ensure all eyes were on him. As was the plight of the second son.

Or an abandoned daughter.

"It would be very adult of you," she agreed and watched his smile peek out as he finally met her probing gaze. He tilted his head slightly, and his hand gently cupped her jaw, his fingers encompassing both her neck and chin, drawing her closer with deliberate intent.

"Very. Especially considering you are a poor businesswoman in these deals," he whispered. Her heart, without warning, began to pound with a winding violence, as if caught in a tempestuous storm. A jittery restlessness seized her, not solely from the apprehension of the impending sting of rubbing alcohol, but from a deep-seated unease that permeated the air. Daemon delays, perhaps to enjoy her suffering.

"I'm surprised there's room for me to sit," she said with an embarrassing amount of breathlessness. "I would have expected to move aside all your makeup. Twelve-step routine and all that, I suppose." She watched his lips twitch into a smile, though he didn't quite commit to it fully. His lashes were longer than she'd ever noticed before, seemingly endless as they fluttered against his cheeks. Her chest suddenly felt empty, almost as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs.

Daemon scoffed lightly in response. “No need for twelve steps here—our genetics are naturally superior.” Daemon had a mocking, nearly contemptful tone, though she did not understand why.

She didn't get a chance to examine whatever the hell that was when she tried to flinch away from the stinging press of cotton against her lip. "f*ck," she muttered, the sting so precise that it shot directly into her nerves.

"Perhaps it might teach you to dodge next time," Daemon retorted with an eye roll, his hand acting as the sole anchor, keeping her in place for the next gentle dab.

"She came out of nowhere. Like a ninja," Rhaenyra said, little tears gathered in her eyes. Daemon's lips brushed up into a soft smile, his thumb gently wiping away the tears that had gathered in her eye. She tried to take a deep breath, but it came out shallow and quick. The chill that set into her chest lingered with an ache that made her question her wellbeing.

"Your unprofitable drug operation did almost kill her sister," Daemon said, his breath warming her lips and creating white noise in her mind. She could attribute it to the pain of the next dab of alcohol, before he switched to water to cleanse away the faint trace of red on her chin.

A flush of guilt managed to pierce the selfish bubble she had erected over her heart. It was nearly as painful as the alcohol on her bottom lip. His touch snapped her out of it, thumbs wiping away another trail of tears. "Addicts will get their fix, no matter the hand they buy from. Your only mistake was getting caught."

She let out a sound that was caught between a breath and a faint laugh, her fingers squeezing against the cool marble countertop. She couldn't look away from him as his gentle touch contrasted the dark eyes and terrible reputation that often had her father swollen with rage. "And not dodging," she added, a wry note in her voice. He laughed in response, both of his hands cradling her face as he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

"Now you're getting it," he said, already pulling away before she could linger on the touch.

"Can I stay for a while?" Rhaenyra asked with a careful pause, as he applied a tiny amount of liquid bandage atop the cut. Their eyes met, his touch fleeting yet gentle. She didn't bother to say that she didn't want to go home, didn't want to see her father, didn't want to deal with the house that once held her mother's presence, and now it felt as dead as a graveyard.

"I won't be home until late," he told her, and she didn't inquire further about his whereabouts, refraining from prying like a little kid who wanted to spend every waking moment with her uncle. He never took any of her sh*te, but he also never strayed away from it. She needed that.

"I don't care," she said with a shrug.

"Alright then. You should call your father anyway," Daemon responded, his tone devoid of any concern. He clapped his hands onto her thighs, the warmth of his touch spreading along her skin. "Now, show me your fist," he instructed, and a mischievous grin adorned her face, a rare sight in recent times. A warmth enveloped his expression, and she watched it spread over him, erupting back inside her.

She raised her hand and showed him, feeling irrationally happy just to make him smile at her. He gently cradled her fist in both of his hands, pressing a tender kiss on top of her knuckles. "Is it satisfactory?" Rhaenyra inquired, her voice tinged with a touch of uncertainty, her focus fixed on the intense heat radiating from where he touched.

"Perfectly adequate, if not a touch bare," he replied, stowing away the alcohol and medications, leaving her skin devoid of his warm touch. "Perhaps a ring or two would do you good. That's how you take out flesh along with eyes."

She let out a surprised laugh, unable to contain her amusem*nt. "You truly are the worst." she exclaimed, glancing down at her hand, already envisioning the rings she would add to her collection, adorning her middle and ring fingers. Perhaps something gold. Perhaps something steel.

"Gold or silver?"Daemon's voice interrupted her thoughts, his proximity evident as she felt the brush of his hip against her knee while he tidied up the remaining supplies.

"Huh?" Rhaenyra asked, lowering her hand. He was already looking at her, unapologetically, while she usually felt like a thief, her hands overflowing with stolen glances.

His smirk, tinged with laziness, spread across his lips as he replied, "Do you prefer gold or silver?"

"Gold," she replied, her response deliberate and unhurried. He ran a hand through his hair, as if he had already known her choice. He probably did as Rhaenyra hardly remembered half the garbage she spewed his way, only that he was the first one she usually wanted to tell.

"At least you're consistent about one thing," he quipped, his fingers trailing over the golden pendant that adorned her neck. She had discovered it in a boutique weeks ago, and despite her obvious wealth, she had tucked it in the folds of her sleeve like a dirty thief. She could go from liking sweet wine to dry, from liking fish one day to abhorring it the next, but gold had become a stagnant desire in her life. He lifted the pendant with his fingers, studying the emerald nestled in its center. When he released it, the pendant gently settled against her collarbone, radiating an unexpected warmth. With a newfound resolve, she hopped off the bathroom counter.

"I can say the same of you," she replied, her hand reaching out to touch the Valyrian steel pocket watch hanging from his vest. Only the chain was visible, but the intricate ripple patterns etched on the steel were a testament to its uniqueness. Her fingers trailed along it, a light touch, there and gone. He tousled her hair, an action that made her feel ridiculous and like a kid.

"Can't say that doesn't kill my reputation just a little," he remarked, walking past her towards the exit of the bathroom. She raked her palm down her face as if she could wipe away whatever was happening, leaving it behind in the bathroom. She followed him out, watching as he grabbed his coat—the black woollen one that she gifted him last year. "Dinner's in the fridge. Don't wreck my place."

"Thanks, dad," she said, leaning against the wall to watch him check his phone. He snorted, his thumbs sliding along his phone. She spotted the family ring, fitted against his middle, his soft smile as he stared down at his screen. She saw everything, from his sharp jaw to his feathered lashes and plush lips.

Plush? Rhaenyra was going insane. It was a long day and she was tired. She was going to pick the lock on his liqueur cabinet.

"Dinner's really in the fridge?" Rhaenyra inquired, her hunger only mildly present, but that wasn't a peculiar occurrence considering her waning appetite over the past months.

"This isn't the Brady Bunch. Make your own," he said with a breathy laugh.

"f*ck you're old," she said as he snatched a pillow from the couch and flung it directly at her face. With a nimble reaction, she caught it mid-air, bursting into laughter. It was the kind of laughter that had become rare for her lately, yet he was always able to pry it right out of her. He glanced up at her with an expression that lit her up. "What?"

"If you do that again, I might just want to stay," he said, his expression smooth and enigmatic. It left her breathless, her laughter extinguished in an instant. He managed to suck all the air right out of the room.

"Do what?" Rhaenyra inquired, but the fleeting moment refused to linger, always shifting and evolving, slipping away before she could fully grasp its meaning.

"Your criminal activity was very distracting," he remarked, glancing at the time displayed on his phone. He was already leaving and she watched with a tug in her gut that was too close to disappointment.

"I'll work on being more on the low," she vowed, surveying the surroundings of his place. It didn't have much warmth when he wasn't occupying the space, but it was far more comfortable than Southampton. "Maybe I'll give baking a try."

He paused at the door, turning to look at her with narrowed eyes. "I heard you lit a girl's hair on fire in your Home Ec class." How he knew about that was beyond her.

"That wasn't due to lack of skill," Rhaenyra said, leaning on one hip as she watched his suspicion rise. "That was due to lack of impulse control."

Daemon hummed, his hand trailing over the doorknob leading to the entrance. "Maybe put your hair up."

She smiled, playfully dismissing his comment, "Get out of here."

The sight of his departing back left an indelible mark that had her reeling in its sudden intensity. However, she swiftly rebounded from the fleeting melancholy, recognizing an opportunity to indulge in her insatiable curiosity by delving into every nook and cranny of his home. She moved stealthily through the empty rooms, navigating with practiced ease despite the desolate atmosphere. There were certainly no juicy skeletons in his closetand while she searched the guestrooms, she similtaneously snooped about his skin care products.

"Don't have a routine my arse," she muttered, moving aside Shisedo and SK-II.

Upon discovering her uncle's lack of measuring utensils, she reluctantly relinquished her baking aspirations. However, there was one place that held a special allure, capturing her heart during her previous visit. "Where have you been hiding," sshe whispered to herself, her dress discarded as she stood in her undergarments, circling the jacuzzi. It seemed as though he had recently installed it, its dark wooden platform enhancing its appeal. It took her a good ten minutes to figure out how to turn it on.

Her father probably would have had one installed, had she only asked. Lately, she hadn't asked anything from him. She already had five unanswered texts from him, asking where she was and asking her to call him. Asking, asking, asking.

The gentle breeze whispered through the air, rustling nearby foliage, and carrying the intoxicating scent of blooming flowers. She liked how the waters overlooked the darkening sky, as the New York skyline couldn't get more beautiful from high up. She loved the high towers that allowed her to see where the ocean met the sky. She swam to the edge of the body of water, near the jets, letting her back rest against the swooping waters as she grabbed her glass. While she probably couldn't bake, she could make a fine negroni.

She was enjoying life when Alicent called.

"Tell me why I just covered for you?" Alicent broke the silence with words that cut through the atmosphere, shattering the tranquil stillness that enveloped the penthouse. Amidst this intimate ambience, Rhaenyra found herself immersed in the depths of her second negroni, the ruby-hued concoction swirling within her glass like a vibrant elixir.

In the wake of her indulgence, she had traversed the penthouse with a carefree abandon, her feet treading upon the cool, polished surface. With each languid step, droplets of water cascaded from her silhouette, creating a trail behind her every step. The remnants of her aquatic escapade remained untouched, puddles reflecting the play of light.Evaporation would take care of it,Rhaenyra thought with a nonchalant sniff.

"Dad called you?" Rhaenyra asked, resting her chin in her arms that lay on the soft wood. She looked over the edge, the cityscape sprawled with vibrant hues of purpose and life. The rhythmic pulse of life reverberated through the streets, in the alleys—and it was terrifying. There was the sprawling architecture, its majestic landmarks reaching skyward, beyond the clouds and hidden from view. She could throw herself right over the edge.

Oh my god, go to therapy,Rhaenyra thought, closing her eyes and trying to bat away the thought.

"Like nine times. He's worried, Rhaenyra," Alicent told her in a tone that stripped away her own age, all nineteen years, reducing Rhaenyra to the wide-eyed innocence of a twelve-year-old girl. "And after the entire Sebastian incident, he's actually being quite lenient."

"I thought I told you never to speak that name to me again," Rhaenyra said firmly, flipping on her back and putting the phone on speaker.

"I thought you said you were over it," Alicent shot back before her voice grew soft. "I told him you were staying with me, so please, at least tell me where you are so I can feel better about lying."

"Rooftop jacuzzi, safe and sound," Rhaenyra replied, choosing not to disclose the details of her turbulent day—almost getting arrested in the morning, being caught with a significant amount of cocaine that triggered the search dogs into a frenzy, or about the girl who nearly overdosed. Or about the sister who jumped her with her two friends. Alicent, despite being the closest thing Rhaenyra had to a sibling, was not always the most understanding.

Moreover, Rhaenyra wasn't ready to hear how terrible of a person she was, as if she didn't already know. Criticism from everyone else, she could handle, but from Alicent? Losing her would be an unbearable blow.

"You are impossible. Whose jacuzzi?" Alicent asked, and the worry in her voice touched a tiny part of the light left in Rhaenyra's shrivelling heart.

"Uncle Daemon. I helped myself while he was out," Rhaenyra replied nonchalantly, extending her hand out into the open sky, admiring her manicure before she noticed that her nail had chipped on that stupid bitch's nose ring.

"Thank god," Alicent exclaimed dramatically. "Why are you there?" Alicent's voice lowered now that she knew her friend's location.

Without looking, Rhaenyra lifted her phone lazily, taking a photo of the breathtaking view and sending it to Alicent.

"Oh," Alicent uttered, a momentary pause on the other end. "Okay, that's fair. I forgive and understand. How was your first session?"

"He said all that?" Alicent asked, her voice high.

"I didn't go." Rhaenyra had already lied enough, so she wouldn't lie about this and leave a sour taste in their friendship. She was still gazing at the clouds painting the sky in soft patchwork, noting the dark clouds on the horizon that threatened to move over every piece of beautiful baby blue and orange. One minute, it would be sweltering heat, and the next, it would be cold and grey.

"Oh," Alicent couldn't conceal the disappointment in her voice, and although it was difficult for Rhaenyra to hear, she was grateful that she was spared from a lecture. Contrary to what everyone presumed, she wasn't a child and had no desire to be pitied or assisted. She just wanted space so she could learn to breathe in this world without her mother.

"I'll think about going," Rhaenyra forced out the words, reaching for her Negroni.

"I went to one before," Alicent's voice sounded small, carrying a hint of pain that Rhaenyra hadn't fully grasped until now. Sometimes, be it selfishness or what, Rhaenyra forgot that she had lost a mother too. "It's not an immediate fix and it's hard, especially with everyone always asking if you are okay as if they want you to say yes so it's easier for them."

Rhaenyra remained silent, searching for the right words to express that she didn't want to talk. She wanted to drink and wait for the rain to drown her. "I'll try again. Tomorrow or the day after. Eventually."

"I like his roof," Alicent said with a laugh. Rhaenyra tried to speak for a bit longer, talk as they used to, but the words grew heavy and the weight of them made her sink further and further in the water. Eventually, she ran out of them and the conversation became one-sided. In the end, not even that.

And then it was over before the first raindrop fell against her nose. Rhaenyra let it, the mixture of the warm water underneath and chill above made her feel as if she were being tugged in different directions. Her eyes were heavy as the call ended, leaving her slumped against the edge of the tub. Her watchful stare was trained on the stars as if they could swallow all the secrets that she dared not utter to Alicent Hightower.

The breeze could take each utterance with solemn and unbiased resolve. Perhaps even lock them securely in the asteroid belt.The breeze wouldn't judge a horrid girl.

She watched her Negroni begin to overflow, but she grabbed it, dumping the water and alcohol over the side. Down below, an army of umbrellas forged a path through the hectic streets of Manhattan, their bright colors cutting through the grey skies like an ode to hope.What was that like? Rhaenyra felt as if time had stopped. She dreamed of a life beyond autumn, but all she could feel the cool droplets trailing down her face, blurring her vision.

She dropped the glass over the roof and watched it fall down below, into the city that never stops.

"That was crystal," Daemon said, and an umbrella appeared above her head. She glanced up at him, wiping away some of her drenched bangs. "And a gift."

"From who?" Rhaenyra asked, gazing up at him as his eyes caressed nearly every part of her, perhaps even the parts that may have never been touched before. She even felt him against parts that Sebastian never had the chance to brush, even when she thought he had.They flashed with lightning, gently tracing over her nerves with electric currents of heat that she didn't comprehend. The sultry, echoing thunder was united with the sky itself, accompanied by a distant flash of lightning, summoning forth a storm so unexpectedly that she felt betrayed by her own body.

What the hell is happening to me? Rhaenyra remained without an answer, devoid of any desire to seek one, and determined not to unravel the enigma that had befallen her.

"Can't remember. But if you want to continue lobbing the rest of them, try a better aim," Daemon remarked, his gaze traversing the expanse of the rooftop. "Looks like you missed."

A slight upward twitch graced Rhaenyra's lips as she slowly rose from the water, only to realize that she was standing there in her brassiere. Hastily, she descended back into the comforting embrace of the bubbling water. "I didn't think to bring a bathing suit."

Daemon, already in motion, extended her abandoned dress in one hand, while offering a towel with the other. Rhaenyra accepted it, her eyebrows arching in surprise. "You left piles of water on my Persian rug. Looks like the Titanic down there."

"Ah," Rhaenyra said, evaporation be damned.

"And you raided my liqueur cabinet, but can't say I was surprised that you preferred this to baking. Next time, however." Daemon still held the umbrella, pointedly looking out to the sky as she stood from the jacuzzi and wrapped the towel around herself. "Perhaps look at a weather report."

"I liked it," she said, ringing out her hair over the water as he turned off the jets. "Relaxing, up until the thunder."

"I am sure you did, heathen," he said, placing his palm on her back, just over the towel. "Come on before someone looks up in search of who almost murdered them with a crystal glass."

"Couldn't you just buy their silence?" Rhaenyra riposted, letting him lead her back out toward the stairs that led back down to the lower levels of the penthouse. He shoots her a quick sideways smile, which was cool because who even needs lungs? Breathing was overrated.

"Some people, Rhaenyra, can't be bought," he told her as they walked down the stairs in tandem, her body sloshing water with every step as her feet made wet prints on the wood.

"Is that how Ms Yumiko rolled with your shoplifting spree story," Rhaenyra asked with a smile towards her uncle as they made their way into the lounge where she clutched the towel to her. He was pointedly not looking at her direction as he proceeded past her and towards his liquor cabinet, situated in the adjoining space between the lounge and the kitchen. Leaning against the entryway, she observed his movements intently. "At least you managed to bury the insider trading."

"2007 was a dark year, and Ms Yumiko was c*nt," Daemon said, now pausing in front of the busted lock to turn and look at Rhaenyra.

"It's a craft of patience and I didn't have it. Also, you're out of lime," she said with a shrug, leaving out how she shattered the shackle with the hammer she found under his sink.

Daemon's skilled hands pried the shattered padlock from the cabinet, the sharp metallic clink echoing through the room as he nonchalantly tossed it onto the counter. "I distinctly recall teaching you this lock," he remarked, a hint of amusem*nt lacing his voice.

Rhaenyra halted in her tracks, glancing down at her drenched dress, the fabric clinging to her hands. She raised an eyebrow, a touch of exasperation evident in her tone. "I can't possibly remember every single word you say, Daemon. I'm not a computer, you know." She paused for a moment, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. "Do you have something I could wear? This dress is thoroughly soaked."

Across the room, Daemon stood by the ornate liquor cabinet, his back straight and his presence commanding. He grasped a crystal decanter, pouring a measure of amber liquid into a heavy-bottomed glass. His piercing gaze locked onto Rhaenyra, a mixture of intensity and cool detachment. Her pulse fluttered like a trapped butterfly, a secret rhythm she desperately sought to conceal.It feels like heart disease. Am I dying?Rhaenyra thought with no small amount of horror.

Daemon's eyes moved on, refusing to linger on her for more than a fleeting moment. With measured strides, he moved past her, his presence permeating the room. "You dedicated your entire day and night to inconveniencing me, haven't you?"

She settled herself onto the wooden lounge chair while he ventured off to retrieve something for her to wear. It granted her a fleeting moment to literally slap her stupid face. "We're not doing that," she whispered to herself, her face cradled in her hands as she sought refuge in the solace of her palms so she could bury those feelings in a bed of asphodel.

I wish I were dead, she thought.

Her thoughts continued to meander along this melancholic path until he returned, unceremoniously depositing the clothes atop her head. Swiftly, she reached out and retrieved them, her gaze settling upon the sweatshirt that clearly did not belong to him, evident from its feminine design.There was also a pair of black leggings, once more, definitely not his.

Suppressing a burgeoning smile, her lips pressed together in an attempt to conceal her amusem*nt, "These belong to one of your girlfriends?"

"Sometimes they leave them around the house so they can feign the need to come back and pick them up," Daemon said with a slight snigg*r that was covered in the glass of whiskey he had lifted from the counter.

She stared down at the outfit with a mirror of his expression. "That's genius. I should take notes."

"Get dressed, Rhaenyra. You've gotten enough water on my floor," he said, shaking his head. She quickly did so, locking herself in the bathroom and stripping off her clothes. It felt weird to not be wearing anything under leggings, but not any weirder than wet underwear. She practically drowned in the leggings, and she turned around to inspect her flat ass. Obviously, this girl never missed a day at the gym.

She frowned, clicking her tongue and knawing on her bottom lip. "Alright. That does it," Rhaenyra said, walking out of the bathroom in the leggings that fit just enough to stay up. "I'm going to commit. I'm signing up for Perfomix."

Daemon snorted into his whiskey, and she decided there was something inhuman about drinking it on the rocks. She didn't care how much he defended the quality of the alcohol. "I hope they reject your application," he said, referring to the exclusivity to the gym that denied most who applied.

"I am a Targaryen with an amazing social media presence," she said, leaning over the counter to grab the whiskey that he had placed next to him. He continued to scroll through his phone while she brought his glass up to her nose and sniffed. She took a sip, wincing as she felt the taste burn her tongue. "I am convinced you drink this to look cool."

Daemon smiled, glancing over at her from his phone. "Is it working?"

"Not in the slightest," she said, peeking over at his phone. "Who are we texting?"

"We?" Daemon said with a quirk of a brow, his eyes falling into a half-mast that shouldn't have looked so gorgeous. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"I seem to recall you mentioning getting a place in the city," Daemon said, the subject nearly causing her heart to still. She ran a tongue over her lips, and over the tender flesh of her cut. His eyes were intrusive, nearly puncturing her like a needle into a balloon. "What happened to that?"

"I don't know," Rhaenyra said carefully, as it had been something her mother supported. Independence, closer to school, and arguments of the like had been made. They had been in the process of the purchase when one of the signatures on the dotted line disappeared. Now, the future was something she resolutely ignored. If she didn't put her entire attention on the day at hand, she was afraid the impenetrable dark on the horizon would engulf her.

Daemon reached over, capturing one of her hands. It was a simple touch, something so soft and fleeting. "And what about hiking? Reading? Art? Piano? I seem to recall you liked all that."

Rhaenyra's teeth dug into the flesh of her lip. She hadn't touched a piano in months. She hadn't read any more than a text message in months. Art? She barely used emojis anymore.

"I'm going to see a therapist," she said, exhausted already. "I'm going to see one. I'm fine." The smile that had been on her face disappeared. He let go of her hand, standing and her eyes followed his motions.

"Come on, up," he said, and she barely realized how malleable she was until she was standing at his order. "I got you something."

She followed him, barely realizing she was doing it. They walked past the lounge, onto the next room, her favourite, with the window planes overlooking the city below. The fireplace had been switched on, likely sometime while she had still been trying to drown in the rain. The crackling heat melded with the rose candle that was lit on the centre coffee table, the scent of vanilla and flowers wafting into the air.

Near the windows where New York was lit in the city lights, was a grand piano.

When Daemon struck the first few keys, terribly at that, she nearly laughed. She was certain if he continued to do so, Steinway would come down personally to rub his name off the piano. The black bench was made of quality leather, which she minded because animals were adorable, but it felt amazing when her shaking hand touched it.

"That's awful," she said, hand on her face as if to cover the sound of her laugh. "You really have Van Gogh's ear for music."

She stared at him from in between her fingers as he leaned against the new piano. Her mother had driven her to all her piano lessons, but she hadn't known she wanted to learn until she saw Daemon play when she was seven. Now, the memories were dredged up from the dark and she glided her hand over the keys.

"Do you want to play something?" Daemon asked, and she glanced up at him, wondering if he had ever looked more beautiful than in the city lights on his left, mixing with the firelight on the right. Her lips parted, and she sat.

"It will sound bad," she whispered, staring down at her hands, but felt more comfortable looking at his. Fingers, she believed, bore truths that the face often concealed. Faces could be altered, guarded, and veiled, but fingers remained steadfast. Everyone forgot their fingers. Her own digits, petite and dexterous, had acquired strength and suppleness from countless hours of diligent practice. They were slender, elongated, and capable of producing mellifluous melodies. And maybe once, they had.

Yet, what purpose did they serve now? For the first time, she could see the real danger of her hands, and what they did to the human mind when it wasn't restricted by drugs. Flat white fear coiled in her stomach when she felt his hands cover her own. He sat down on the bench next to her, facing the opposite direction, his own hands tense around hers, even as his face was indifferent.

"I don't deserve it," she said, her voice softer than the keys. "I don't deserve it."

She wanted to bash apart the gift, she didn't want to reveal it. This secret was supposed to be between her and the breeze.

She felt his hands slide away when she played the first note, and those beautiful keys strung together in soft succession. It was the pauses, however, between the notes where the art resides. Or so her mother said. The sad, slow music filtered into the small hours of the early morning. It's a narration of everything she couldn't hide. And through the myriad of the morning dew, the twinkling stars that would soon enough fade with the rising sun, she stopped.

"I was angry when I found out," Rhaenyra whispered, staring up at him through hooded lashes. He wasn't looking at her, instead, his back had rested against the piano keys, facing the window planes as his steady blink showed her that he was listening. Rhaenyra played the last note, a sweet melody. Did even he realize it was the one I first heard him play? Tchaikovsky would be proud. "When I found out she was pregnant."

Her hands curled into her lap, but she felt him shoulder-to-shoulder with her.

"I didn't want a brother. I," her voice cracked, and a teardrop splashed against her clenched fingers. They followed in quiet succession. "I told her I hoped he didn't make it. I told her—" Her voice broke off, her nose burning, and her vision blurring. "I told her—I told her."

Daemon dragged her into his arms, and accepting each of her clumsy words, the secrets she had buried. In between the breeze, the melody, and his tight embrace, she finally pried open the lockbox of words she kept hidden.

Chapter 14: Velaryon Love Affair

Chapter Text

Ｆｏｕｒｔｅｅｎ

𝓋𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓇𝓎𝑜𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝒻𝒻𝒶𝒾𝓇

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

How it happened, Rhaenyra did not know. One moment, she was minding her own business, the next, she was a mother. Not literally of course, since the sperm weren’t swimming past her IUD. Modern medicine truly was a gift.

Now, she was holding Aemond Targaryen like a football and Aegon was throwing a tantrum on the ground near the door.

Also, he was absolutely wrecking her dress. The football—not the kid who was sobbing after she called him an accident. Then, she went on to explain what an accident was. "I didn't mean it," Rhaenyra said, not meaning that.

"I wanna go home!" Aegon screamed, and Rhaenyra was losing her chill seconds at a time.

"I want that too!" Rhaenyra screamed right back at him. Her, the one with the law degree, was losing a fight with a toddler.

She and Alicent were doing better. They were making strides. That was how this happened and how she came to her, on this the day of her cousin's wedding.

The Godfather would not be proud of her.

"I want the Skittles," Aegon said, now sitting on his fat arse and staring up at her with that glazed look on his face. He had the signature Targaryen hair, a bright silver, but his eyes were all Alicent. They were dark brown, specks of muted gold, and Rhaenyra suspected he had plucked them from the devil himself.

He had tossed the macaroni she made him, flinging it like a frisbee onto the wall and ruining the new beige paint job that she had done in the sitting room. That's right, she had done it and went all the way to Home Depot to pick out paint swatches because f*ck Daemon. She was capable of doing things on her own.

Except, apparently, taking care of children. Aemond, unlike his brother, was a quiet one and she might have forgotten she was holding him if not for how he chewed through the literal puffy sleeve of her dress. She noticed this post-macaroni, where the short ruffles were tucked into his teeth and covered in slobber.

Now, she was attempting to ignore that he ruined her Dolce & Gabbana dress as she flipped the quesadilla with one clumsy hand. Of course, Aegon was still hungry, but he hadn't complied when she said for him to lick the macaroni off her new goddamned walls. Luckily, that didn't make him cry, instead, it made him splash his juice directly at her. So now, she smelled like a rotten apple and was attempting to cover the urge to drown Alicent's child because she was trying to be better.

"I'm putting my anger behind me," Rhaenyra urged herself as Aegon screamed from the corner that she told him to sit in. She had been surprised that he complied but immediately realized that compliance did not equate to him being less of a bother.

"Scaly!" Aegon yelled, his voice grating on her nerves, causing her nose to wrinkle in annoyance.

"I will not answer to that nickname," she told him, her fingers tightening on the handle of her spatula. She turned her gaze onto Aemond, who was staring at her, unblinking. "You are creeping me out."

"Scaly!" Aegon screamed again, and Rhaenyra pointed the spatula at him.

"What?" Rhaenyra exclaimed, her voice rising in a way that a passerby might think she was possessed by a demon. I have a LAW degree. What the f*ck, she thought with growing self-irritation.

"I broke my dragon!" Aegon held up Sunfyre, who had by now been super glued back together twice by his mother. It somehow managed to look more sh*tty every time Rhaenyra saw it.

"What do you want me to do about it?" Rhaenyra asked, calming herself down so she didn't get into a fight with a three-year-old. 'He's turning four next week, you should come to his party' is what Alicent would say, to which Rhaenyra would reply, 'f*ck that.'

"Fix it, Scaly!" Aegon said, holding up the clay dragon which he had snapped in half.

"I thought you wanted to eat something?" Rhaenyra replied, to which her half-brother shook his head.

"My dragon is broken!" Aegon yelled, speaking as though he truly were a prince or a king.

"I thought you wanted food," she repeated, pick one you c*nt.

Aegon seemed to consider this, before standing and stumbling in that way an idiot three-year-old, almost four, would do. He made it to the chair, waiting like a prince for her to lift him into it. She did not move, not trusting herself to hold him right now. She might just try to put him in the washing machine on the delicate cycle.

Stop that, she ordered her own intrusive thoughts.

Aegon, perhaps sensing he was in danger, climbed atop the chair himself. She cut up the quesadillas and a spoonful of applesauce, promising to turn him into this very same substance if he flung a single thing at her face again. She placed it in front of him as Aemond went back to chewing on her ruffles. By now, she was desensitized from it.

"I broke my dragon," Aegon muttered, his voice lowering, his head facing down, staring into his lap. Rhaenyra watched him, mistrust in her stance as she balanced Aemond on her hip and watched him with narrow eyes.

"Well, we all make mistakes," she told him with careful hesitation as he looked up at her. His dark brown eyes conflicted with that of his mother, who Rhaenyra was convinced knew the torment she was leaving on her doorstep. Same colour, same cheekbones, pure evil.

"Even you?" Aegon asked, his pouty face making Rhaenyra's eyes narrow.

"Yeah, sure," she said with a sigh. He took a slow bite of the quesadilla, examining it, waiting for it to come alive and fight him. He swallowed.

"This food is mistaking!" he stuttered out, spitting the food back on the plate.

"You're a mistake," she muttered in Valyrian, and he began to cry. She raised her hands in the air. "Oh, so now you know Valyrian?"

His crying finally seemed to penetrate Aemond's delicate little ears. Small children can become startled by the most mundane of sounds. A siren that sounds like the world was ending or a car door from the distance that nearly resembles the sky falling down if heard for the first time. Aemond had to have heard Aegon crying hundreds of times, but Rhaenyra concluded that it was the 101st time that made him become intolerable.

Now the once quiet baby let out a scream so loud that she might have lost her own hearing. She held him up high, but no matter how she stretched her arms, he was not far enough. Her eyes went to her clock, hanging up high near the fireplace, where she was counting the minutes for Alicent to return from her hospital visit. She shook Aemond, attempting a clumsy rock as she saw that one mother from Subway do for her child. It did not work, and if anything, Rhaenyra was starting to believe that Aemond Targaryen did not like affection.

"Hey Alexa! How do you get babies to stop crying?" Rhaenyra shouted across the room, about ready to lose her mind.

"There are instructional videos available for this. Would you like to enable them?" Alexa said back from across the room.

"No!" Aegon yelled, and Alexa stopped talking.

"I knew it," Rhaenyra told her brother, who was wiping away his own crocodile tears. "You are smart and you are devious," she said in Valyrian, before switching back. "How many kisses do you need to make it better?"

"Zero!" Aegon screamed. You should love your friend's children, even if you neither like nor want children. Rhaenyra had been repeating that to herself to no avail.

"Come on, stop crying!"

He immediately stopped. "What do I got for being good?"

"My love and affection."

He began to cry again. "I don't want that!"

"Sweet Jesus," she said, setting Aemond down on the table to rub her own temples, her head splitting with a migraine. She hadn't even begun to get ready for the wedding, her hair was a mess, her favourite dress had a hole in it, and Alicent wasn't due for another hour. "I'll fix your dragon. I'll buy you a new one. Just stop."

Aegon stopped crying, "buy a new one?"

Evil. Spoiled. Smart, Rhaenyra decided, and now that the air calmed, Aemond did too. So, she dug through her sh*t and found her tablet, first saving all her school notes to the Cloud. Aemond stayed sprawled on the table, clapping his hands against the surface while she googled 'why do children hate me?' In response, she found herself on a Reddit post that said 'children are an excellent judge of character. The problem is probably with you'.

"f*cking rude," Rhaenyra muttered as she finally placed the tablet in front of Aegon, contemplating her bribe.

"What's say we call a truce? You play whatever game you want silently while I get ready?" Rhaenyra said as the kid started scooping up his apple sauce with his tiny hand fisted over the plastic spoon. He stared up at her, big wide eyes now innocent as he pursed his lips.

"No," he said, but took the tablet anyway and she waited for him to dip it in his food like a french fry, but he just tapped the screen on the dragon app she downloaded while on Reddit.

"Cool," Rhaenyra said, glancing over to her Alexa. Looks like I am a natural, who needs your instructional videos, she thought with a sigh of relief. She pulled out her phone, opening the wedding group chat with Laena, Laenor, and Qarl. She proceeded to drop a photo of the two kids, Aemond, crawling over to the tablet to see what Aegon was doing and Aegon, telling him to back off. Truly, picturesque.

Rhaenyra: they call me the child whisperer xoxo

read 12:43 pm

Laena: the f*ck

Laena: there's macaroni in his hair

Laena: child whisperer lolol

Qarl: bitch I know you aint

Laenor: i want one

Laenor: no actually I want a teacup pig

read 12:46 pm

Qarl: thought that's what you were here for

Qarl: we looking for your new sister???

Laenor: no! I fell into a meme!

Laena: ya'll too much. stressing out the child whisperer

delivered 12:48 pm

"You ruined my whole life," Aegon screamed at his little brother when Aemond took his quesadilla and proceeded to chomp down his mostly toothless mouth on Aegon's lunch.

"I thought you hated it," Rhaenyra muttered to herself, nose wrinkling. Already, she was walking up to her two half brothers, lifting Aemond who was chomping on his brother's food and getting it everywhere in the process. She proceeded to take it away, feeding a piece of it in one small bite. "Okay, Aegon. Let's go. I have to get ready."

Getting the kid up was a nightmare—truly Rhaenyra would have nightmares about it—but soon enough, she managed to get in her groomsmaid dress. She only had to endure Aegon's commentary like 'ew' and 'scaly back' during the process. She was in the middle of singing to her songs playing on her Bluetooth when he begged her to 'let it sing on its own', to which she responded by turning up the speakers and singing louder.

And, of course, that was when Alicent walked in as Aegon screamed, "stop!"

Rhaenyra dove for her phone, desperately trying to mute the blaring song from her now-unlocked screen. Tubes of lipstick clattered to the floor as she scrambled for it, meeting Alicent's disapproving gaze when she finally silenced it. The resemblance between Alicent and Aegon was obvious - even his expressions were inherited. Rhaenyra stammered an excuse, feeling the icy chill emanating from Alicent's arched brow. They both have the same resting bitch face, Rhaenyra thought with a sigh.

"This isn't what it looks like," Rhaenyra said quickly as she nervously cleared her throat.

"It looks like you were arguing with a toddler," Alicent said, her voice light and airy. "Which I had expected when I asked a child to take care of another child."

Rhaenyra grabbed her bronzer, continuing to contour her face. "Fair, but rude." Rhaenyra let out a sigh as she applied the rest of her routine. She tried to think what a good friend might ask. Mending bridges, integrity, zen. My sh*te mantra. "The visit? How did it go?"

Alicent was already next to Aegon, who was immersed in his tablet. "It went well. Um," she wiped her hands against her long dress, having obviously gotten ready quickly before coming back. She was showing far more, that tiny bump looking less like something people would ignore. When the bleeding started this morning while they began to get ready and when Rhaenyra had only done the base of her foundation, Alicent had nearly cried.

"Where's dad?" Rhaenyra asked, carefully. They hadn't spoken much since his birthday, but Rhaenyra had seen how her father snapped into action. He had placed his hand on Alicent's belly and looked lost. They didn't even question it when Rhaenyra said she'd watch the kids before they were out of the house.

"He dropped me off. Had to meet with Corlys," Alicent said, her hand on her belly before her eyes finally glided over to Rhaenyra with a smile. "It's just stress apparently. I need to relax, apparently."

"Then you should be sitting down," Rhaenyra said, waving her hand over to the canopy bed of her bedroom. "Apparently."

Alicent's smile was gentle, lifting Aemond from his placement on the ground, and playing with his toys. She sat them both on the bed, rocking him on her knee. "How was it? Really?"

Your son is evil, Rhaenyra almost said, glancing at Aegon playing on the tablet through her vanity mirror. She stopped herself. You're supposed to like your friend's kids. You're supposed to like your half-brothers, she thought, cutting off her own negativity. "Awful," Rhaenyra ended up saying anyway, waving her hand towards her Dolce & Gabbana dress with the missing sleeve, lying on the ground.

Alicent took a single look at it and let out a laugh that lit up her entire face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I can buy you a new one."

"I wore that to the 2018 Met Gala," Rhaenyra said, glancing at her from through the mirror as she applied a second coating of her mascara. "Literally, Sara is going to freak when she finds out." Her personal stylist took Rhaenyra's fashion personally. Alicent only continued to laugh, placing kisses atop Aemond's head, who shied away from the touch as if it burned him.

"I can send her a gift basket," Alicent suggests.

"Alas," Rhaenyra said, moving to the other eye to apply the mascara. "Not all can be solved with a Hightower goody bag." She paused, the words having just came out without thinking, words from a past they once shared together. A past where Alicent wasn't her mother. "Targaryen, I mean."

Alicent was smiling fondly down at Aemond, not looking her way and not looking to have minded the slip-up. "It takes getting used to," Alicent said in a whisper, but it reached Rhaenyra anyway. Alicent pressed another kiss to Aemond, who now tried to hit her gently, all but saying 'stop'. "It's weird for me too, you know?"

"Yeah," Rhaenyra whispered right back, lips pursed.

"Rhaenyra?" Alicent's gentle voice cut through the tension, and the light ease in it slowly cleared it. She was watching her curiously from through the mirror, making Rhaenyra feel as though she were being examined as one would the colours on a butterfly's wings. She acted as though any abrupt movement or sound of a voice might cause it to flutter away. Rhaenyra thought she was going to say something serious, but Alicent's brows only furrowed. "Why is there macaroni in my son's hair?"

The last wedding Rhaenyra Targaryen had seen was one of vampires who sparkled in the sunlight, which was why the sight of Laenor Velaryon, covered in glitter, was not so bad. Laena was currently assuring him that it would all be fine and that it wasn't even that engrained into his suit. Never one to be a liar, Rhaenyra thought now was a good time to start with nobody mentioning the disco ball in the room. Three groomsmaids occupied the room while the rest lingered with the guests. Ella Tyrell, a pretentious girl who made her living off TikTok videos, fidgeted and adjusted her dress straps. Meanwhile, Rhaenys Velaryon's silent anger filled the room like a thick cloud of smoke as she meticulously rolled a lint remover over her son's suit.

"This can't be happening," Laenor repeated, looking near pale, blanching when he stared at the lint roller that his mother separated from his clothing. "I am going to murder them."

Suffice it to say, whoever gave the Stark children the glitter gun was dead to the Velaryon family, should Rhaenys or Laenor get ahold of them. Rhaenyra had her suspicions, but it was not enough to go on as apparently Rickon and Alyanne were not rats. Rhaenyra was going to find Cregan Stark and tell him of his son Rickon's actions, but Cregan scared the actual hell out of her so she was working up to it.

So, here they were, cleaning up Laenor who looked about ready to cry.

"You know," Ella began, finally speaking into the terse silence in the room that she could not read. Laena was shaking her head likely hoping to get the girl to stop before she began, but Ella must have been blind as well as dumb. "We place so much energy into our wedding day, but it's not even the biggest day of our lives. Laenor, you and Qarl love each other. Your big days happen after today. It's not the pledge of love you give or what you wear, but the act of fulfilling the pledge you make that is important. It's all only just begun."

Rhaenyra opened up her phone, texting Laena directly.

Rhaenyra: bitch what

Rhaenyra: make her stop

Rhaenyra: this isn't shakespeare in the park. that suit was 90k

read 4:24 pm

Laena subtly glanced from the text messages and strolled her gaze back towards her cousin in a way that said 'bitch'.

Rhaenys listened to the speech with an absolute stillness that spread silence in the room. Rhaenyra was aware of her own breathing, and Laenor's lack of breath, attempting to find room to push air into his own lungs. His face was blanching, true panic growing instead of anything remotely approaching the ease that Ella was attempting to push upon him. "Rhaenyra, darling," Rhaenys said, breaking the silence like shattering glass. "Perhaps take Miss Tyrell to get some water and sober up."

Ella went to open her mouth, to say 'I haven't drunk a drop', but Rhaenyra had placed a hand on the small of her back, determined to leave as much as she was to get Ella out of there. "Sis, take the out," Rhaenyra muttered, ushering the girl from the small room. The moment they heard the door close behind them, the sound echoing like a crash, Rhaenyra dropped her hand.

"Did I do something wrong?" Ella was certainly a kind girl, if not a bit naive. Of course, Rhaenyra considered anyone who began their introduction to her with, 'you're so funny, you must be a Gemini rising' to be a bit of a freak.

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, "I'm not sure. What does your horoscope say?" sh*te, Rhaenyra, don't make fun of your cousin's friends.

"I was too nervous this morning to check," Ella admitted as they made their way to the hall where the guests all waited impatiently for Laenor, who might very well be crying at the moment.

"How about you get some water, cool off, and wait for Rhaenys to take care of the rest," Rhaenyra suggested, her mood suctioned away and replaced with indifference. She was about to say something more when her phone pinged with a text.

Laena: yo, child whisperer. we never took that glitter gun from rickon. find that little bastard or ims gonna end him

read 4:31 pm

If Laena said it, Rhaenyra believed it without question. She proceeded to ditch Ella Tyrell, deciding to look about the venue for the two kids who might just die tonight. Her heels echoed against the tiled floor as she hurried past floral displays and decorations, scanning empty tables and neatly arranged chairs. White arrangements adorned the walls, providing a stark contrast to the light purple bricks. The ancient brick walls were draped with modern curtains, creating a blend of old and new with the sleek lighting.

There was a gust of warm garden air to her right, signifying the doors had been opened. Rhaenyra immediately hiked up her gown, her walk quickening as much as possible for the shoes she wore, as she made her way past the golden room that showed Cipriani's venue was no joke and Laena could decorate like a pro.

She shoved open the garden doors, and spotted the giggling children, running past the twinkling lights, and away from where the guests were currently waiting for the ceremony to begin. They'd likely be there a bit longer, since 60 per cent of any wedding, no matter how expensive, was waiting. "Get back here," Rhaenyra hissed, walking down the steps that led onto the stone path, trying to keep on the stones so that way she didn't sink her heels directly into soft dirt and grass.

"She looks mad," eight-year-old Alyanne said, but she wasn't the one holding the glitter gun. Rickon held it like a marine, letting Rhaenyra know that he'd use it should she get too close. She rushed passed perfumed flowers, strong enough to invade her senses.

"If you drop the gun, we're cool. Even Stevens." You little bastard. Rhaenyra smiled, hopping from one stone to the next as she held the train of her nude dress in her fingers. Laenor had certainly chosen her colour, and she looked amazing wrapped in satin and rustic brown. She had spent an hour adjusting the fabric of the dress, using five safety pins to carefully secure the wrap of material onto one shoulder. If she ended up getting it dirty, no force on this entire earth would keep Rickon Stark away from her petty, revenge-filled, vindictive self.

As if he saw that, Rickon immediately aimed the gun at her, making her feel like the star of an action film. Or perhaps the hot extra. "Seriously?" Rhaenyra asked, wondering why kids were determined to ruin this day for her.

All she wanted was to return for the groom's cake in the parlour, admiring the wedding figures on wheatsheaf and blossoms that looked too good to eat. She wanted to see the many guests, mingle for the great show, and then wish her cousin well for his holiday by the sea. Qarl promised to try his pasty white arse in an attempt at sea-bathing, while Laenor brought his stocks of cerulean blue and burnt umber as an attempt to catch sky and sea in watercolour. Laenor, and this Rhaenyra knew, was hardly a good painter so she was excited to see his clip art drawings.

"Do it," Rhaenyra said, her voice steady, calm, and without emotion. Rickon was a boy, the spitting image of his father, with the same shaggy black hair and his obdurate, yet foolhardy approach. He even had the same dark eyes. Alyanne had already ditched him, running back to hide in her mother's skirts as any good Glover daughter would. "Just so you know, that's all that's keeping me standing still and chill." She already began to remove her heels, preparing for a full-on sprint that made a bit of worry appear on Rickon's face.

Cregan would likely never surrender, but his son appeared to have some sense yet. He tossed the glitter gun on the ground, sprinting the opposite way. Rhaenyra immediately began to put her shoes back on.

"What was the plan? Beat him with your heel?" The voice was low and smooth, sending shivers down her spine like a lover's touch. Rhaenyra bent down, silver heels glinting in the fading sunlight, and secured them around her bare ankle with delicate satin ties.

"Just to be clear," Rhaenyra said, standing and turning to Daemon who was now walking up to lift the glitter gun from the grass with his long, nimble fingers. She was certainly not proud of the imagery in her mind, but she was long past the days she could stop it. "You didn't, like, give them that, did you?"

Daemon snorted as though the very idea was somehow hilarious and ridiculous and beneath him. When he turned to meet her gaze from a small distance across the garden, she was reminded of their embrace at her father's Southampton home. Rhaenyra had unblocked him many times since, began to draft text message after text message, and then promptly reblocked him without sending a single one.

Now, his eyes were scanning down her dress, which fit her tight around the waist, but loose everywhere else. Everywhere his eyes lingered, heat pooled until she was absolutely flush with his stare alone. "You clean up well," he said, referring, likely, to how awful she looked the morning after the jail and the acid. "Nearly a different girl."

"Do women usually thank you for such flattery?" Rhaenyra asked carefully, cutting off her own foolhardy comments. Had she been hoping for more? Of course. She was stupid like that. Perhaps she wanted to see the desire in him that she felt right down to the tips of her toes and back up to her clouded brain.

Had she wanted him to make it clear? Of course she did. Normal rules when it came to men were that they were simple creatures who would make all known should they only feel it. Daemon, however, was not a simple creature and she could stare at him all she wanted, love him all she wanted, and still not completely understand him.

"You're not most women," he told her and proceeded it with their shared laugh as she trailed her manicured hand over her eyes.

"God, never say that to me again," she told him, his cringe line making her subtract 10 hotness points.

"I just might, if not to hear you laugh," he replied, and she slowly trailed her fingers to her neck when a nervous flutter spread in her belly once more. "But alas, I am a married man. I can't remember the last time I said anyone was lovely," Daemon said this as though the notion were humorous or as if he was a loyal man. Rhaenyra doubted the latter.

"Rhea Royce could drop dead tomorrow and you'd probably throw a party, wouldn't you?" Rhaenyra didn't find it particularly amusing since she wasn't quite on his level of callousness.

The trees were bedecked with twinkle lights, the air perfumed, and as she walked closer, she realized that once again they were alone. She was weak, weak for any reason to touch him. She slowly removed the glitter gun from his fingers, which he let go of with ease. Their hands brushed, and she felt like a fool from a play for how much that somewhat palliated her. Or it would have, but unfortunately, all five of her senses had honed in on him. His scent mixed with her perfume in an amorous centrifuge that made her crazy.

He stared down at her, her fingers tightening around the plastic glitter gun. He kept his hands to himself, down at his sides, even when she wanted so badly for them to be at her waist, trailing up to every place that ached for his touch. "Why?" His low voice was stricken with blatant disrespect for his current wife who refused his annulment. "Are you offering?"

The dark and sultry fragrance would perhaps forever be hypnotizing, perhaps always haunting. Rhaenyra wanted to inhale it from his skin, perhaps more, and she didn't know why it was so deeply ingrained in her mind when he wasn't doing anything.

At the very least, male birds did a f*cking mating dance. They flap their wings, engage in building a strong nest, and compete for her affection with others. Daemon Targaryen just had to stand there and she already wanted to drink from his open mouth like a crazy bitch.

Rhaenyra let out a soft laugh, her sides splitting and her body hot. Certainly not how she should feel when joking about murdering his current wife. "You might actually be insane."

"I heard about Criston," Daemon said, and she was reminded of his words before, of her perfect life coming together. With a perfect guy and a perfect degree.

She certainly didn't feel remotely stable, still a child, grasping at adulthood. She felt like a fool, clawing to rise up in a world that would rather her become a human incubator for furthering the Targaryen line.

Her tongue dragged along her bottom lip, his name bringing with it the striking pain and the reminder of the ring she had yet to pick up from the ground. If she grabbed it, touched it, or opened it, she'd have to return it, and she didn't know what closing that door looked like. She didn't know how to approach him or what words he deserved.

An adult indeed, Rhaenyra thought with a self-derisive chuckle at Daemon's comment. "We tried," she said carefully, softly, and he gave her a gentle smile in return, all but saying 'I know you did.'

"I heard he had been," Daemon paused, and she wondered if the words were hard for him too. Rhaenyra imagined communication was, since it was always her attempting to reach through his walls to no avail. She had tried to erect her own in the beginning, in a way to separate those new feelings that came forth at his beck and call. They might as well have been made of paper because every time she tried to erect some barrier, he made her feel stupid for even bothering. "Devoted to you."

Rhaenyra wanted to fling the glitter gun into the bushes, the backs of her eyes burning. "Lots of good that did him." She walked past him, confused and irrationally angry.

She didn't want to talk to him of all people about Criston, but low and behold, here they were. "Rhaenyra." Daemon grabbed her by the arm, and she was aware of the open space, where anyone could traverse and see. They'd see nothing because she wasn't doing this today. Today, she would have a monocle of control. She saw the two of them clearly from the outside, like in a picture.

We were not people. We were a danger sign. A warning to all who approach. 'Stop and thank god because such a luckless fate did not befall you as it befell us. Turn the other way around, keep going, and hope you do better.'

"I am trying to make this better," he said, his voice breaking, just a moment before he had closed himself off once more. Rhaenyra nodded, but she pressed her lips together, hating that she was so aware of how gentle his fingers were when wrapped around her arm. She hated how he cradled her like she was this precious thing that wandered in his midsts. Rhaenyra was not that fragile.

But she read what he was trying to say, knowing that he was trying to fix the familial relationship they had, which was a noble thing. She was just not certain if it were possible to do. She wanted the gentle hands around her, that kind smile, her smile, although she should not want such a thing. Even now, with the way his eyes trailed over her face, her body burning for him, and nothing was ever so delicious or so painful as being so close to him. So close, and yet unable to do f*ck all about it.

"You should have tried three years ago," she said, her anger coming back, and that was not something a few gentle kisses could erase. She went to pull back her arm, but he didn't let go, his grip careful but firm.

"We're not done," he said, eyes heavy upon her, as if he saw everything, every terrible thought or atrocious deed that she ever committed. He saw all of it and had that expression as if to say 'is that all?'

"You abandoned me," she told him, chucking the stupid glitter gun into the bushes and hitting her fist against his chest. Her voice was a hiss, just above a whisper, in Valyrian. He glanced over to the shaking bushes before he was staring back at her, his eyes dark, fixed upon her and reminding her of all her anger and potent lust.

"Abandoned you?" Daemon released her from his grip, and she staggered back a few steps. Stripped of its fragility, the garden looked stoic. Stately lines defined each leaf and stem. Even without colors, every shade was clear and distinct. And right at the centre, where she stood, three huge holly bushes shaded her from the sun like a cool hand pressed against her forehead when she ran a fever as a child. She pictured his hand, brushing down her face in a way so innocent and different from how it was now.

"And now you want to talk when you have made it clear that you did not care one way or another before." Her eyes flashed with anger as she raised her hand and pressed it firmly against his chest. His heart pounded beneath the pressure of her touch, yet she was gentle enough to never cause him any pain. Rhaenyra had always been this way—even now in the heat of the moment, she remained careful not to hurt him.

Yet lately, like a wild stallion that had grown restless in its corral, her control was straining against her grasp. She could feel the adrenaline thrumming through every inch of her body, electric and alive with possibility. But with each passing moment, it grew more difficult to rein in. Each time she tried to hold on, it felt like her hands were being burned by rough rope, leaving behind blisters and calluses as evidence of her struggle.

Frustration, arousal, fury, and hurt. They created and mixed this emotional co*cktail every time they spent more than five minutes together, gathering in this awful exchange as they grew drunk off one another. But most of the time, she felt like she was getting drunk alone.

"You made me feel worthless," she told him, slapping his chest as her heart beat violently with trepidation and despair that she never understood. "Used up." She slapped his chest again, weaker. "And you abandoned me."

"I spared you," he hissed out, and because they were so obviously unlucky, that was when they heard the cheers from a small distance away. Laenor must be arriving soon, the chattering as loud as war cries. Rhaenyra barely heard it, her chest rising and falling with violent gasps. It was teetering over the edge, but she was attempting to regain her peace, her calm, so she could show her face to her cousin.

She turned to walk away from him, but he was quicker, his hand around her upper arm once more.

"I wasn't done," he told her, his voice soft when she wished—needed—for him to yell at her. If he screamed at her, if he shouted, if he even gripped her arm too tightly, she might just be free of it. Of him. Or she could want him regardless and hate herself all the more.

"I don't care," she said in return, closing off and switching away from Valyrian, her voice a mess with hurt and she could barely speak. It wasn't because she was unnerved. She was enraptured, frozen to her spot by his crisp, and terrifyingly cold beauty. She had once found that attraction taboo, something so forbidden to so much as consider, never mind touch. "I'm am not a scarf or a coat that you can just hang in the closet and bring out when you're cold. I'm a person."

That taboo horror was muted by the power of his kiss and the effect it had on her. It was muted—drowned out by him—by his voice that called to her in dreams, that had saved her from the ashes and from following her mother into the fire. He pulled her back out when Aemma had exited from her life like a bullet, only to leave a bleeding hole behind.

His fingers slid from her own, even as she gave him all the chances to speak in the damning silence where he gave her nothing but a lingering touch. Her eyes refuse to let him leave while he stands still, holding her hand, and lingering for as long as possible. His grips her face, fingers against her neck and cupping the back of it.

She lingers next, as if she were drowning, with him keeping her above water. She wanted him to tell her, tell her what he wanted, if he wanted everything to go back to how it was before, five years ago when she was still a little girl who didn't know what was to come. She wanted him to tell her that he wanted nothing to do with her. Say anything.

But he doesn't and she separates herself, walking back down the path.

Nobody died at Laenor and Qarl's wedding, so perhaps that was a testament to a pleasant affair. There were no words that could be uttered to justify the beauty of the grooms walking down the aisle in all their grace. There were heightened emotions flooding the room when Qarl entered first, trying to conceal his anticipation and disquieting excitement at the idea of sharing his life with someone he held in high esteem. When Laenor entered next, everyone stopped, but Qarl's face had lit up, that anxiety that had been present earlier ebbing away. It can be said that all who witnessed the grand love had found themselves overwhelmed with joy as Laenor walked down the sparkling path.

Of course, that was not all that could be said. Laenor had at least fifty twinkle lights, spread over the room, and most were shining directly at him. There were still bits of glitter, stuck to his skin, to his suit, but that boy rocked it with poise. Rhaenyra spotted Rickon Stark, pointedly hushed next to his father, but he could not hide the slight smile that signified a boy who was proud of his misdeeds.

He met Rhaenyra's stare from across the many rows with her making the pointed 'I'm watching you' gesture and motioning to slash a finger across her throat. He immediately paled, looking to his dad as if Cregon Stark would ever defend his son, should he find out the damage he did to the poor photographer.

It was in the quiet, the moments between one set of vows to the next, that Rhaenyra's eyes swept over Laenor's sparkling skin.

This is the skin of a killer Bella, Rhaenyra thought, her fists clenched into her dress, shoulders shaking as she snorted out a repressed laugh. Rhaenys immediately brought her harsh and silencing gaze to her, effectively making Rhaenyra's sense of humour as dry as her sex life.

Mysaria had arrived for the reception, looking like a 10/10 in gold. After everything that had happened, Rhaenyra had nearly forgotten the invite, but Mysaria had approached Daemon just as planned. A soft kiss to his cheek in greeting had the Royces, five tables over, practically ready to start a fight. Rhaenyra smiled in her champagne as she watched Daemon's brows rise for a mere moment of surprise as Mysaria walked straight past him in that airy way she perfected from years of not caring what people think. She then proceeded to sit in the empty seat next to Daemon's assigned chair, her long dark hair dragging over her shoulder as she scooted in.

"Oh Rhaenyra," Laena whispered at Rhaenyra's side as everyone filed into the room. "Your uncle is about to earn a slap." Laena was positively fuming at Daemon's audacity, which made Rhaenyra have to swallow down her own smug sense of victory so her cousin wouldn't turn her wrath back around on her. "If this turns into another incident, I swear to god, I will cut his balls off and feed it to Vhagar." Vhagar, Laena's dog, was a giant Great Pyrenees and probably too old to eat any balls for her anymore, but Rheanyra didn't say this aloud.

Rhaenyra glanced over Laena's shoulder, where Daemon was dragging his chair out to sit next to Mysaria with an insouciant expression that Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed at. "I'd be more concerned about Rhea's brother," Rhaenyra told her cousin, pointing to the dark-haired boy who looked like the spitting image of his sister. "Daemon will always wait for others to act first."

"You know what? Whatever, I've done my part," Laena said, patting Rhaenyra's shoulder. "What happens, happens, my brother has his ring. Toasts begin in twenty. You wrote it right?"

Rhaenyra's smile thinned, having written it last night, late, after procrastinating in favour of her Bar Exam studies so she could start calling herself an actual lawyer. Laena shook her head, patting her cousin's shoulder and heading to the Velaryon table.

Laena waited until the plates had been cleared from dinner, then stood up and tapped her glass with a fork. She paused for a few seconds, finding and holding the gaze of each person at the table. Her voice trembled as she spoke about how grateful she was to be surrounded by so much love on their special day, and many of the guests wiped away tears as her words sank in. Rhaenyra finally stood before the gathered crowd, her gaze sweeping across their faces as she gathered her courage. She felt tears prickling at the corner of her eyes and had to remind herself that crying publicly would no longer be an option. Maybe once, maybe long ago, she would have been a weaker sort, turning her cousin's day about her and her own sadness. She made the decision, in the long years, to no longer be that person.

So she raised her glass, smiling at the crowd, and said her speech, beginning with, "I have to go to the bathroom, so I'm going to keep this short." Some of it was sweet, sappy love quotes she googled the night before, but some were her own mix of wit and eloquence, unable to resist subtle digs. She turned her glass to Qarl in greeting. "I am sure my cousin Corlys can finally stop the passive Facebook posts now that you've decided to take the Velaryon name," Rhaenyra said to the dining hall that went silent for her. From across the table, toying with the silver knife, Daemon watched her with the casual stance of a man who could not be more at ease.

There was laughter in the crowd, the voice of Corlys Velaryon booming his agreement as Rhaenyra knew he would. Public speaking might have once made her nervous, but she figured that she embarrassed herself far worse than anything she could say now.

"I'll never forget the day I first met Qarl. He was so kind, so humble, so handsome and, as you all know, my cousin Laenor," Rhaenyra raised her glass to the table where Laenor and his family, new and old, sat. It was a white long table, making it look like the images of the Last Supper. Laenor's eyes were narrow, shining with mirth, likely already knowing what was to come. "So single." Rhaenyra went on, probably insulting Laenor for five minutes straight.

"But, I guess I'll be serious for a second," she said towards the end, wanting to wrap it up so she could pee, which was no longer a joke. "I am a girl who thought love meant doing anything for someone, stupidly and blindly and absolutely. We've all been stupidly in love with someone, although I hope nobody else took 40 thousand from their father, thinking they were about to fund the love of their life's dreams, but instead, funded his tour around Europe with his boyfriend Sid." Rhaenyra turned her gaze to her father, who had been amused before, but now was covering his face to resist the room's laughter. "Sorry Dad."

Rhaenyra bit her lip, her smile genuine and real.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, I never knew what love was, and if you've heard about the ex that tried to steal Laenor's kidney, who he proceeded to get back together with. Laenor," Rhaenyra stared her laughing cousin straight in the eyes. "You didn't either."

Rhaenyra raised her glass towards the couple, her eyes passing over Daemon who watched her as he always did when she spoke. Intently. Completely. With ubiquitous influence.

"Nobody deserves it more, and certainly nobody wanted it more than the thirstiest man I have ever met. I thought I'd seen love before, but looking at you two today, fighting every step of the way for one another," Rhaenyra's voice cracked, but she kept up her smile. "I know that's what it's supposed to be, so I raise my glass." Rhaenyra raised her champagne, quite ready to finally drink it. "To Laenor, who finally figured out the meaning without losing a liver," she said, and everyone lifted their drinks in response. "And to Qarl, who finally made my cousin happy in a way his Grindr never could."

She sat down, feeling Alicent reach under the table to grasp her palm, interlocking their fingers from over Aegon who was currently leaning back in his chair and tugging on the rustic brown fabric of Rhaenyra's gown. "I didn't know about the Sid thing," Alicent whispered, and Rhaenyra chuckled, taking a long drink of her champagne until she hit the dregs of the glass. She proceeded to bat away Aegon's hand, to which he responded with a stronger hit.

"It's a story that just keeps on giving," Rhaenyra agreed, and finally, the toasts were over and she could devour the glazed goose and freshly caught salmon. She still had to pee, but held it for a bit longer when the Targaryen table lit with noise from her half brothers. Alicent had already begun to feed Aemond, which Aegon did not like as he began to yell that she should feed him too. With Aegon in between Rhaenyra and Alicent, this became her problem as well.

Rhaenyra watched Alicent comply, staring at the family in a way only described as pure disgust. Mysaria was deep into her wine, staring at her and back towards Daemon with a smile as the uncle and niece mirrored their expressions to one another. "So, I did not realize you two were," Viserys began, his gaze traversing between Daemon, who had lifted his own wine, and Mysaria, who looked comfortable, despite the Royces' stink eye. "Serious."

Rhaenyra kept her face purposefully blank, even when Daemon's gaze travelled to her, narrow with some degree of amusem*nt. He trailed his hand down Mysaria's arm, slowly and sensually as he interlocked their hands. "We are very private," he said, barely even looking at the woman whose hand he held as he stared into his brother's eyes.

"What do you do, Ms-?" Viserys paused, as if he too hadn't had the woman's entire life on his desk after Daemon was spotted slighting his new bride with her on his arm.

Mysaria sent Rhaenyra a coy smile, her lips turning up in a smirk. Daemon's gaze followed it with narrowed eyes. Mysaria set down her glass of wine and began to twist the stem between her fingers, avoiding eye contact.

"Forgive me, I assumed you already knew," Mysaria said with a dry chuckle, "considering the background checks you had undergone years ago. Allow me to refresh your memory. I was born in group homes. You likely remember my surnames much better than I." She paused, watching as he angled his body towards Mysaria. His breathing was shallow and he seemed almost intimidated by her presence. "As for what I do, besides your brother," she continued slowly, not minding his tentative darting eyes, as if afraid someone might have overheard her comment. His gaze snapped back to her and she smiled, swirling her own wine in her cup. Rhaenyra remembered that the woman was far more keen on whiskey. Regardless, Mysaria took a sip, hiding her own displeasure. "I run a few nightclubs around New York. Nothing as grand as your clubs, Mr Targaryen, but it supports my lifestyle."

"Ah," Viserys's gaze slid to his brother again, likely remembering the tabloids where Daemon had been seen in nightclubs, sprouting his 'heir for a day' remarks with this very woman at his side. The awkward energy at the table was nearly visible.

"Well, I think it's great," Alicent said, still spoon-feeding Aegon, and that compliance was likely the reason the kid was such a bitch. "To see Daemon happy."

Mysaria hummed, setting down her glass. "Yes. Our dalliance has been successful, besides his marriage and other infidelities, we are quite content."

Daemon finally chuckled, sharing a look with Mysaria that only two people who truly knew one another could have. Just like that, the mood for Rhaenyra was thwarted by an envy that had no place in her zen lifestyle that was proving so hard to maintain. She was now all too aware of their interlocked hands, the gentle thumb that he rubbed in circles on her knuckles, and their closeness that Rhaenyra wasn't expecting.

"Yes," Viserys said, now scowling at his brother openly. "To see you content is my greatest wish, but I wonder if you are attempting fulfilment purposefully in front of your wife." His voice finally lowered, switching to Valyrian. "Do you mean to insult the Royces or me for this farce?"

Daemon only leaned back in his seat, lips raised in a beguiling smile as he shared a look once more with Rhaenyra. She didn't know what he was about to do, only ever the unpredictable and adaptable. "Perhaps I only wanted to share with youmy...fulfilment." Daemon dragged his palm away from Mysaria's interconnected hand, placing it gently over the woman's stomach in such an affectionate manner that Rhaenyra immediately knew what he was doing. "Would now be the time to share it with the Royces I wonder?"

He wielded his words like a knife, carving out chunks of pride with each sentence. The air was thick with tension as he lashed out, delivering blows that wounded but never killed.

Mysaria's gaze followed his palm, her jaw clenching. For Daemon, Rhaenyra imagined, everything was a performance. His small, private smiles always caught her off guard as she looked down so he wouldn't see her envy and amusem*nt. Alicent, still not understanding Valyrian despite marrying into a deranged family who spoke it, looked to Rhaenyra. Perhaps not knowing half the language cut half the stress.

Aegon could pick up bits and pieces, and the ones he did catch likely bored him, so he ignored everything in favour of stripping back his mother's receding attention. Rhaenyra turned to her, reaching over Aegon himself to whisper in her ear. "He's saying she's pregnant," Rhaenyra said lowly and despite how she suspected its falsehood, a small, tiny piece of her thought it might yet have truth. f*ck, he could knock her up out of spite tonight.

"f*ck me," Alicent whispered, rubbing her palm down her face as Viserys's own reddened.

"Perhaps I will put it in my own toast," Daemon continued, either apathetic or unaware of Mysaria's sinking mood. Sexual dalliances were one thing, but carrying the bastard of a Targaryen was not something anyone could get away from so easily. She'd be in every paper, and her name, no matter what she made of it, would forever be associated with his own.

"Uncle," Rhaenyra finally spoke, and his eyes, steely and cold, were on her, piercing right through her. "Surely you jest."

Viserys, always the first the think the absolute worst of his brother, was not so certain. Perhaps that lack of faith was an attributing factor to why Daemon did this. Rhaenyra had wanted him to suffer, wanted drama, but not at the expense of Mysaria herself, who Daemon wasn't considering in his schemes for the suffering of the Royces and his own brother.

"Perhaps, should you not be using it," Daemon began, his eyes dragging down. "We might take up in Dragonstone for a while."

Rhaenyra let out a breath, one that exposed her, one that exposed emotions that she worked so hard to hide. Her fingers clenched around her champagne flute, and finally, she revealed she was not immune. The glass flute broke, and she dropped it on the table, causing lines of heads to snap in their direction as she quickly hid her hand under the table and stood. She smiled at her father, who appeared confused for a moment, his eyes darting down to the glass that was broken upon their table and back over to the family looking over as the Targaryens exposed the scene.

"Aegon, you shouldn't be so clumsy," Alicent was quick in her lie, with Aegon sitting in between her and Rhaenyra, the fib was then made believable by Aegon's confused silence. Immediately one of the staff came to clean off the glass, but Rhaenyra sent Alicent a last, grateful smile, and left for the bathroom as she should have done twenty minutes ago.

She passed the Royce table, catching the eye of Rhea Royce, who was laughing into her second drink. The woman immediately scowled in Rhaenyra's direction likely for the resemblance both Daemon and Rhaenyra shared and no more. Rhaenyra's lips twitched up, her fists clenched as she made it past the long brick hallway, lit with twinkling lights, and made four turns before she opened the bathroom. She practically knocked over the trash can in her attempt to cover up her hand in paper towels as she peed, tripping over her own heel as she went to wash her bleeding hands over the running water.

She took deep breaths, finally glancing up to meet her own reflection. A girl she did not recognize was staring back at her, and Rhaenyra traced over that girl with her free hand. She felt foolish, exposed, and vulnerable in a way that only the words 'Dragonstone' could do. She was pushed right back in time, reading articles secondhand about her uncle's exploits in her ancestral home, knowing what it meant to her as he desecrated the purity of that place. The accumulation of it all, paired with a glimmer of uncertainty, from her separation, being captivated by the living personification of a monster, were all too much for her to handle.

So when she heard the soft knock on the door, knowing who it was, her stomach dropped. "Go away," she said but was not surprised that he would never listen and Daemon opened the door anyway.

"If you really wanted to be left alone, maybe lock the door," he said, locking it behind him. His eyes were immediately drawn to the water, diluting her own blood in the sink. "Oh, Rhaenyra," he whispered, walking over while she could only stare at him in the mirror. He looked so otherworldly beautiful, monstrous, and everything she ever wanted to be. His fingers were gentle as he gripped onto her wrist, the heat of him flooding her.

The cut wasn't deep, not requiring stitches, but it wasn't a clean slash across her palm either. It would scar. His gentle touch was such a conflict with the image of Daemon that everyone thought they knew. He was deadly in the business world, so ruthless to reporters that they actually gave him a wide berth to get into his car, and he wasn't even kind to his own family. But to Rhaenyra, he always had this softness that she never saw him show anybody else. So, perhaps that was why it cut her when she saw that same gentleness he had with Mysaria.

Which was irrational because he was allowed to be however he wanted and she didn't own his kindness. She had no claim on him whatsoever. She had practised this, practised letting him go, but it seemed like the more she rehearsed it, the worse she became. The more time she spent with him, the more her mind loosened from her grip until being around him was all she wanted.

He washed off the blood, taking the handkerchief out from his breast pocket, wrapping it around her hand, and making her flinch as he applied pressure. His thumb moved in soothing circles around the back of her hand, his eyes probing her own when she finally met them.

"I wasn't expecting it," he admitted in a soft whisper. The only sound was her shallow breathing, and his unspoken words seemed to echo off the walls. The tension in the room was palpable, and it felt like he had yelled those words into the air.

"What?"

His gentle smile was back, parts of it amused enough to bring about her own weakening resolve to distance herself from him, as if he would ever let her. "Mysaria. It caught me off guard."

"What makes you think I had anything to do with it?" Rhaenyra asked, and his hand kept up firm pressure on her cut, doing nothing to ease the sting. His other hand trailed to her cheek, cradling it as she unintentionally leaned into his touch. Her body heated with it, lowering and settling until her legs rubbed against each other as a way to quell it.

"My little villain," he whispered, and now his eyes were dead set on her, trailing down every facet of her face, over her lips that parted. His hand was so warm and her eyes were growing heavy with that weighted stare.

"They are probably wondering where I am," Rhaenyra whispered, and his eyes narrowed in amusem*nt. "You followed me right away." It would look suspicious if they took too long.

"Mysaria came too," he divulged, his warm breath grazing her lips, the veneer of control they once held over their tumultuous emotions now precariously faltering. The reign they wielded over their emotions felt like it was slipping away. “She's just outside," he murmured.

It would present a more favourable impression if he arrived accompanied by a third party, an attempt to drown out the murmurings and speculations that proliferated across Reddit posts that easily emphasized rule 34 of the Internet. If it exists, there's p*rn about it.However, practical considerations seemed to dissipate into thin air when he gazed at her with such intensity.

"I'm furious with you," she whispered but still didn't swat away his touch. His hand had now snaked into her hair, his other still clenched about her wounded hand. The touch was pleasant, burning her, melding into the sting on her hand in a mix that perfectly represented their relationship.

"You have made that abundantly clear," he whispered right back, staring back down at her, drawing her closer until their noses brushed against one another. Her body was flush against his, and there was no denying the heat that he was transferring to her, the warmth that now drenched her.

The music swelled to a crescendo from outside, soft, letting her know that the band had begun and the dance was commencing. Daemon, however, cared little for it as he kept her imprisoned against the muscular length of his body. Rhaenyra was losing the battle, the war, and she didn't remember as many of the details of her anger. "Is she pregnant?"

"You should have spoken to me three years ago," she hissed, her free hand clutching his waist. "Instead of talking to me, you lose your head over any passing pretty face that catches your eye. You ruin everything you touch, do you know that? You ruined Dragonstone and if you truly cared about me, you wouldn't have thrown it in my face like that."

"Cared about you?" Daemon's grip tightened, and now her back was against the sink, digging into it. His tender tone turned her heart right over, as if he had tipped it. She tilted her head back slightly, looking at his handsome face in the dim lighting. "You've uttered many accusations my way tonight, Rhaenyra, many depravities that I have apparently done. What would I have ruined had I acted out the depravities I have wanted to do to you, I wonder?"

She didn't have words, but she didn't need them. Instead, she felt him against her stomach, the hard length of him that made her dizzy with hazy lust. Whatever she felt against him was nothing in comparison to the desire that had coiled so tightly that nothing they could possibly do would make it right. She had never wanted to f*ck someone more, never wanted it so badly that she didn't care about anything else.

He leaned into her, his warm breath caressing her face as he spoke. "Three years I tried to cast you away." His lips were gentle and tantalising as they brushed against hers with each word.

He pulled back the roots of her hair, forcing her to stare up at him, forcing her to look at him as she let out soft breaths. "Did it work?"

He let out a derisive chuckle, "You tell me." And that was when he kissed her. He kissed her once, then separated to turn his head, tilting it until every part of her was being consumed. She let out little sounds, gasps of hot air that made him groan as if he had needed this as badly as she did. Hot air was against her neck, teeth at her shoulder, pushing down the material of her dress. "And you wore this dress," he said against her skin, licking and sucking and making her let out soft moans that she drowned out by turning on the faucet.

His other hand moved down, capturing her thigh, snaking around the muscled flesh as she felt everything he had with his every touch. She could taste him, his mouth, his lust, but it enough. Her lips went to his neck, wanting to finally taste his skin, the hard line of his jaw, the breathy inhale. He fought back a groan and that was when she felt his fingers under her dress, hiking it up until she was flush against his body, his hand cupping her, slipping in between her legs in such a way that her lips parted and her brows furrowed together.

The burn that was spreading over her became a fever, and their eyes were on one another again, breathing coming out wild and staggered as his chest raised and fell in equal gasps as her own. "I'll stop," he whispered, as if he were begging her to agree and perhaps he needed her to make him.

Her voice, infused with the sensuality of High Valyrian, quivered in response, laden with restrained desire. "You consume my every waking thought," Rhaenyra breathed, her words laden with raw honesty. "I have dreamed of you every night, where you have touched me in more wicked a way than right now. Don't you dare stop."

His eyes flickered for a moment to the closed door, but in that split second his restraint melted away. A surge of expectation leaked into her bloodstream, clinging to her like steroids. His hand was clenched around the fabric of her dress, which he had let fall only to skim it up her legs once more. Every inch of her skin was sizzling, an empty ache forming low in her stomach as he finally made contact with her bare thigh once more.

She dragged her hand, the one he wasn't cradling to put pressure on a wound, up to his hair where she tugged it down. She forced his head up, licking up his Adam's apple, to his jaw where he smelled so good that she wanted to nuzzle her face into his neck so she could get every last drop. He seemed reluctant, but the magnetism must have been a forceful pull as his hand moved along her thong, cupping her once more in a way that made her breath come out like a gasp.

"I occupy your thoughts?" Daemon whispered as she sucked on his neck, his breathing erratic as his voice came out a half groan. "I haven't thought of anything but you in years."

He squeezed her hand harder against the cut, making her let out a short breath of pain that quickly turned into a moan when his thumb pressed down on her cl*t through the fabric of her thong. His other hand was against her back, trailing and pulling down the material of her dress with gentle kisses on her shoulder as he worked his way to her chest, inhaling her.

"That scent," his Valyrian whisper was guttural as he looked up at her, exposing her breasts. "Has been seared into my goddamned nose" The cherry perfume that Criston hated, he lapped up. His mouth dragged on her nipple, and he finally sucked one into his mouth. A spark lit in her stomach, flames running throughout her body like a wildfire of want. His eyes stayed connected to hers, his tongue lapping around until her back arched into his touch. The light brush of teeth, mixed with a fistful of her thigh and his groan from deep in his chest caused an embarrassing sound to escape her.

She arched, rocking her hips against him, wanting him, needing him. He fisted the thong at her hip, dragging it down her thighs until it fell at her ankles. She stepped out of them, kicking them away, past the point of rational thought. His gaze was heavy upon her, falling over her breasts that were exposed for him, to her dress that he wouldn't let completely fall. He gave his head a shake, running his hand down his tie, loosening it.

"f*ck," he whispered, and that was all he could say before he lifted her atop the counter, where the sink ran from next to her. His arms wrapped around the backs of her thighs, but he stopped, grabbing her wounded hand and lifting it to his face where he cradled it with both hands. He forced her to hold the pressure, his lips pressed against the hand, his eyes on her. There were so many things she still hadn't yelled at him for, so many that she still might, but none mattered now.

He gently guided her hand, ensuring she applied pressure to it before he lowered his head between her thighs. She shuddered under the first hot, wet touch of his tongue as a rush of pleasure flooded her, causing her head to hit the back of the mirror. A stronger wave rolled over her, straight through her at every soft, slow lap he took from the entrance to her cl*t. His eyes were on her, staring up, and she had never seen something quite as erotic as this fantasy plucked straight from her dreams.

His arms held her securely, forcing her from moving her hips while he took his time. He held her waist, but her right hand dragged to his thick white hair, running her manicured nails just against his scalp. She had screamed his name many times before, mostly in irritation or anger, but never once in pleasure. It slipped out when he swirled his tongue over her cl*t before sucking in such a way that had her eyes rolling back.

He separated from her, and the pressure eased, her pleasure ebbing away. She was about to yell at him, her nerves full of him, but his stare against her was too much. "How far did the fantasies go?" Daemon's question was barely something she could register, her thoughts in a fog.

She leaned back into the mirror again, rocking her hips and tugging at his hair. Again and again, it did not let up. She was pulsing around his fingers as they slowed, one final lap of his tongue, making her lose all sense. Her legs were shaking, her heat intensifying as his free hand pressed to her stomach in such a way that made her pulsate with pleasure that had her undone.

He was kissing up her thighs, his dragging lips so sensual, so sweet, as the pleasure subsided and left her nearly deflated against the counter. It was the first org*sm she had in a year, brought by someone other than herself. Addicting and intensifying and not nearly enough. His hands pressed against her thighs, sliding up them as she let out tiny gasps of air. His head rested on her chest, his hands still gripping her thighs as if he hadn't been ready to rise from them.

She could still feel his hard length against her leg, a sign that no matter how good an actor he was, that was forever the honest truth. She hadn't known what she expected next, but certainly not for him to sigh into her skin and turn his back to her.

"I'll leave first," he whispered, dousing her with ice. "Lock the door this time."

And he left.

Chapter 15: Underneath Speckled Snow

Chapter Text

Ｆｉｆｔｅｅｎ

𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝓀𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝓃𝑜𝓌

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Mysaria was on her phone when Rhaenyra exited the bathroom, texting or on Twitter, it was hard to tell as almost immediately, the woman lowered it. She was already moving forward, gripping onto Rhaenyra's hand and inspecting it while Rhaenyra's brows gathered.

"What are you doing?" Rhaenyra finally asked as Mysaria inspected the cut beneath the handkerchief, slowly wrapping it in a white roll of bandage.

"Daemon told me to fetch this," she said with a glance up into Rhaenyra's eyes, somehow making Rhaenyra feel as if she saw straight through them. Her perusal then dragged down her dress, tongue clicking, and making Rhaenyra's heart practically leap up her throat. She kept her mouth pointedly shut as if it might be seen through her teeth if they parted. "While you two discussed what an ass he was."

"It's something that can't be finished with just one conversation," Rhaenyra said carefully, watching something shutter to a close in Mysaria's expression. She nearly looked as though she just clicked together pieces in a puzzle.

"I am sure," Mysaria said carefully, wrapping Rhaenyra's hand, and meeting her eyes again. "What can, I wonder, be finished in one conversation?"

Rhaenyra's face smoothed, eyes narrowed as she straightened her back, gaining a few inches on Mysaria with the motion. "Nothing that didn't require yelling."

Mysaria let out a hum, lips twitching as she finished wrapping the hand, resting her own atop it. "And yet, it was not yelling I heard."

"You don't know what you heard so I ask for your discretion," Rhaenyra answered quickly.

Mysaria finally laughed, as if the situation, or anyone's pain that was not her own, amused her. "Don't I? Perhaps it eludes me then, but one day you might not be so lucky. You should be careful and have discretion of your own, " she suggested, now gripping Rhaenyra's arm in a tight lock around her own. "And should he not spurn me with a pregnancy scandal, you should have mine."

Rhaenyra wanted to scratch her eyes out, but also couldn't help but respect the gull and audacity. "He wouldn't."

"Oh he would," Mysaria said, just as they walked back into the wedding hall. "And I believe you know that too. He can afford to play these games, losing nothing despite the disreputable deeds he commits."

"He won't because I will ask him not to," Rhaenyra amended, meeting Mysaria's gaze that probed her own as they made their way back towards the Targaryen table. Their pace was slow, lingering, most tables around them now empty for the dance that commenced. It had truly been the perfect time to slip away, into the chaos of a waltz where many already made a crowd on the dancefloor.

"You think he would ever listen to you?" Mysaria asked, and there wasn't a drop of malice in her voice, only morbid idiosyncrasy. "We did, after all, come here with the intention of scorning him. It would be within his right to retaliate."

"I suppose we will see, and if not, we go down together," Rhaenyra said, spotting Alicent and her father, alone at the table, Aemond and Aegon likely taken away by the nanny. It was something Rhaenyra noticed Alicent often did, anytime the children become too much.

She began to steer in the other direction, much to Mysaria's amusem*nt. "And what makes you avoid mummy and daddy."

"Mercy," Rhaenyra answered, walking past and greeting families who gathered in little groups, many at their tables chatting, and children learning to dance on the floor. "They rarely get moments to themselves these days."

"Mercy for them, or for you?" Mysaria asked, and Rhaenyra glanced at her from the corner of her eyes. Her heart had yet to slow, drumming painfully in her chest, dunking her underneath the mess and spiralling outward. She didn't quite trust Mysaria's obeisance and almost demure persona that she wore like an evening gown. She was a woman who could understand how dangerous a mask can be. However, everyone was susceptible to becoming what they pretend to be. That was how Rhaenyra was able to survive anyway, as she always pretended to be stronger than she was. Somewhere down the line of make-believe, she had grown a steel spine.

"I think you know enough about me by now," Rhaenyra said, turning towards her to slip her arm from Mysaria's, but the caramel-skinned girl held tighter.

"You are within your right to be scared," Mysaria said with a subtle smile, holding her closer as they nearly grazed chest to chest. "I was trafficked and sold more times than I can count. In that time, I have seen true sickness, trumping whatever may or may not have transpired for you. I like you, Rhaenyra." Mysaria sent her a flawless smile. "You protect me, I protect you, and around and around we go."

"Do you always protect the strangers you just meet?" Rhaenyra asked carefully, her heart rate slowing.

"Only the ones that are heir to the largest fortune in the world," Mysaria said in return, just as quickly. The music had increased only with Rhaenyra's rising panic. Although many speakers struck bland notes individually, together these became a crescendo of gorgeous keys. "And perhaps the ones I watch burn down a building when high."

"You were the one who lit the lighter," Rhaenyra told her, causing Mysaria to laugh.

"I most certainly was not, you pyromaniac," Mysaria countered, a bit of genuine light in her eyes.

Rhaenyra's heart eased, but the tension had now settled in her stomach as she gazed around the room, seeing no sign of her uncle. "Did you see where he went?"

Mysaria's head only tilted, but slowly she shook it. "Been a bit preoccupied." Rhaenyra turned to find him, but Mysaria gripped her arm, keeping her still. "I do believe that Royce girl is coming over our way."

Rhaenyra had forgotten about the Royce family, in light of everything else, so she let out a soft sigh as she turned back towards Rhea. The girl was certainly not at all how Daemon had depicted her in his passing comments. 'Ugly' was said, or 'shrill' or 'so hideous that the sheep weep.' Oh, or perhaps Rhaenyra's favourite of them all: 'She looks more horse than human, and should she get groomed, perhaps even a quality horse.'

Rhaenyra remembered all this with a deep sense of exasperation as she stared down Rhea Royce, who cut through the room.

"Well, if it isn't the wife," Mysaria said with a smile that caused Rhea to turn a frost-filled glance her way.

"If it isn't the worst, lowlife, miserable slu*t," Rhea said in return, not even looking towards Rhaenyra. Mysaria leaned on one hip, her gorgeous beige dress sliding against the ground as Mysaria let the train go in order to cross her arms.

"You're being awful catty," Rhaenyra said carefully, and this caused the Royce girl to snap her gaze onto her as if Rhaenyra was a fly on the wall.

"How should I be to the woman who, very publically, began an illicit affair with my new husband?" Rhea said with an arched brow.

"I was under the impression that you preferred the company of goats rather than men anyway," Mysaria replied, not looking particularly put out as Rhaenyra covered her smile with her fingers.

Rhea hummed, crossing her arms over her chest. She was certainly very pretty, with dark black hair, a pale complexion, and a body that was honed from horseback riding on the countryside. "Well, the goats are certainly quieter than desperate little whor*s who spend their time bending over for money. You're nothing but a worm, wriggling in the mud and sh*t."

"Rhea, sister-in-law," Rhaenyra said, smiling now as if to appease her. "Surely you aren't looking to make a scene?"

Rhea's brows arched. "I'm not looking for a scene, you dumb whor*," she said with a snort. "I'm looking for a divorce."

"I was under the impression you were the one who rejected the offer. Sad what one must do just to keep a husband," Mysaria said with a sideways glance that made Rhea's scowl deepen.

"Keep him? Daemon Targaryen is a pig and I don't keep livestock in the house," Rhea said with a smirk. "You think he just strolled up and asked for an annulment and I, the bitter, bronze bitch, said 'no'?"

Rhaenyra thought now was not the best time to laugh, especially considering all the rumours of Rhea's quick temper and hard hit. "Maybe a little," Rhaenyra said carefully.

"No. Your uncle and your," Rhea looked to Mysaria with a roll of her eyes. "Whatever the f*ck he is to you, I don't care." Rhea waved her hand, looking incensed. "In exchange for an amicable split between I and your lovingswine of an uncle, he only asked to have the Runestone estate and 25 percent of our shares. So, forgive me for being so difficult in this affair."

Rhaenyra lowered her face into her palm, as Mysaria let out a low chuckle that was not at all surprised. "Ah," Rhaenyra said into her own hand. Today is just too much, Rhaenyra thought with a thin smile.

"So, I think I will find him, drag him behind this building, and murder him cold," Rhea said with clear-cut intent.

Mysaria only cut a glance towards Rhaenyra, as if to say, 'that actually solves both of our problems.'

"If cold-blooded murder does not pan out," Rhaenyra said carefully, turning her head back towards Rhea. "What else can I offer so you may forget to get the knife?"

"You are the heir, with great power and soon-to-be great influence," Rhea said in return. "You obviously wanted my reaction, walking around with this-" She gestured to Mysaria, who only twirled her fingers in a sarcastic wave that made Rhea sneer. "This absolute hussy."

"Normally, I'd challenge someone to a battle of wits for such an insult, but I will let it pass, since you are so obviously unarmed," Mysaria said in return, and if not for the sulfur, her voice could pass as honeydew. Rhea let out a laugh, but there was violence in her eyes that made Rhaenyra realize that her death threat might actually be a real one.

That was when an arm was wrapped around the girl's shoulder, belonging to Yaro Royce, the older brother who had been sending death glares to Daemon all day. "Alright, let's leave these fine," Yaro said, glancing in between the two smiling girls, "ladies, I guess, alone for the festivities."

Rhea's sneer worsened as she was steered away, saving Mysaria from the fight where Rhaenyra wasn't certain of the victor. "Great family this one," Mysaria said in a deadpan, walking over to a random empty table in order to take the champagne. "Rather fun, I guess."

Rhaenyra was rubbing her temples, her exhaustion now sinking into her bones. "I am so, absolutely, tired of him."

Mysaria sat down at the random table, one with the plaque of Tyrell, but not a single Tyrell remained. Rhaenyra sunk down next to her, lying her head into her arms with a deep sigh as Mysaria passed her the glass of champagne. The music had changed five times in the moments leading up to when Rhaenyra finally felt the overwhelmed tears upon her fingertips, dripping through the crevices in between her pointer and middle.

Mysaria immediately looked away, not offering a bit of comfort as Rhaenyra tried to hide the little bits of salty tears that dripped down the back of her hand. She had sat up by now, her other hand shaking as she reached for the glass that Mysaria handed to her. It was a quiet dignity that she gave her. Comforting a crying person was a noble action, but when Rhaenyra only tried to hide those tears, it is far nobler to pretend she saw nothing at all. She looked farther away, palm against her mouth, fingertips against her cheeks as a way to look nonchalant, and not like she was trying not to cry. She despised crying, and in public, she loathed it all the more.

Rhaenyra wiped away the last of them, feeling guilty, feeling used once again, and most of all, disappointed.

"Why did the two of you end your..." Rhaenyra paused with a wet laugh as she tried to discreetly wipe the moisture away from her cheeks before a cousin noticed and attempted to ask what was wrong. "Relationship?"

Mysaria paused, meeting Rhaenyra's eyes with an expression that knew exactly what was going on. Somehow, even if Mysaria wasn't remotely the sort of person Rhaenyra imagined being the first one to find out, it felt like a weight had lifted from her shoulders to speak of it. These were no longer just feelings she had to suffer with alone. These were feelings she no longer had to support the weight of alone, in tortured silence as she had for the last five years.

"It didn't," Mysaria said carefully, drinking a sip of the champagne next, staring off into the distance. "I believe we both settled into one another quite well, each fulfilling something that the other wanted. I thought we were both searching for freedom, but, I realized soon enough that I didn't have the slightest idea what he was looking for." She finally turned her narrow gaze upon Rhaenyra, lips pressed together tightly. "What exactly do you want from him?"

Rhaenyra laughed into her hand, her shoulders shaking as more tears escaped before she brushed them away too. "Proper communication perhaps." She leaned in close, feeling reckless. "Perhaps not to be left wanting."

Mysaria stared down, and Rhaenyra waited for the disgust, the revulsion of her admittance that felt so abnormal when spoken aloud. Mysaria gave her nothing but a gentle smile, proving that everything about Rhaenyra was so entirely f*cked up. Here she was, exposing her most shameful secret to his lover.

"You are asking for a wolf not to howl at the moon," Mysaria told her, leaning closer as her voice went lower. "Do you even know him? Really, truly know him?"

Rhaenyra had once thought the two of them existed in a bubble where Daemon would wound and hurt everyone else, but never her. It was a sick bubble she lived in, and he hadn't just popped it, he had tossed a grenade into it, leaving her alone and confused and hurt.

"At this point, lady Misery," Rhaenyra said, her nose burning and her brows drawn in constraint. "I don't think it matters." She ran her palm over her mouth, exhaling deeply with utmost restriction.

"Then there isn't much that I can say," Mysaria said with a shrug, leaning back in her seat. "Especially nothing that you don't already know. But if I can give some advice." Mysaria finally smiled, catching Rhaenyra's eye. "You invited me to cause him further mayhem, which you have," she said, tipping her chin in the other direction. Rhaenyra turned her head to catch Rhea Royce and Daemon off in the corner, where he was gesturing for her and her brother to follow him out towards the gardens. "I recommend enjoying it."

Rhaenyra didn't quite feel pleasure, and instead, she was starting to only discern the sinking pit in her stomach. She turned back towards Mysaria. "Do you really know him, Mysaria?"

Something passed over her eyes, something rather like another veil. "You were born of old money, princess Rhaenyra. It is not your fault that you were ill-prepared for the transition of Dragonstone to New York so you do not know yet know the risk of trusting others. You do not know much of your own family even." She leaned forward, struggling with the words that Rhaenyra thought to be another mask. Mysaria was a woman who always knew what she was doing, which made her an adequate foil to Rhaenyra's fumbling approach as of late. "I will not be sharing what I know, but I will say this. He's slippery and not the sort to stultify himself with the tedious affairs of those he considers his lessers," Mysaria said, still staring at the garden doors where Daemon had escaped off to. "But for you, he seems to slow."

"What does that even mean?" Rhaenyra whispered, watching Mysaria smoothing down her dress.

"Who can tell? Nobody but him, I'm afraid," Mysaria said carefully. "Now, as much as I love scandalous secrets, I have been invited to a wedding with some of the most influential people in the world. So if you'd rather spend it depressed and alone, be your own worst enemy."

Mysaria placed a hand on Rhaenyra's shoulder, which straightened at the touch. "And here I thought we were bonding," Rhaenyra said with a slight smile, peaking through her fingers.

"And we have," Mysaria said with a shrug. "But we don't have to do that all night. You might just grow tired of me."

Was the lady Misery one of those very discontented people? There were many of them who dangle the idea of intimacy and then just as quickly withdraw it. The ease at which they invoke interest and even affection and play coquette with friendship, only to withdraw in betrayal. Perhaps Rhaenyra had grown too used to the game, the treachery, only to expect it from everyone.

"Do you think I am a fool?" Rhaenyra probed, grabbing the champagne, and causing Mysaria to pause. "That I am walking myself off a cliff?"

"I wonder if you even realize your own power or the great money and access you have as a Targaryen. Instead of fretting over boys and family, perhaps you should instead start channelling that into sources that suit you. You'd be surprised what you can accomplish," said Mysaria, and rose from her seat with her face unmoved. Mysaria gave one last amused smile of a friend, or perhaps one of a traitor. Rhaenyra could no longer tell the difference.

She stood up next, nearly staggering as she ran her tongue over her lips, deciding that she truly needed some precious minutes to herself. Then, perhaps, she'd come back in, and wish her cousin well on his marriage. Or, perhaps she'd better do that first, just in case she didn't want to return to the festivities.

She stood there, uncertain, when she felt a palm against her shoulder. "You are looking lost," Harwin Strong said, and Rhaenyra let out a deep breath.

"Are you going to ask me to dance or waste my time with small talk again?" Rhaenyra asked, turning towards him. He had pinned his hair back, styled, and he looked especially handsome, or would, to another woman. For now, Rhaenyra was so drained that she didn't think it was possible to gather up even her lust.

If she closed her eyes, she could still feel his lips on her shoulder, whispering those sweet words. Then, she'd open her eyes and only see him shutting the door in her face.

"You certainly chose violence this morning," Harwin said with a growing smile.

"And one of these days, it will offend you," she answered back with swift bemusem*nt.

"Now." Harwin gestured to the dance floor, where the sound was a soft waltz, courtesy of Laenor and Laena wanting this to feel more like a classy ball than a place of twerking and grinding. "Are you really not going to dance a single song at your cousin's wedding? Seems rather rude. I heard that he is positively offended."

Despite her best interests, a small smile peeked out at him. She looked over Harwin's shoulder to see Qarl force-feeding his new husband some of the wedding cake. "He looks stricken," Rhaenyra said in a deadpan.

Harwin didn't bother turning his head, his nearly addictive smile forcing its way out to her. "Perhaps he projects inwardly. Much like you," Harwin said, offering his hand. "Would you like to dance?"

"It won't buy my friendship," she told him carefully.

"I'm not looking to buy your friendship," Harwin said with a laugh and roll of his eyes. "I'm looking to earn it. Come on, I see you were about to leave. One dance and then, should I step on your toes, I give permission to shove my face in the cake."

Rhaenyra's eyes squinted, mistrust and reluctance in her expression as she offered up her hand. "I wish you well then. It's an expensive waste of cake."

Harwin nodded with a grin, leading her onto the dancefloor where he brought her into his arms with a laugh springing from her at the sudden nature of it. He was clumsy, obviously not formally trained, but he avoided stepping on her feet. "There's that laugh."

"Then your mission is complete," she told him with a growing smile as he spun her, nearly knocking her into Brya, who was dancing with a rather handsome-looking boy.

"Watch it," Brya said, and scowled when she saw it was Rhaenyra.

"My lovely cousin," Rhaenyra said, even as Harwin steered her away. It wasn't enough, since she could still see her cousin from over his broad shoulder. "Careful sleeping with her. Her mum gossips that little Brya wets her sheets. There's a reason her siblings call her swampy Brya!"

"I'm going to murder you," Brya hissed, turning quickly to her dance partner. "That's not even remotely true!"

Rhaenyra laughed, as her cousin was lost in the crowd.

"Two laughs and both are at another's expense," Harwin said, staring down at her with a small level of amusem*nt. "I'm starting to see a pattern."

She slapped her palm against his shoulder, light and barely there. "I'd laugh as well, at your awful dancing."

He spun her, too early at that, and she nearly tripped over her own dress, only to come back into his arms with another laugh. "It's doing its work. I didn't have a fancy teacher, heiress Rheanyra."

Rhaenyra paused, brows furrowing as he looked once more, straight into her eyes. "You're not flirting with me, are you, Harwin?"

"Of course I am," Harwin said with a laugh as the song grew slower, and so did the dance. "But you don't need to make that face," he whispered against her ear. "I'm actually very much aware when a girl isn't interested."

"Then why bother for a dance at all?" Rhaenyra asked carefully, dodging it when he nearly stepped on her heel. The dance felt more like a fight, with her dodging his awful steps.

"Because you've more to offer than your beauty, even if it is eye-catching," he said with a smirk. "I told you. Friendship, even if it is not nearly as fun."

She shook her head, her lips spreading into a wider smile. "Truly, you might actually be a good guy."

"It's the champagne," he assured her, now getting the hang of the dance, no longer threatening to capture her toes. "It's making you grow hazy. I'm the perfect guy. What a shame you are missing such a catch."

"I like to throw healthy fish back into the sea at times," Rhaenyra said, hearing the song begin to end. "I find that it keeps the dating pool serene."

He laughed and bowed to his dance partner once the song ended. "Now, at least, you can leave the wedding knowing you danced with the most handsome man at the party."

"I better go find him then, that way I can go home," Rhaenyra said with both brows arched, watching him laugh once more. She had looked into Lyonel Strong, ashamed that she never had before. Perhaps she spent so long fretting over the lack of responsibilities her father gave her, and not enough time actually trying to take it. It was a wonder how anyone could expect her to lead, to give the House of the Dragon pride, and make her legacy something worthwhile if she was always nurturing her own resentment that she wasn't the first choice. "I overlooked your dad's work. I'll talk to my father within the week."

She'd also have to dig up more on the opposition, once more ashamed to have so little experience in it. Otto Hightower was hardly the type to just bend over and let someone else rise in power. She had grown so spoiled and angry over the years, that she forgot she had some power.

Harwin raised from his bow, bits of dark hair hugging his face, brown eyes alit with specs of mirth. "Perfect, then I needn't pretend to want for your company."

She barely concealed her smile, "You are off the hook. Your act was very convincing, Mr Strong." She waved her goodbyes, slipping past the others still dancing, waving goodbye to her cousins, kissing cheeks, and finally spotting Alicent and Viserys in midst of a dance. It was a stiff one, nothing like the memory Rhaenyra had of her parents.

One such surfaced, her father and mother dancing at one of the many parties, her head on his chest, and both their eyes closed. They had seemed perfectly content, swaying to gentle notes, the lights hitting them with soft brushes of fluorescent glow. Rhaenyra vaguely remembered thinking, if you could find someone like that, someone who you can hold close and close your eyes to the world with, then you are in a rare moment. Something so serendipitous that it might only be a product of luck. It didn't matter if it lasted a day or minute or a second. Even after all these years, the image of them, in their gentle dance, swaying together like the leaves on a rowan tree to those winsome notes, was weaved into the very fabric of her mind. To this day, the image of them was how she pictured love.

Alicent had sworn there was love between her and Viserys, but looking at them now, Rhaenyra was not so sure what sort of intimacy that was. Clearly, it was enough to conceive three babes at her breast, but if these years had taught Rhaenyra anything, it was that love was not a requirement in sex.

"You leaving babe?" Laena found her, holding up some of the wedding cake and it took Rhaenyra a moment longer to realize that she had brought it for her. "At least a bite." Reluctant, yet obedient, Rhaenyra opened her mouth and allowed her cousin to spoonfeed her the strawberry slice.

"Too much frosting," Rhaenyra said, forcing it down. Laena's nose wrinkled in agreement.

"It's a shame that crusty bitch hated the LGBT. She could bake a damn good cake," Laena said with a sigh, taking off a piece of the slice and shoving it into her mouth as they walked around the table that held two Tullys in a heated debate about fishing. It took Rhaenyra a moment to realize that Laena was walking her to the back exit doors, leading out to the incline where the cars were all parked.

"I'm sorry, I probably haven't been much fun today," Rhaenyra said as they slowed their pace through the large room. The music had changed again, and now Laenor and Qarl were dancing, representing the love as Rhaenyra could picture it.

"Your job was to create the guest list and organize the seats, perhaps even kick that little punk ass Stark boy in his gonads, but nothing more," Laena said, and cast a dark glance towards Rickon Stark, who was currently attempting to finesse the servers into letting him try a martini. "I thought I liked kids, you know? I wanted two of them, you know?"

Rhaenyra felt a fond smile force its way out. "I'm sure the editors can Photoshop out all the glitter," she suggested, another slow step as they now stood in front of the exit.

"They totally increased the price. My father is a stingy man," Laena said with a roll of her eyes. "Anyway, it's over and done and so am I." She continued to stand while eating her cake, the song in the background is languid and speaks of love and loneliness and loss. An odd choice for a wedding, but fitting like a glove for Rhaenyra's life. "Besides, I am sure watching this was hard, but you still got up there and did that mildly offensive toast." Laena shared a grin as one would a friendship necklace, passing between them. "So rest and drive safe."

Rhaenyra had intended to leave forty minutes ago, but here she was. She said her goodbyes to Laena and told her to share her love with Laenor before she finally made it outside. The cool breeze brushed her cheeks, ruffling her dress so she had to hold it down. The atmosphere was languorous, yet tinged perhaps, with a concoction of green gardens and speckled snow near her feet. A bit of confetti on the pristine white underneath. She stepped over it, feeling bits of the cold ice drop down against her exposed legs, down freshly waxed skin, sliding like oil rather than water.

It swept aside stray strands of hair, and the heat in her stomach, the ball that was winding, only grew bigger as she made her way down the stone path back to her car. Of course, since every force of nature was against her, New York decided to add snow to the mixture. She held out her palm, catching the little spec of white and watching it melt. Her shoes were certainly not meant for much, barely dancing, but definitely not for wading through snow.

She got perhaps three steps towards the sloped hill, towards the valet, when a hand appeared on her back. His arm curled through her own, forcing them up the slope that led towards the carport. When they had surmounted the acclivity, Rhaenyra motioned to withdraw her arm from his, but by the slight tightening of his elbow, she was resisted. It was a silent way of tacitly informing her that she should disist from acting against his will.

"I think it's time we talk."

"Shouldn't you be with your wife?" Rhaenyra's voice hissed out, practically like a knife.

"That will be dissolved soon enough. Then, she can go back to f*cking the goats," Daemon replied.

She glanced to the side, and all the emotions came rushing back with such force that they might have made her tip right over. Daemon looked unfrazzled, and that at least told her that the Royces hadn't struck any blows. A shame, Rhaenyra thought, having wished to at least see a bruise. Lord knew he had wounded her own pride enough to draw blood tonight.

"I think we've said enough," she said, brushing off his hand, walking forward, despite his languid steps behind her.

When the valet said that another had taken her car already, Rhaenyra turned to scowl at her uncle from over her shoulder. "You are a dick," she said, switching to Valyrian since her drama was no one's business.

"I'm practical, niece. Gas prices and fossil fuels and all that. We need to save our planet," Daemon said in return, and perhaps it was the hypocritical nature of his comment that made her let out an incredulous laugh. Or perhaps it was how he was making her lose her goddamned mind.

"I'll call a taxi," she said instead, taking out her phone. The valet already went to fetch Daemon's car with the callous toss of his keys in the poor man's direction.

"Is there really a need?" Daemon said in a low voice that touched every part of her nerves in a equlibrium of fury and lust. Her mind was racing, on their many goodbyes, on the touch of his hand, his forehead pressed against her own, or the way he brushed the hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. Always touching, but nothing more. "I will drive you home and we can talk."

Rhaenyra wasn't a coward. If she were, perhaps she would have retreated back into her shell many years ago and pulled away from life entirely. Rhaenyra was a fighter. Life knocked her down, death took what it wanted, love hit her like a freight train, and she coped, getting up and facing it.

If she could face all that, she could face him too.

She could.

Her stiff nod was a frozen one, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from everything else. They made it to his car, and she barely remembered the steps. She barely remembered getting in, where he turned up the heater for her. The car was basked in silence, with only the sound of snow hitting the windshield, wiping away, hitting it again. Repeat, repeat, and repeat.

"I'm done with this, Daemon," she told him, staring out the window, watching the snow fall. The city was beautiful from the outside, but she shouldn't be here. She should be at the wedding, she should be laughing, she should be with Criston, making jokes with her cousins.

But she wasn't. She was here.

Every step closer to him, took her farther and farther away from everyone else.

"Are you?" Daemon's voice, a deep rumble, seeped into the empty space, saturating the air around them. It coiled within her, winding through the hollows of her abdomen, and slithered down her spine, leaving an unsettling trail. Rhaenyra found herself unable to meet his gaze, her eyes averted, unable to decipher the sincerity in his words.

"Criston asked to marry me. Harwin Strong even, would be a good match. He seems taken with me," Rhaenyra's fingers clenched the fabric of her dress, as if seeking solace in its delicate threads. The outside world continued its bustling existence, visible through the windows, while Rhaenyra struggled to find the right words. She and Harwin had a threadbare connection with little in common, except perhaps the English language.

"I saw," Daemon said, something dark in his voice, something she felt in her damn bones. "He made you laugh, but certainly you aren't about to confuse lust for anything other than what it is. As if there isn't a single man who would not take you up on whatever you offer willingly."

Rhaenyra snorted, "except you."

She made the mistake of looking at him when he said, "Did I not?"

Rhaenyra should have seen his weaknesses and only given up a portion of herself. She should have seen his callousness and been revolted. She should have seen his cruelty and selfishness and greed and been absolutely offended by it. Instead, she loved him to her core, no matter who he was. She'd watch a wolf howl at the moon, and do what? Beg him to change his nature? Rhaenyra would not.

"I'm done with this," Rhaenyra repeated, biting her tongue.

She could forgive many things, even him, half the time she forgave everything. Then, her mind would go back to the first night they kissed, where he left soon afterwards. He left her alone in that dark room, illuminated from time to time by shocking laps of lightning from outside. She remembered watching the door, in her state of disarray. She remembered thinking, now it would rain, but it never did. She'd sat there, motionless and in a state of disbelief. She thought, now he will come back, but he never did. She lit cigarette after cigarette, watching them burn to the bud as she smeared the smoke and the ash against the hardwood floor. She never pressed one to her lips, there wasn't a need, the smoke had already filled her. The hours thorned her, the lightning crucified her, and her bed waited on her to meet it as she listened for the steps outside the door. But Daemon hadn't returned. He hadn't talked to her for four months after that, and perhaps he did intend to never try.

So now, he watched her, his eyes hooded by his lashes, mouth impassive. He was a faceless man, and the one she had dreamed of since she was a child. A child. She could be his daughter. She could be this sickness, this plight, this thing nobody would understand. She dreamed of him before she even knew it was him, just an identity obscured by mist or swirling sand. Even when she knew that she loved him, he was still obscured by a mask that he employed whenever he wished, whenever he wanted to shut her down, shutter closed so she could bash against the gates.

Maybe they betrayed him intermittently, closing involuntarily as if defying his own will. Similarly, an unbidden affection for her nestled within his heart, all against his own volition.

"I don't want to do this anymore, and I think you also do not," Rhaenyra told him, and it went silent again. She was barely breathing as the car sped through the city, and she felt more and more certain by his lack of denial.

They were back in front of her penthouse soon enough, the scene so familiar, as if they had done this too many times. Too many times going back and forth, both not knowing what to do.

She unbuckled her seatbelt, not certain how much longer she could hold in the need to cry, to weep all her frustration, to let this go and finally pick up Criston's ring from the ground and give it back. She refused to think more on Daemon, not when he was so close, not when she could still feel the searing heat of his kiss.

How was she supposed to move on when she had yet to rip her heart away from him? When she could still feel him inside her, slithering under her skin like a parasite?

"He did seem taken by you," Daemon whispered, carefully, as if the very action had to be pried out of him. "Harwin Strong," he continued, practically spitting out the name. "And you with him, judging by your laugh."

"Are you blaming me for that?" Rhaenyra asked, her hand against the door. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"I am blaming you for not staying with him," Daemon retorted, his eyes finally dragging to her, making her hand fall away from the handle. "Not staying with Criston or Harwin. For being here, again, with me."

"Are you kidding me?" Rhaenyra's brows furrowed together, nearly slapping him with her hair when she turned to face him.

"All those choices and you choose the wrong one."

"I am saying I am done with you. I choose nobody. I choose me."

"And I'm saying you haven't. Why haven't you opened the door and left?"

Her jaw clenched, and she practically shoved the door open as if she wanted it to rip under the pressure. She barely felt a single brush of wind, the cold snow, before she slammed the door back closed, turning towards him and slapping him hard in the face. The pain that went through her hand had her nearly drawing her injured palm to her chest, but she refused to show it, refused to show anything at all. It seemed like no matter what she did, she could not hurt him without also harming a piece of herself.

He barely moved, and her breathing staggered, her chest rising and falling so fast that she could practically feel as though she were in the midst of a panic attack. His gaze was predatory, fixated on her in a way that made her so hot that she could barely feel the winter air outside. "You said you didn't want me," her voice was as dark as his when she spits out the words. "You said you didn't want me that way. Those were your words, uncle. But I say that I don't want you." She admired his god damned restraint. She admired so much about him that it was exhausting.

It was seldom that a person could love anyone that they didn't, in some way, also viciously envy.

He didn't look to even register the slap, and the skin-on-skin contact made her feel crazy. It felt as if it hurt her more than him. She felt it echo in her stomach, hitting against her blood vessels until they were pulsing with guilt. She was quivering, and her hand raised again, but this time, his fingers were around her wrist. They encased where the bandage wrapped around her palm from Mysaria's graceful touch.

She watched his every move, motionless like a deer before headlights hit. His other hand curled into her hair and dragged her mouth to his in a furious kiss. He had her up against the butcher’s block with one searing motion, splayed like a slab of meat before she even knew what to do in return.

With a determined grace, she propelled herself forward, the fabric of her dress hitching up as she crawled towards him. Her legs encircled him, firmly securing her position as she straddled him. Her dress, now gathered at her waist, revealed the intensity of her desire. His hands were entwined in her hair, grasping the roots with fervent desperation, as if the depths of their passionate kisses could never satiate his longing. As her lips met his, a surge of warmth replaced the once numbing cold that had enveloped her since she left the bathroom. It was a fiery sensation, searing her senses and propelling her towards a relentless yearning.

He leaned back, allowing her to take the lead as she pressed into his body. She rocked her hips against him, reveling in the sensation of his hard length beneath her. Her movements became faster and more urgent as her slick heat increased. "Rhaenyra," he whispered, her hands moving in a sinuous trail up his chest. It was as if he were saying 'what have you done', but she was uttering it right back, 'what have you done', and like an echo in a cave, it was all reduced to absolute nonsense.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, pressing her fingers against his face, her head resting against his. Her fingertips were tracing the height of his cheekbones where she slapped him. "I shouldn't have done that."

Yet here she was, shuffling along, letting the river currents pull her further and further. She felt like a rat, lost in a tunnel, a maze, moving endlessly, without direction, all random happenstance. Towards what? What promise? Love? Life? Cheese? Rhaenyra didn't know.

He cradled her hand against the reddening skin, staring up at her in a way that had her exposed. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that she had never seen before, as if he had opened those shutters and let her see into something he always kept locked away. The liquid desire had completely drenched her, his other hand, fisting the material over her hips, had undone her, but the darkness in his dilated eyes had finished her.

"It's all ruined," she whispered against his lips. "Using a man I knew I didn't love. Three years of anger and culminated resentment. Without you, I made it worse. Look at my droll tragedy of a life."

"What must mine look like in comparison?" Daemon returned, furiously.

"Come inside," she whispered against his lips. "Come inside and tell me."

"Rhaenyra," his voice was guttural, escaping into a groan when she unintentionally ground her hips into him. His eyes shut, as if attempting restraint.

She had none, and she pressed her lips to his again. The first brush of skin felt like a shared sensation, as addictive as a needle full of heroin. She felt like a street junkie, attempting to get her next fix. She pressed closer to him, feeling his fingers dig under her dress, his hands brushing along her naked thighs and making her let out gasps of air. Her lids were heavy, dragging down with every sigh that made his hips adjust as every part of him grew stiff.

"Come inside," she whispered, her voice a breathy invitation, their lips locking in a final, searing kiss before she reluctantly disentangled herself from his embrace. As she stepped out of the car, her body thrumming with a potent mix of anticipation and desire, she didn't dare glance back. The night air caressed her skin, cooling the heated skin as she continued forward to her penthouse.

Her ascent in the elevator was marked by a heightened awareness, every floor passing like an eternity as her thoughts swirled with a heady mix of longing and uncertainty. Each ding of the elevator, counting off the floors, reverberated through her, amplifying the electrifying tension that crackled in the air. She could practically feel every cell in her body, their membranes lysing until she nearly collapsed.

She felt ridiculous, pacing in front of her front door—back and forth. The flat was very quiet, chilled, and the fog—that late November air—pressed against the windows like an excluded poltergeist. Somewhere, anywhere else, things were vivid and beautiful. Somewhere very far from here, the world was radiant and evocative and rich, so unlike the muted palette of her pale sitting room, washed out without light. She saw this coming. Ever the fool, she'd make her way back to different walls, but ultimately the same as back in Connecticut. She'd light cigarettes, watch them die, wipe the ash against her dress, asphyxiate and wait for him to come. Time drips like a stalactite. He wouldn't come. She was suffocating.

She had to have dragged her hand through her own half-braided hair twelve times before she heard the soft knock. She was practically running to the door, yanking it open. There were bits of snow on his coat, his face drawn, and the gates back up.

But he came anyway.

She opened the door, her hands shaking and trembling but he didn't move. "I was going to drive away," he admitted this softly, in a tone that belonged to her. "But I am not a noble enough man to do so."

"You think I want you for your nobility?" Rhaenyra whispered, her eyes burning but she forced it all away when she watched him smile. There was a pause in the air, filling with his half-decisions where she was forced once more to wait on him to decide.

He only said, "I won't be able to stop, to keep away." His low voice reached her, the Valyrian sensual, spearing her, and making her go flush with such longing that she thought she might die. She thought she might love him too much and with too clear a vision to ever truly hate or fear his greyness, his smokiness, his cloudiness. "Tell me you know that. Tell me you understand."

It was as if he were handing her rope, letting her tie her own noose, and hanging it up for her to drop. A noose, however, could fit one neck as easily as another, once tied at least.

Her eyelids were a half-mast as she released a partial sigh, a partial laugh. There was something both frustrating and yet terribly arousing about his ever-present restraint that made something low burn and consume the entirety of her belly. There was little she could do, little she could eat, and he had disrupted her life with his silence and touch. He'd perfected his technique, kissing just a little, pulling back, only to make her want to drag him right back to her. He had given her that perfect, teasing lick with that curling tongue of his. It effectively set all the nerve endings in her lips on fire.

"I don't know how I can be any more clear," she told him instead, now opening the door even wider, and he laughed, a man whose restraint had broken.

He stormed across the threshold, a whirlwind of desire propelling him forward. With an insistent pull, he drew her closer, his fingers commanding her face, as his mouth claimed hers in a searing union. The world outside faded into oblivion as their bodies collided, an intoxicating fusion of passion and forbidden pleasure. The sound of the door slamming shut echoed their shared surrender, sealing their fate in this wicked transgression. His lips, a blend of tenderness and urgency, explored every inch of hers, igniting a wildfire of sensation. His touch, feather-light yet possessive, cradled her with an intoxicating warmth that stirred her stomach. Their bodies moved in synchronized chaos, fueled by an unquenchable fever that consumed them both. They were in this terrible sin together.

She was up against the door, her legs around his waist in one hard motion. "Take it back," he whispered, and his voice sounded like molten metal. It was as if he had something hot and thick, travelling up the back of his throat, causing him to sound richer and deeper than he really was. "Tell me you want me."He once told her bedtime stories in High Valyrian, once told her scandalous rumours, and now was telling her to admit the dark shame in both of their lives.

She trailed her lips down his jaw, her eyes heavy, her body flush, and every brush of friction from the fabric of their clothes sent pulsing pleasure through her nerves. "I want you so badly I can't stand," she whispered into his ear, and the low groan in his chest rumbled from his skin to her own before his lips were back on hers again, devouring and consuming everything she could give him. Her hands were already shrugging off his coat with haphazard disregard, hearing it fall to the ground in a heap of fabric and snow.

Daemon tilted his head, increasing the pressure and deepening the kiss. The gentle nature of his hands became slightly more abrasive. The rawness left her breathless. They were gasping as they parted, chests rising and falling, and she could barely see his eyes in the dark of her penthouse, having never turned on a light. It didn't matter, she could always feel his penetrating stare.

Their lips were against one another again, only want, so much of it, with thousands of forbidden feelings passing her, perhaps him. Perhaps not. His lips were setting her nerves on fire, scorching her, and she could barely believe that it was happening. Hands were moving down her shoulders, down her arms, over her waist, her back pressed up against the door, and his body all that held her up as his fingers began to trail her legs.

They tightened around his waist, bringing him closer, so she could feel him, feel him on her as deeply as she felt him inside of her. Daemon shuddered, and the sound that emerged from the back of his throat was a mixture of a moan and a growl that sent shivers of pleasure that spread through her bloodstream. Her legs were already spread wide around each side of his hips with little barrier between her thong and his slacks. She could feel him, and she trembled at the sharp and pulsing ache that throbbed throughout her entire body.

His answering moan was enough to have her already unbuttoning his shirt, one at a time, marvelling at the way his body jerked as she slid them up his shoulders, over his neck and back down again. She pushed her hips and rolled them, and he let out another groan, capturing her bottom lip in between his teeth that had him pushing up the material of her gown completely. Before long, his hands were cupping her arse, squeezing the flesh closer to him.

His palm slipped under the thong and she let out a ragged moan, her head hitting the door as she saw him staring at her intently.

"It's not enough," he whispered against her lips, his eyes heavy on her own. "It's never enough," he muttered into the next kiss, and she went to speak when his fingers were at her cl*t, cutting her off as he pressed and dragged lazy circles.

Her eyes fluttered shut, little sounds that he ate up from her open mouth as she skillfully unbuttoned down his shirt, just to feel the bare skin of his chest. His fingers were swirling, stopping, swirling again. She was going slack, completely overwrought with the pleasure coursing through her as potent as adrenaline, as unreal as Ichor, and just as deadly.

With just the scrape of his teeth against her lips, he pulled back, letting her go so she could stand with his hands gripping the cushion of flesh over her hips. She nearly collapsed, perhaps not completely joking about her inability to stand on her own. She nearly thought he was about to leave her, exposing her to serious abandonment issues that she might actually need to work on, but he only knelt before her on one knee.

His hands trailed down her hips, down her thighs, staring up at her with an expression so absolutely exquisite that she thought she might lose her ability to stand once more. He was sliding, caressing up her dress, his fingers slipping around the back of her knee as he raised her heel to his thigh, resting it atop it.

His lips were on her skin, dragging up the soft skin as his fingers nimbly worked the straps of her heels like the thief she knew him to be. They came as undone as she was, allowing him to slide the heel from her manicured foot as he kissed the inner portion of her thigh and moved to the next, allowing her to use the door, bracing her back so she could stand. The shoes were carefully resting next to him as he licked up her thighs, and she was bracing her hands against his hair as his head made it to the space between her legs, pushing up the rustic brown fabric of her dress.

He gave a lazy lick up the fabric of her thong and was already pulling it down by the time she let out a soft moan that she covered with her palm.

He looked up at her again, separating. "We aren't about to be walked in on," he told her, and as if to accentuate it, he locked the door. The sound of the lock turning was nearly as loud as her pulsing heart. "You don't have to be quiet. I want to hear everything."

How long had she been hiding this? She didn't even know how to let out noise these days, but she didn't want repressed silence anymore, not here. She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair, his hands sliding up her thighs and letting the train of the dress fall.

She began to zip down her dress but remembered the safety pins that kept it secure. She attempted to find a sexy way to undo them, but reaching both her arms in order to stretch and grasp the one on her back was so nothot. Daemon let out a laugh, standing back up and sliding his hands up her bare arms as he kissed her collarbone. She sent him an embarrassed smile, turning around and feeling his nimble hands undo each one. She heard the sound of him tossing them to the ground, little noises of metal and wood. Her mind filled with fog as he brushed aside strands of hair and kissed the back of her neck. She heard his breaths in her skin and heard each time it staggered. She braced her hands against the door, just to keep herself standing as he finished unzipping her dress with small kisses against her throat.

"Still hiding," he muttered, his voice laden with a mix of desire and frustration. With a flicker of determination, she released the grip on her dress, allowing it to cascade down her body. Standing before him, she bared herself completely, vulnerable and exposed. His hands, guided by a primal instinct, glided down her figure, unravelling the fabric until it pooled at her feet. Sinking to his knees, he pressed his lips to the skin he uncovered, trailing a path of heated kisses along her exposed flesh, inching closer to her core. In the dim moonlight filtering through the window, her nakedness took on an ethereal glow, casting shadows that waltzed across the room. In that moment, she felt a surge of self-consciousness, a flush of embarrassment, as her defenses crumbled.

His lips twitched up. "You didn't seem so shy when you strutted naked in my room."

"You didn't even look," Rhaenyra said in return and he squeezed her thighs hard, but not enough to bruise.

"One can't feed the endless indulgences of a starving man," he whispered in the language he taught her, somehow making it sound so sensual, so soft, that she thought she could hear him say 'egg' and believe it to truly be the meaning of life in a single word. That was when his mouth went back onto her, stroking up her cl*t and the pleasure made her knees finally give out, causing her to fall with a laugh. He caught her easily as if he expected it.

Rhaenyra braced her hands against his shoulders, her breathing staggered, and his hands at her waist when she felt her heart pulsate up against his chest as she kissed his jaw. She hadn't nearly gotten enough in that bathroom, and there weren't nearly enough hours tonight to do so as well. She wasn't even certain if she could get enough if she had the rest of her life.

She sucked the area just under his ear, vertiginously, completely, and his breathing increased with it, the rumble in his chest of a man finally losing all his haphazard sense. She was naked and he was not, so she undid the last button on his shirt, slowly easing it off his shoulders as his mouth went to her neck, sucking on her pulse.

She lost track of his other hand, the one not kneading the flesh of her arse, and realized its destination when he slipped two fingers inside her, hard enough to make her gasp. He scissored them open, and her mouth slipped to his shoulder, biting down with a groan as he rocked his fingers inside her. She could hear the sounds of her own body, the ragged breathing as she felt her eyes roll back and her jaw clamps down in a moan.Tingles—hot and slick—pooled in between her legs, sizzling and knocking her completely off balance.

When he stopped to give her time to breathe, to catch a gust of air, she acted, straddling him. She pushed him down to his back as she undid his pants with the same nimble ease she showed him before. He stared up at her, his desire so potent that her heart was slamming against her rib cages as if it wanted to break from it like prison cells. He watched her undo the belt, unzip the slacks, and meet his eyes once more.

When she kissed down his neck, she saw the muscles tense with restraint, as if he were forcing himself to keep still, as if he wanted so badly to—

She met his eyes again as she reached into his slacks and felt him. His hand caught her cheek, his thumb tracing her lips, allowing them to part over his touch as she felt the hard length of him under her soft hold. He wasn't even close to being her first, but he was certainly her first in every aspect that mattered.

She gripped him tightly, and he pressed his thumb into her mouth, allowing her a chance to trail her teeth against his skin as she gave him one languid caress. Her fists clamped as hard as her teeth against his thumb and he let out a groan, his head hitting the ground as she gave another.

She was already in position, the head of his co*ck at her entrance, and he was sitting up on his elbows, his chest rising and falling as she worked her other hand up his tense abs. "Wait," he whispered as she kissed the corner of his mouth. "A condom."

She sunk down, just a centimetre, so the tip stroked her entrance and he let out a groan, a throaty sigh. His hand was dragging to her waist as if to stop her or pull her down all the way. She didn't care anymore. She didn't want any barrier, he had too many masks already, so she wanted this, him, as bare as could be.

She stared into his eyes as she sunk down and paused, engulfing just the tip as his head dragged against her neck. He was so big that she was already full of him, full of him instead of just his constant bullsh*t. A tremble ran through her, rolling with her hips that she moved, just on the head, to make him feel just as teased as he always left her. The heavy exhales and uneven breathing was rising with the need. "I hate you," he whispered, and maybe parts of him might have believed it, but she didn't.

He flipped her on her back, sheathing himself in her with one full thrust that made her let out a loud moan before he gripped her face, his fingers in her hair, and his mouth on her own once more. Her back arched off the floor, full in a way she could never replicate in every shameful imagination. She could feel him in her stomach, his heavy body atop her, one hand braced against the ground as the other was tangled in her hair. They stayed like that for a moment, one perfect moment, both eyes closed. They were breathing in tandem, uncertain whose chest moved the other as he dragged his lips to her ear.

"Thought you'd never let yourself be beneath me again, niece," he whispered in Valyrian, as if she made him forget any other language. She shivered at the deep voice, barely able to breathe with the feel of him, his teeth at her lobe, biting down with a wet tongue that made her gasp.

"I was on top of you first, uncle," she whispered right back, staring up at him. He raised, tugging on her hair so she'd look up at her. His other arm flexed and braced against the ground so he wouldn't crush her. The words were confirmation, a way of understanding what was happening, of accepting it.

And then he thrust hard inside her, earning a gasp, a moan, that he didn't try to silence. The skin-on-skin contact, the scrape of his teeth on her jaw. The unrelenting thrusts had her legs tightening around him. She fought the air to breathe, the hard strokes making her eyes water before he slowed, intensity softening. Her nails ran up his back as his hand moved down to her nipples, stroking them in soft circles that had her panting.

Every timehis thrust met her own rolling hips, molten heat spread from her cl*t, outward. A throaty moan escaped her lips with every move, as he pushed all the way out, only to go back in again. He was breathing against her ear, his abs flexing as her nails cut through the back of his head, scraping into his scalp as she gasped out his name. Whatever was coherent and lucid was lost in the swelling of her brain that filled with his every move inside her.

"I said to make noise," his low groan reached her ear, making her eyes roll back when he thrusts hard once more. "But if you continue as you have been, I won't make it much longer."

She practically bit her tongue, but when his fingers reached her cl*t, swirling around in intense slowness, she let out sounds that she didn't know she could make. His other hand raised from the ground, elbow balanced against wood, palm against her mouth, and restricting her next moan.

She felt the heat build with his fingers, with his thrusts, and her brows gathered as she stared into his eyes. He took his attention to detail in every area of his life, even here, even on top of her, where no area of her body was left wanting. He even f*cked her with his eyes, which filled with such want that she didn't think he could get enough either.

Her eyes rolled back and the org*sm was so intense, so violent, that it had her shuddering so heavily that her teeth clenched shut. Heat pulsed in her lower stomach, where he removed his hand from her cl*t and pressed down just below her navel. He paired it with a thrust that had had her quivering. She didn't know what sort of magic or sort of violence that coursed in her body that had it exploding. She was branching out in tingles and sensations that had her seeing the ceiling, seeing the windows from behind her, and then, seeing nothing at all.

She was still just barely coming down when she saw him watching her, reverently, gaze as dark as the damn flat. There was a bite mark on his shoulder from where her teeth had clamped down. He lowered, pressing his forehead against her own, looking straight into her eyes, as if he had found himself in a maze and couldn't get back out.

"I suppose there is no cure," he whispered, and he thrust again, just as she was coming down, only to cum again. She let out a sound that he captured in his mouth, kissing her softly, thrusting deep and slow, and with such tenderness that she felt it in her ribs. His fist was in her hair, his body on her, in her, and he offered whisperings that had her clutching him.

He was in her goddamned blood. He was her goddamned blood.

But she didn't care.

Chapter 16: House of Petty Revenge

Chapter Text

Ｓｉｘｔｅｅｎ

𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓅𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝑔𝑒

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Viserys Targaryen was never meant for any grand inheritance. The honour of guiding the future of the house, like a fading flame, flickered through the hands of brothers, sons, and uncles before it ever dared to grace his lips. Of thirteen children, one became a nun, one a runaway, eleven dead, and it was a mystery as to how such devastation could reign in a powerful house. Some deaths bore the unmistakable mark of tragedy, none more so than the fatal car accident that claimed the lives of Viserra and one of her sisters.

Viserra was a tempestuous child with fire in her veins and her quicksilver temper often seared those around her. In the House of the Dragon, such rebellion was not uncommon, for daughters often defied their fathers, treating orders as pesky suggestions rather than solemn commands.

Aemon, the eldest brother, willingly answered the call to arms and marched into the maw of war, leaving behind only a solitary medal and a letter that carried the news of his passing. Baelon the Brave, perhaps driven to madness by the weight of sorrow after the loss of his siblings, descended into a tumultuous abyss of his own making. If age or line of succession meant anything, it would have been Rhaenys Velayron, daughter of the first heir, Aemon, who succeeded next after the passing of her father or her grandfather. Or even, for that matter, Rhaenys's son Laenor.

For Daemon Targaryen, this would not do.

The grab for power in the last years of his grandfather's life was a greedy one, and Daemon could still remember the vibrant smell of antiseptic in the air of Jaehaerys Targaryen's hospital room. On his arm was a young girl, of the sort Daemon could hardly remember. She had been lined up with a group of others when he had picked her, not just for the platinum blonde hair, or the spitting image she had of Alysanne Targaryen, but for her quick wit and ease of falling into a role.

"When one nears the end, one likes to reminisce," was his newest order, prior to entering that room. Memory was the artist, an impressionist who added colour, smell, sound, and even emotion to any event at the drop of a whim.

"Alysanne?" Jaehaerys, once renowned for his sagacity and wit, now veiled in the haze of opiate-induced fog, beckoned with a feeble voice, his thoughts drifting between realms of lucidity and muddled pain.

The uncanny doppelgänger, Kala, eagerly clasped Daemon's outstretched hand, settling herself by the bedside in a well-practised routine. As if the director of a film, the young Daemon Targaryen, a mere 22 years of age, observed the scene unfolding before him with detached yet attentive eyes. With a soft click, he closed the door to the hospital room, creating a barrier between the intimate chamber and the bustling world beyond. His fingertips brushed against a display of faded accolades and war medals, silent witnesses to a valiant warrior whose final moments were destined to be surrounded by unfamiliar faces.

"My love," Kala tenderly greeted, her voice carrying a delicate cadence as she reverently pressed the aged hands of the old man to her lips. Meanwhile, Daemon, assuming the role of a keen observer, took hold of his grandfather's medical chart. His gaze descended swiftly, absorbing the fluctuation in fentanyl dosage since his last visit. Over time, the once-vibrant mane of white hair that crowned Jaehaerys's head had thinned, its aged strands resembling the delicate membrane of an egg. The skin, worn thin by the weight of years, nearly translucent, allowed a glimpse of the network of vibrant blue veins coursing beneath—a telltale sign of the insidious cancer stealthily spreading through his fragile frame.

"I missed you,"Jaehaerys whispered, his vision impaired in one eye, yet his gaze fixed intensely upon the young girl he believed to be his wife.

"Let us bury the unpleasant past," Kala replied, her lips tenderly brushing against his fingers, disregarding the swelling, clubbing tips. Brave girl indeed, Daemon thought, a smirk tugging at his lips as he continued to leaf through the pages of the medical records. This marked their fifth visit, and yet Kala never flinched, resolute in her pursuit of a share.

"Where is Saera?"Jaehaerys inquired, casting his eyes around the room, as if momentarily transported back in time, awaiting the entrance of a little girl.

Daemon found it amusing that his grandfather should ask about Aunt Saera. She was a woman born in the wrong era and to the wrong man. Her first word, defiantly uttered, had been 'no.'

"You must learn to manage the household," they had commanded, and 'no' was her resolute response. "Marry this man," Jaehaerys had demanded, only to be met with a firm 'no'. Daemon admired his aunt's unwavering commitment to her bodily autonomy, even at the cost of forfeiting her rightful share of the inheritance.

Now, Saera's whereabouts remained a mystery, as elusive and capricious as the wind. It would be remiss, however, to overlook the cruelty that resided within his aunt. Daemon had heard whispers of the dark and domineering influence she wielded over her own circle, compelling them to act upon her most malicious whims. "It's about control, nephew," Saera had once confessed to him. "It's not my fault they live to please and are oblivious to the word 'no'. They could stop at any time, but they won't because they desire to do as I command. I feel no guilt."

Saera had audaciously stated to her father, "The kissing was just for practice. It's not my fault she's stupid enough to end up pregnant." This declaration came to light when it was revealed that two of her acquaintances had tarnished their reputations with fatherless bastards. The nights of debauchery had stretched on so endlessly that even the two women themselves were clueless as to who the fathers might be.

Efforts to reign in Saera had sent shockwaves through the entire family, and the mere whispers of her possible return had inflicted unrepairable wounds upon a marriage, shattering it at its very foundation.

Unfamiliar with the depths of scandal that swirled within House Targaryen, Kala was only privy to the public gossip that pervaded the air. When Saera had left, she had spit on her name, releasing scandalous material, sexual paraphernalia, and—most damning of all—her alluding to the roots the Targaryen family had still in criminal activity. Whispers had always lingered, murmurs of vanished rivals, and contracts bearing no advantage to the other party, clandestinely signed. Yet, within the walls of the family, an impenetrable silence reigned, sealing these secrets within the realm of mere whispers.

Honestly, she was Daemon's favourite.

Kala's voice carried a tinge of sorrow, her eyes evading the piercing gaze of Jaehaerys. With meticulous attention to detail, she had assimilated into the persona of his grandmother, Alysanne, seamlessly donning her skin as if it were her own. Every gesture, every tapping of her fingers against her knee, every wrinkle of her nose in displeasure, and even the cadence of her voice, she had mastered with astonishing accuracy. Her performance was truly remarkable.

She did her homework, Daemon thought.

"I was wrong," Jaehaerys said, and those were words Daemon had never heard from his grandfather, so he assumed those opioids were doing as he wanted. "I was wrong." His voice quivered, and Daemon couldn't help but wonder if he remembered all the children who were no longer by his side.

Just two months had passed since the demise of Daemon's own father, setting in motion a series of events that had brought him to this very moment.

"Darling," Kala's voice carried a tender lilt as she reached out to caress Jaehaerys's weathered face with her delicate hands. There was a nurturing quality to her touch, a maternal instinct that had been absent in his own mother. But then again, she had been young when she bore him and tragically young when she departed. "Let us speak no more of Saera. She is home once more, content."

"Where is she?" Confusion clouded Jaehaerys's expression, his disorientation evident as if the world were spinning beyond his grasp, spiraling on its axis once more. His breath grew labored with each word, understandable given the advanced stage of cancer that had metastasized far beyond his lungs. After undergoing a partial pneumonectomy, there was little left of them. Speaking was now a struggle. "Where is my daughter?" he pleaded, his voice breathless, mirroring the frailty of his failing body.

Kala's tender touch traced across Jaehaerys's weathered face, soothing him. "She's upset Jaehaerys."

"When is she coming?" Jaehaerys whispered, his eyes wet, dripping down the sides of his face.

"She's under much pressure as your last daughter," Kala gently reassured, wiping away his tears with a tender gesture. "So much fighting, but you needn't concern yourself. Let me read to you, my love, as I once had."

Daemon's gaze lifted from the chart, his narrowed eyes reflecting the complexities of memory and its ability to shape, mould, and even embellish reality. Transforming a daughter who would sooner choose death over entangling herself in the family's political turmoil, into someone noble and distant. Someone entirely unlike the Saera he knew so intimately. Last he heard of her, she had laughed at the notion of returning. "I have all I could want right here," she had said.

"Baelon is my heir," Jaehaerys's wit flickered through the haze of medication, fragments of lucidity piercing through. Fortunately, not enough clarity returned for him to recognize the true identity of the person by his side.

"My love." Kala fluffed the pillows, assuming the role of a devoted wife with practised ease. "Baelon is gone and the line is ambiguous as to whom comes next. Your will has yet to be clarified," she murmured, her fingers tracing delicate patterns on his face as the old man leaned into her comforting touch. Jaehaerys had drafted numerous amendments and designated new heirs, but Baelon's sudden and unforeseen demise had left the matter of succession open to debate, a subject for the Velayron family to pick their teeth on.

"You would say Rhaenys once more," Jaehaerys whispered, his voice hoarse as Kala continued to soothe him.

"I understand your meaning now, husband," Kala told him with a gentle stroke of her fingers. "I did not before, but now I do. Baelon was a fine choice, and his son Viserys is next by right."

Daemon observed the unfolding scene, a multifaceted observer playing the roles of an impressionist, a director, a ventriloquist, and a brother. "Who are you?" Jaehaerys inquired, his weakening vision struggling to discern the true identity of the woman before him, gradually fading away like the waning light of day.

"Best let him rest now, Alysanne," Daemon said, shutting the chart.

"Alysanne," Jaehaerys whispered, his voice cutting off as the pain increased. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if the very act of breathing now made the pain all too real. Daemon's fists clenched around the folder, patience certainly not his ideal method. If it were anyone else, he'd simply use blatant violence, get what he wanted, and be done.

However, Daemon was many things, but a kinslayer, he was not.

"Alysanne," Jaehaerys whispered again, attempting to reach for her, so she might not leave him. Daemon was stoic in the background as Kala looked to him, a brief glance to which he nodded.

"My love," Kala cooed, stroking her gentle fingers up his arm, over the tubes that strapped to his veins. "I have to return. They are voting soon, and Saera needs me, needs us united behind Viserys."

"Viserys?" Jaehaerys whispered again, clarity coming back.

"Your chosen heir." Kala leaned forward, switching to Valyrian as if she had spoken it all her life. "We fear there might be bloodshed if this is not decided soon."

"Let's go, Alysanne. He should rest, and we have work to be done," Daemon said carefully, watching the bits of confused lucidity re-enter Jaehaerys's face as Kala kissed his cheek goodbye. He begged for her to stay, and she went on the act perfectly, embellishing memories so they might be unrecognizable to others who also experienced them. She was able to make it sound more truthful than the owner's own memory. It was all just impressions of past events, thousands of them, vying for the superior story. There was no reality and certainly no power. Power was what one took.

"You did well," Daemon said, once they made it outside the room. The moment the doors closed, his clever little actress straightened, no longer the facade of a long-since-dead grandmother. She immediately opened her compact mirror, taking off the blue contacts with two swipes of her fingers.

Her true eyes were a rich, dark brown that were so deep that they reminded him of his sleepless nights, awake, and staring into the creeping darkness. Ever the restless soul, Daemon felt compelled to look deeper, searching for something inside her. However, her soul was a veiled thing, and her eyes were not about to show him anything. Eyes certainly weren't good liars, but oftentimes, they were so guarded that they revealed nothing at all.

"Did I?" Kala asked, and now her accent had amended, back to the one she had picked up in Harlem, where he had met her.

Daemon had always been a cog in the machine of his family, never comfortable in their sparkling lights and public image. Ever the good son was never how anyone would describe him. Reckless and cruel and ambitious were far more adequate descriptors. His father had been just as mad, just as impetuous, but where his father earned the nickname 'Baelon the Brave', Daemon was 'the Rogue' or 'the Bastard of Flea Bottom'.

Aptly named, he supposed. On the days he met Kala and her group, they had been congregated under the bridge, mostly boys, kids who lived nowhere, and who had nowhere else to go. That was certainly not Daemon, who, despite not being in line to the great inheritance, was still from great money. Baelon had not been a poor man, having made his own millions off the loans from his father.

However, while Daemon had many places to go, he never felt a sense of belonging in the niche that he was to occupy. There was always a restless peace that he despised.

"He didn't fold," Kala said, glancing over to Daemon as she took out her lipstick to reapply the deep red, matching the Targaryen colours. "And you walk away, yet again, with nothing." She sneered at him, no sign of that motherly touch that she had adopted within those four white walls. Perhaps the sterilization of the antiseptics had erased her terrible personality.

She went to walk away, but he gripped her arm, dragging her right back to him. Her dark brown eyes stared into his very soul, and she looked unimpressed with what she saw there.

"We walk away with nothing," Daemon reminded her, and her nostrils flared, but even then, her eyes were veiled. "I am starting to believe you do not want to walk away with anything. Or, perhaps you would rather back my cousin Rhaenys in my stead?"

Rhaenys would likely never take the aid of someone who betrayed another to go to her side, but Daemon could never tell with her. Daemon could barely tell if it was his cousin who wanted the inheritance and title, or her husband, or if their will was one and the same.

"I back the winning team," she said simply, staring at where his hand had wrapped tightly around her arm. "Even if I think you are insane."

Daemon's brows arched, but she wasn't done.

"The ones who are crazy enough to think they can be at the top are always the ones that do anyway, so what does it matter?" Kala tore her arm from his grasp, and the fabric of her long-sleeved dress nearly singed his hand. "Just remember who helped put you there once you have everything you want."

"I am an honest man," he told her, and she scoffed as if he had told a joke. "Who wouldn't go back on a deal."

"You are a manipulator," she said slowly, staring straight into his eyes, unperturbed about the reputation that made him out as deadly. His family might be fine trying to pretend they had always been clean, making honest trades, but he saw the world for what it was. Men at the top would destroy everything to stay there, so why not be that man? Someone was going to do it anyway, so why not him? Alas, being the second son meant he'd have to make do with the meagre pickings, becoming crueller in order to be great.

"I am more of an engineer of my desired effects," he told her instead. "And I will get what I want with or without you." Her scowl deepened, and he sent her an apologetic smile that only a gentleman could give. "But I'd prefer you with me."

"Your grandfather can't handle any increase in drugs. He will die soon, and from how it sounds, it looks like he finally wants to give his support for women's suffrage," Kala said with both brows raised, crossing her arms as if the entire situation was hilarious. Which, as Daemon knew, it was. No one had been more against women's rights than his grandfather, who had pointedly called his daughter a whor* for having a boyfriend. He, who never denied the rumours that she sailed away to become a high-class prostitute across the sea.

"Belief is easily manipulated," Daemon replied. "Only knowledge is dangerous to us now. Make certain he believes Saera backs Viserys, make him believe that next time and we both win."

"And if we are too late? If he dies first?" Kala asked, carefully.

"Then he dies and we make due," Daemon smiled down at her, no warmth to be found since eyes didn't lie. "Perhaps next time, he will be in brighter spirits."

"What if Rhaenys attempts the same thing? Attempts to appeal to him?" Kala asked carefully.

"She wouldn't. An honest and fair woman, my cousin," Daemon said, almost fondly. "That's why she'll lose."

Kala shook her head. "As you wish. Perhaps send me more family gossip, and I will read through it to use next visit," she agreed, waving at him from over her shoulder. His eyes dragged down her once more, but they were as restless as he was, and they slipped back to the door where his grandfather lay. He was hardly recognizable to him, and perhaps that was a bit disappointing.

Perhaps he did want, after all these years, to not have to do this. Perhaps, stupidly, he wanted someone to turn to him and say he was enough. But Daemon had learned long ago that respect could not always be given, and second sons had to take it.

So, he continued on his way, always scheming.

The streets of New York were always noisy, but when one is from a family treated like royalty, they often became suffocating. So, when it was necessary, Daemon liked to blend in, and this was made easier with the rain, where everyone had their eyes down, umbrellas up, and hoods shielding them. He could slip in easier, slithering around the streets that he knew so well.

Although it was only six, the sky was already blanketed by thick darkness. The fog was made thicker by the East River, where it blurred every detail with its rough veils, punctured at various distances from the glow of looming towers and rays of light that escaped from the thousands of illuminated windows. His shoes slapped against the rain-soaked roads, glittering from the many street lamps. A bitter wind swept past, heavy with icy particles, against his face.

He had little thought as he made his way past the crowds, everyone's pace in hurried, incognizant steps. He made it to the hotel first, quick to notice the many cars pulled up, familiar ones of the differing family. It already answered for him much of what he already knew was to come.

"I don't even want to be heir," Viserys told him later into the night, to which Daemon found laughable. "I want nothing from Jaehaerys."

It had been a long night of weighted discussion, family yelling, screaming, vying for differing names in the ever-growing pool. Rhaenyra Targaryen would never know the actual work that went into making certain a woman did not gain power, as Daemon would never be the one to tell her.

But the current Rhaenyra was a six-year-old, who enjoyed playing in her mother's gardens over the politicking and scheming of the Targaryens who occupied the hotel.

"You have the best claim," Daemon told his brother instead, sitting against the chair with little care for his wet shoes or the bits of water sliding down his face. The conversation needn't ever happen if Daemon had been born four years earlier than his older brother who would rather read and frolic around Europe than have true responsibility. Daemon might have been quick to temper, perhaps even cruel, but he was learned and worked for the influence that he wanted and Viserys did not. "What you want is irrelevant."

"They are all insane," Viserys continued as if he did not hear it. He was pacing the hotel suite, forced out of his home in Dragonstone, just to make certain he did not miss his grandfather's death. It was a duty rather than a want, but he made it clear that he and his family only wanted to return, not get trapped in New York and forced to continue the fight of legacy. "The 'discussion'," Viserys continued, putting air quotes around the word with both his hands. "Discussion they called it. I wouldn't be surprised if this ends in blood and fire. Cousins who I thought myself fond of were already against me. Just let Rhaenys's son Laenor have it, and be done with it."

"Laenor is seven," Daemon's low voice cut through the sizzling tension, eyes narrowed. He had thought his greatest opposition would be the dozens of cousins who all thought themselves best fit, and wouldn't have suspected it to be his own brother. He had known Viserys was squeamish about the responsibility but thought it was something he'd eventually get over.

"Rhaenys would do well in his stead." Viserys shook his head as he spoke, and Daemon followed his brother's line of vision toward the room where his daughter slept silently in her bed. Aemma was pointedly quiet, pouring herself more wine from across the room. "She deserves it far more than I do and she would do right by the Targaryens as a whole."

"She is a Velaryon," Daemon said carefully, now standing. "You would have the legacy our family built, chisel away to a woman with another man's name?"

"It's only a name," Viserys said, only twenty-seven, but he had grown stout and old in Dragonstone. He had dined on the great feasts offered, fit for a king, and enjoyed all the benefits of firstborn to Baelon the Brave. Daemon thought it ironic that once the piper came, his brother would rather ignore the call.

"Only a name," Daemon whispered in high Valyrian, the sound coming out harsh and guttural. "It's all that is left of us. It's what will succeed us. And, in the end, it doesn't much matter to me what you want."

Viserys shook his head with an incredulous laugh, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He spoke in English, as though he were refusing the very blood in his veins. "I am not the chosen heir, and there are many others who desire it as much as I do. Baratheon and Velaryon alike." He finally reaches for the paper that rested near Aemma's bottle of wine. She pointedly flinches as he yanks it from the surface, slapping it into Daemon's chest so hard that it nearly winds him.

Daemon doesn't rise, even as violence travels throughout his bloodstream, begging for retaliation. If it had been anyone else, maybe he might have met it. Instead, he sends one, unimpressed glance toward his brother, and grabs the Newspaper that had fallen onto his lap. It was the front page, written in bold lettering, that caught Daemon's ever-present attention.

THE TARGARYEN FAMILY TREE IS A CIRCLE

Daemon's gaze continued its descent down the article, his fists tightly gripping the pages as he absorbed the relentless onslaught of slander. Yet, what truly stoked his fury was the opening salvo.

In a striking turn of events, high-level delegations from around the world have convened to discuss the future of House Targaryen, the enigmatic family whose vast enterprise holds considerable influence over the global economy. Despite their reputation for privacy since the devastating downfall of old Valyria, disturbing revelations have emerged, raising questions about the true nature of this illustrious and allegedly corrupt dynasty.

Recent investigations have uncovered a series of shocking allegations surrounding House Targaryen. Reports suggest the presence of child labour factories in China, implicating the family's involvement in exploitative practices to maximize their profits. These distressing claims shed light on the darker side of their multibillion-dollar empire, calling into question their ethical standards and corporate responsibility.

Furthermore, disturbing whispers of shady business dealings and allegations of numerous, unexplained deaths have surfaced, challenging the very foundations upon which this prestigious dynasty stands.

Most disturbing of all are the recent allegations of incestuous relationships within the family. Sources, who choose to remain anonymous, have disclosed that cousins marry cousins as a customary practice within the inner workings of this immensely wealthy household. Such revelations cast a sombre shadow over the supposed heirs to the wise and peaceful Jaehaerys Targaryen, including Viserys Targaryen, who is alleged to have wed Aemma Arryn, his second cousin and the fifth child of Duke Rodrik Arryn.

As the world watches these developments unfold, questions abound about the true nature of House Targaryen's power and influence. Are these allegations merely the tip of the iceberg, suggesting a far-reaching web of deceit and impropriety? Will the international community hold the family accountable for their alleged transgressions, or will the allure of their immense wealth shield them from the consequences?

Only time will reveal the full extent of the corruption that lies behind the curtains of this prestigious family. As investigations continue, it remains to be seen whether House Targaryen's future and their significant stake in the global economy will endure the weight of these grave accusations or crumble under the mounting pressure for transparency and accountability.

"I will accept no slander of my family," Viserys hissed out the words, and Daemon's eyes slowly trailed up to him, lips in a tight frown. The labour factories again, Daemon thought with a scoff, they were hardly the only ones using them.

"Is this all?" Daemon asked, flipping the paper to reach the employment section where the help wanted portion was printed. "Perhaps, should you be so unambitious and weak-willed, you should be looking at this page instead."

Those rumours had always been apparent, and the Targaryens made quick work to squash hearsay before they began to sink in and expose the family's 'queer customs'. Baelon and Alyssa were much too close, or so they said in the press. Daemon had heard every variation of his father and aunt's relationship. He had heard every insult, meant to bury his family, despite his mother's attempt to quell the rumours. Sometime later, much later, the rumours became so damning that Baelon and his sister could no longer be seen in the same room together, lest something nefarious come out to the public. His father was lost to grief when Alyssa died, and it was said that even his grief was a sign of guilt.

Daemon's mother was an ample, olive-dark woman with this permanently worn and disappointed look on her face. Daemon could remember so few characteristics these days without her beside him. He would, at times, try to find her in his face, study his reflection in mirrors as if he could reach in and pull her out. She had spent her entire life doing things for others, and occasionally, Daemon had caught her, heard the mulling plaintiveness in that lull of her voice that suggested she deeply regretted this.

Baelon didn't have nearly the same reaction when his wife had died, one moment there, and gone the next. What must it have felt like, Daemon often wondered, to lie back in a warm bath, letting the blood drip slowly into the water from slashed wrists? What a voluptuous and yet dwindling feeling. Daemon could still remember her face when he knocked open the bathroom door, so pale and serene and peaceful and lost. He had played some of her music at the funeral, played it from books he found, and had never known she had written it. How many gifts had this woman given up for the sake of children that people said weren't her own?

Daemon stood, shoving the paper into his brother's chest, walking past him to grab his own glass from the shelves, pouring from Aemma's wine. He looked at her as he did, the harshness leaving his face when he said, "Are you alright?"

Aemma's eyes were glassy before she hid them away, staring off into space with deep timorous breaths that she tried to quell.

"I am trying to save my family," Viserys said, practically shaking. "You care only for yourself, and not the family you dare say you fight for."

Daemon's harsh scowl deepened, but he took a long drink from the glass, not stopping until he reached the dregs. "I suspect it was the Baratheons," he said in a low tone, eyes slipping over to his brother, ignoring the jab. "It is beneath both Corlys and Rhaenys to slander their own kin."

"I don't give a rat's arse who it was," Viserys shouted, only to have Aemma finally rise to life, heat now evaporating any moisture that he had seen in her gaze. She was always more reticent about her personal affairs, far more than his brother. It also meant that when she showed them, Daemon had a mind to listen.

"This will follow our daughter. You may not care, but I do," Aemma replied, now standing, nearly staggering from the cloud of alcohol, and might have if Daemon had not steadied her by the arm. "I know exactly what snake did this."

Viserys lowered to his seat, looking already put out, his face in his hands. "I want to hear nothing more on the matter. Leave," he said to Daemon. "Back to your city of silk. To your bedlam of whor*s. I will fix this tomorrow when I cast my vote for Rhaenys."

There was truly no advantage, as far as Daemon could see, in having a brother: he chewed with his mouth open, ate every single bag of crisps before Daemon could have even one, and was an ungrateful arsehole. Daemon worked his entire life and busted his arse just to keep himself relevant. Everything he had was often forgotten, his achievements diminished, and Viserys would never understand since he had been handed everything, only to bitch about it all as something he never wanted.

Viserys was the oldest. When their father died, he had said to him 'look out for your brother' on his deathbed. He never said a word to Daemon, as if it never occurred to him in the end. Perhaps Daemon made it his duty to look after his older brother, in spite of it all.

Daemon let out a laugh, "As you wish, brother," he said, not meaning it as he shared one last moment with Aemma. There was a fire in her that his brother seriously lacked, and it called to him now as she grabbed her phone and slyly went down her contacts, stopping at Tamar Baratheon, fifth cousin, and a traitor.

Daemon blinked, languid and lazy, before placing his hand on Aemma's shoulder and left.

Daemon didn't get to choose this family, but he had grown to be tolerant and even fond of it at times. Vengeance and retribution required patience and time, just to get it right, but such things were not a luxury here. So, he had 17 hours to save the family that his brother was determined to destroy.

Mohammad Ali once said, "You kill my dog, you better hide your cat."

Aptly true statement.

Nobody with a sense of morals wandered the streets of Brownsville after dark. Brownsville, also named Flea Bottom to the inhabitants of Brooklyn, was lit only with a few streetlamps as Daemon saw the two men lingering outside the staircases that would lead down into a lower subsection of the street. Daemon barely glanced at them, walking down and opening the door after unlocking the many padlocks that barred it from the public. The inside smelt like a mixture of smoke and weed, the chairs all stacked on tables, but patrons never arrived to sit in them.

The room was filled with fumes as Daemon walked behind the empty bar to pour himself a glass of bourbon, hearing the doors close as Blood and Cheese walked inside. Certainly not the names that Daemon would have chosen for even a parakeet, but their methods were far more effective and impressive than their ability to choose a nickname under pressure. Also, they didn't ask questions and had loyalty above all else.

"Twice in a year, Daemon," Blood said with a crooked grin, showing off a chipped tooth from the last time Daemon saw him. The Targaryen couldn't even remember why he punched him, but knew he wouldn't have minded never stopping. Even now, his fists thirsted for it, thirsted for anything to fill the empty quiet. "Must be a nasty business, having all those fancy cars and no other way to keep them."

Daemon laughed into his cup, contemplating murder once more.

"Perhaps this time, consider forgiveness," Cheese suggested, certainly the less savage of the two. However, considering he grew up in the underground, rat-infested tunnels of New York, homeless and alone and scraping off the crimes of society, he was no mere pushover. When Daemon recruited him, Cheese attempted to mug him, to knife him, but hadn't succeeded in either when Daemon offered him a beer.

"I always forgive my enemies," Daemon said carefully, passing over the folder tucked into his suit and sliding it over the bar. "But not a second before they are hanged."

Blood was the one who took it, brows rising in surprise. "You've never targetted family before," Blood said, and Cheese looked at the file over his shoulder.

"Family is rather subjective," Daemon said, setting the empty glass on the bar surface. "See it done by tonight. Should be an easy one. Payout enough to fix that tooth."

Blood ran his filthy palm along his jaw with a cracked smile. "Better to buy drinks. Forget it's even broken that way."

Daemon let out a disdainful snort, downing the last of the bourbon with a grimace, though its taste did little to please his palate. Pleasure was a rarity in Daemon's world. His restless eyes constantly scanned the room, darting towards the imposing double doors that concealed the backroom where the notorious Second Sons carried out their dubious dealings. The faint scent of smoke permeated the air, seeping through the crevices, suffusing the vicinity with a haze of illicit substances. Blood, ever attuned to Daemon's gaze, mirrored his line of sight, sporting a mischievous, lopsided grin that only added to the exasperation.

"Find out who's been scraping off the top?" Daemon finally asked, towards the empty silence that Blood filled with the scraping of his chair against the busted floors. No point in ever fixing up a temporary operation, Daemon had said before.

"Someone working under the Hightowers," Cheese said carefully towards the austerity of Daemon's frown, lighting up the joint and blowing it into the empty space to his right. It melded and mixed with the cloud of smoke behind him. "That Bronz kid had little else to say. Just another rat."

Daemon had figured as much. Otto Hightower had been a sycophant, sucking on his father's veins for a drop of gold. When Baelon died, it hadn't surprised him that the leech had found a new host, ever the obsequious servant towards the House of the Dragon. Or so he said.

"Kill him." Daemon had known of the boy, barely seventeen. He had even liked him for he seemed anxious to please yet not in an unctuous way. It was not Daemon who sent boys in, rushing along flea bottom and looking for a second son's complacency. "Quickly and cleanly." It was mercy, Daemon supposed, considering he didn't mind the Bronz boy and his ire would always be with the Hightower who made it his goal to poison the family to whom he swore his allegiance. Despite what Otto would have Viserys believe, Daemon didn't act without thinking.

Otto Hightower, who hid behind the Faith and used it to justify his own misdeeds. There were dead kids dumped in sewers who did not care about one man's righteousness. Justly so, Daemon refused to hide behind the guise of vengeance.

The House of the Dragon would be no more, slowly deteriorating and dividing with Otto's ambition to rise above his station.

"Send his daughter the hands," Daemon said with some manner of grim austerity. He had tried retaliating against Otto himself, but the war seemed to continue, despite all his attacks, both subtle and otherwise.

"Alicent Hightower? She's 9." Cheese seemed to disapprove, but Blood was already chuckling into his absinthe.

"Which is why I am not sending a head," Daemon answered, gripping the table with white knuckles. "See it done."

Once he was back onto the dark streets of Brooklyn he kept his hood up and head down, blending in with the city once more. The city was illuminating itself against the oncoming night. Electric lights, ones sizzled and jagged, crowded in the main thoroughfares, and street lights in the side streets glimmered a canary green or bright gold. The stars were constricted by the millions of lights, only a few visible in the spring sky.

The smoke in Long Island would mitigate the splendour, and the sky would be blazing in a crimson battlefield by morning. New York would move on, not minding the sirens that will befall it come first light. The clouds of the street would be a delicately painted ceiling overhung against Tamar Baratheon's household come morning.

But the murder of a cousin was not Daemon's intention. The dead could not suffer, after all.

He arrived back late into the night, where all that was left of evidence to their presence was the drained bottle of wine that Aemma had left atop the table and a box of tissues, now empty as well. Daemon had shrugged off his coat, tossing it on the rack as he went searching for water in the fridge, walking about the royal suite with a roll of his eyes.

His brother, ever the first to complain about his role, seemed content using all that power and money to stay in the most expensive suite at the Ritz-Carlton. He sat at the long, black marble table with only the dim lights on the ceiling, leaving the room with a soft yellow glow, reflecting against the freshly wiped modern art on the white walls.

He was neck deep in paperwork, in phone calls to lawyers, late night talks with old friends, when he heard the pitter-patter of footsteps against the hardwood floors. He glanced over, barely paying attention to the unwanted guest as she entered. He sighed, watching her stretch her arms above her head with a loud yawn that could shake the room.

"Uncle Daemon?" Rhaenyra Targaryen said with a sleep-filled voice that made him lower his head into his hand, as if she would not see him. He continued to scrape his pen across the page as she pattered her loud feet across the room to force out the chair across from him. The wood scraped loudly across the ground, filling the once-empty silence with noise as she struggled to climb atop the seat. She was only six, but now, with how loud she was being, she was living on borrowed time.

"Yeah, I heard you, but it's a bit late tomorrow. Get it by 7," he said on the phone, watching Rhaenyra struggle to hobble her tiny legs atop the chair.

"Whatcha doing?" Rhaenyra asked, yawning again, wearing her silk pyjamas that read 'Ritz-Carlton' in bold letters across the pocket on the top. Over that, was a robe that was obviously not for children considering she drowned in it. It likely belonged to her mother, and she used it as a blanket.

"Go back to sleep," he said, and scowled, his eyes snapping towards the phone as the voice answered back. "No, obviously not you, moron. Get back to work."

"It looks boring," Rhaenyra continued, not minding his harsh tone.

"It is," Daemon said, putting the phone on mute to speak. "Which is why I am attempting to spare you of it. Go to sleep."

"No," Rhaenyra said with a smile, bouncing on her seat so she could sit on her knees instead, that way the table's surface wasn't at her neck. He watched with disinterest, unmuting himself to answer the next set of questions. "I want to spare from boring."

"No, the other one. Print that and have your signature at the bottom," Daemon ordered, muting himself again, his eyes back to his niece. "You don't even know what spare means."

She shrugged, not denying it. "I know lots of other words," she said instead. "Like circle. I know that word."

Daemon's brows furrowed together. "What?"

She made a circle with her fingers, showing him her vast knowledge. "I know that word. I know the word tree too. There were trees outside Dragonstone before daddy made us leave. I want to go back to see the rowan trees."

Daemon's brows smoothed, not surprised when she pulled the newspaper from under her mother's ginormous robes. She opened right to the front page, pointing to the title with furrowed brows.

"I'll call you back," Daemon said over the phone, hanging up without waiting for an answer, eyes scanning from the title of the paper and up toward Rhaenyra's confused but determined face.

On the paper, she had circled several words with her crayons, and the page was covered in wrinkles, letting him know someone, maybe her, had balled it up into a fist. She pointed to the word circled in blotchy green crayon. "I don't know this word."

This was probably a moment to be serious so Daemon probably shouldn't have found it so hilarious, but there this six-year-old was, pointing to the New York Times with the word 'incest' circled twice in crayon. He let out a laugh that he barely managed to hide with his fist. He lowered his face towards the documents aligned beneath him, sprawled out, and his shoulders shook.

"What's funny?" Rhaenyra asked, pointing to the word again, angry now. "I know this word," she said, moving along to others on the page, as if he were laughing at her lack of vocabulary. "And this one." She moved her finger again. And again. "What is this one?"

He let out a deep breath, feeling severely underqualified and far too sober for this position. He met her indigo eyes once more, trying to think of something to say as she stared up at him with that determined expression that told him nothing less than the truth would satiate her. His lips spread into a slightly fond smile, finding that an admirable quality.

She was certainly annoying, most definitely unwanted, but half the time, so was he. "Why do you want to know so badly?" Daemon asked, hoping to deflect her, but his niece was not so easily distracted. Perhaps when she was 4, he could throw a ball in one direction and she'd chase it like a wild labrador, but no longer.

"I asked first," she said instead, pointing to the word again. "Papa cried holding it. I seen it happen," she switched to Valyrian, hoping he'd answer if she showed him her skill. Her vernacular had certainly gotten better than the last he taught her some of the language, once it appeared obvious Viserys wasn't interested in doing so.

"Your uncle is handling it," Daemon said instead and watched her brows furrow, her expression growing more irritated that he had yet to give her a Webster's Dictionary definition. How one explains to a six-year-old what incest was, Daemon did not know. He never liked to talk to her like a child, perhaps the only one who did not. It could be tiresome, as he well remembered, to be spoken down to in such a way. Too many already did, and Daemon didn't want to add his name to that growing tally.

"What is it?" Rhaenyra asked again.

"Your cousin Laenor, you remember him?" Daemon asked instead, and she shrugged, which wasn't really an answer, but Daemon didn't much care. "Imagine you marry him."

"I'd rather die," Rhaenyra interrupted, her nose wrinkling.

He shook his head, "No, that's what that word means."

"Laenor doesn't wash his hands," Rhaenyra said, not listening.

"What?"

"When he goes poopy," Rhaenyra said, waving her hand. "He doesn't wash. He's gross. Is this article about that?"

Daemon's eyes darted to the side, sensing his out. "Yes."

"Oh," Rhaenyra said, glancing down at it. "I see." She carefully began to fold the newspaper into little squares, her lips pursed as she worked. Daemon watched her, still holding his pen as she continued until the New York Times was folded so much that it spurned any new attempt to bend. "Can you take this away?" Rhaenyra tossed it atop his pile of work, where it bounced once. "It made mummy and daddy sad. Laenor should wash his hands." She hopped off the chair, nearly tripping on her robes as she attempted to push in her seat. Some of the bulky material got caught underneath the wood leg, and he watched her yank it out with an ungraceful hiss and close her robes over her small body.

It dragged behind her as she walked back out of the dining room.

"Night uncle Daemon," she called from behind her, and Daemon stared after her with furrowed brows.

He blinked, rubbing his fingers over his temples with a slow laugh, forced out of his trachea as he lifted his phone to return to his call, first texting Kala one last time.

Saera Targaryen had no claim to any inheritance, and the entirety of support would drop should she ever be named heir. Likely, every soul with breath in them would deny aid, tarnishing the name that nobody knew was so fragile. However, Daemon did not need Saera's voice or even her presence. Her name was a mine, and one that Kala had studied up on in the long night.

When she sat by Jaehaerys's bed once again that morning, they went panning for gold.

"Old age makes old men regret life decisions," Daemon whispered to Kala as they stood around, waiting for the will's final draft. Jaehaerys was certainly more lucid, but his memory of the events had changed and morphed with Kala's craft.

"Shame it couldn't come about sooner," Kala was swift in her riposte, staring into Daemon's heated gaze. "Perhaps, should he have been a decent father, he'd still have some daughters left."

"That's a terrible thing to say about a family not your own," Daemon said back, lips twitching in a smirk.

"You've certainly said worse about them," she replied, and he shrugged.

"Because I can," he told her, his voice lowering an octave. "You may not."

Kala tilted her head sideways, saying, "I read that Jaehaerys often attempted to use his own daughters as bargaining tools for trade or were those rumours?"

Daemon snorted, looking away, "He's from a different time. Those times are dying."

Kala's eyes narrowed, "Unless men like you and your brother plan to do the same."

Daemon didn't look back at her as he watched his grandfather sign on the dotted line. "Rhaenys would do well in a position of his calibre of power, better than Viserys ever would. Of that, I know. But Viserys has something that she does not."

Kala only watched the hard work they put into the endeavour pay off, saying, "And what's that?"

Daemon only laughed, "No sons." That makes me heir, Daemon thought, careful not to voice it. A raintree bent towards a window on one side of the bungalow, a quaint little place, perfect to welcome the death of an old man. It was an eavesdropping little branch, but the voices would not travel past the windows until Daemon wanted them to.

Kala pursed her lips, and said, "But he also has a daughter. Does that not worry you?"

Daemon did not answer, only walking forward to oversee the last signature of a dying man. He had only love for his niece, pretty gifts to spoil her, sweets to fatten her, and affection to turn her complacent without ever realizing that indulgences serve only to weaken her. He'd shower her with gold, without ever realizing that the weight of such finery was a heavy one.

He was the true heir, and no little girl would take his place and ruin the House he served and bled for.

Chapter 17: When We Wake

Chapter Text

Ｓｅｖｅｎｔｅｅｎ

𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓀𝑒

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

The first time Rhaenyra had sex with Criston Cole, he had woken her up with little kisses along her back, trailing up her spine. His lips against her naked neck, dawdling to her ear and whispering how beautiful she looked, had been what originally caused a tiny spark of affection in her twisted heart. He had made a succulent breakfast, and picked her a small lily from outside, near the little cafe where he bought her an oat milk latte. She had turned toward him, where they had locked eyes and he had stared down with his entire soul, baring into her.

Rhaenyra had been frightened by it, fundamentally and absolutely terrified by this kindness that no man had ever given her before. She had wanted the lack of eye contact, for him to f*ck her into the mattress until she lost all sense. In a senseless world, she could picture another man.

The morning had been filled with Criston's fingers trailing along her nude figure, his mouth against her neck, and the whispers had been so dulcet that Rhaenyra never felt worthy enough to hear them.

So, when she awoke alone, reaching across an empty bed, the morning dim and the windows covered in frost, she laughed. She sunk into her pillow, her heartbeat in her ears and laughed. The sound was muffled into her own pillow, so as to swathe her own breaking voice. Or maybe she wanted to go straight through the feathers and down, awaken in a new bed, and one where he was next to her. When she finally sat up, sheets dripping off her naked body, she hugged her knees to her chest, searching for clothes on the ground, any sign that he hadn't put them on in haste. Shoes, pants, socks, all gone.

She pulled herself up from the bed, paying no heed to her nakedness as she moved around the canopy, her recollection of leaving the floor hazy. Her memories were a perilous trail to navigate, yet she treaded past them, recalling his tender kiss on her forehead as she drifted into slumber beside him. At some point in the night, after the fog of sex had left her deflated against him, he must have carried her to bed.

She walked, vulnerable, around her penthouse, all signs of life now stricken and bare.

But Rhaenyra was never one to cry when the emotions became too much, overflowing from her bare hands, cupping them and watching them spill. She merely slipped on her black silk robe resting by the door. She vaguely saw her hands trembling as she felt the material slide over flesh with remarkable slowness.

She felt it against her, her cheeks pale, her body numb, as she walked through, room after room. Her bare feet slapped against the hardwood floor as she spotted the brown groomsmaid dress, situated over her pale couch. The dim light touched it, turning it a lighter shade of chestnut from the peaking blinds. She walked to it, fingers brushing along the fabric as she slid them down with thinning lips. Her jaw was clenched when she felt her hands fisting over the material.

She let out a sound, like a choked gasp as she brought the material closer, both hands pulling the fabric apart. Her muscles strained, but the adrenaline coursing through her was both liquid courage and added vigour. She heard the fabric rip, heard the seams attempt to keep a hold on one another as she tore it straight down the middle. She let out a piercing scream, ripping it to sheds, stitch by stitch.

By the time she was done, she was on her knees, and the fabric littered the ground around her. She stood up, her hands bracing her naked thighs as she felt the skin, still warm with the memory of his touch. She shook her head, her laugh coming out strained.

She made it to her phone, resting in her coat near the door. She pulled it out, but her Face ID couldn't seem to recognize her blotchy, reddened, and make-up-smeared skin. It felt like she were a balance, emotions stacked on each of the scales, sadness on one, anger on the other. It had been steady, stagnant, but her phone was the tipping point to cause the throbbing pain to finally overflow, mutilating the last shreds of sense.

There were tears streaming down her face when she finally tossed her phone into the wall, where it hit the picture frame she had up. It had been one she framed of her family, of her and her mother and father at the beaches in Dragonstone. Every time she searched through her memories, all the good ones and the ones that lightened the burden, all took place on that island.

She watched it fall, bounce and break against the ground. She knelt down next to it, eyes on the bandage around her hand as she reached for the glass. She watched shards fall from the photograph as she grabbed it, stroking her cold fingers across the image of Dragonstone in the background. She could still remember the high towers, made to look like many dragons, flying over the thrashing sea. In the background were the small dragon forming gates and claws holding the bright torches.

It was a mark of gorgeous, grotesque architecture with the great gargoyles on the doors and dragons upon the crenellations. The walls in the towering backgrounds were wrought with black stone with designs of basilisks and demons etched onto the very brick. Rhaenyra stared at it, her fingers stroking down, remembering the armoury and smithy, the dragon tails that form archways and staircases. She felt tears burn her eyes. It was the last memories of a time her family had been truly happy, before New York came about, before her father had been obsessed with the creation of a male heir.

In Dragonstone, her parents had been perfect, never fighting, never arguing, and always attentive. New York brought about her father's rise to power, but also marked the doom of the perfect family she had thought they were. It exposed cracks in the ceiling where the light caved in, making her wonder if the foundations had always been built atop the rubble. She always missed the salty air, the smells of smoke and brimstone that made Rhaenyra feel as if she had gone back in history.

She always thought of that place as being stuck in time, so long as nobody stepped foot there, so long as she didn't go back, those happy memories could stay intact.

Now, here it was, broken and forcing her to remember the strain on a marriage Rhaenyra chose to look back on as happy.

Rhaenyra grabbed the photograph and her cracked phone, leaving the glass as she avoided stepping on it. She made it to the lounge, spotting a box that had been placed on the table. She felt her heart freeze in her chest, something icy and cool settling over her as she lifted the little package of Planned B.

She watched the shaking of her hand, trembling and causing the contents of the box to rattle. "I have an IUD you piece of sh*t!" Rhaenyra tossed it with all her strength across the room, watching it hit her bookshelves, knocking over her snowglobe and causing it to shatter in glass and glitter over her floor.

Her chest was rising and falling violently, her eyes narrowed as she rushed to grab the next item, the vase she got from Ikea, and she tossed it against the wall next. She wasn't done there, ripping to shreds her books, and slowly unravelling the ball of anxiety and hurt, replacing it with violence that she hadn't realized could be so therapeutic.

When she finished, her bandage was soaked in red, her cheeks flushed, and her back shimmering with sweat. Her penthouse was in disarray, the once-beloved dress now reduced to tatters. She lay still, fixated on the ceiling, struggling to rein in the rapid breaths threatening to engulf her. The turmoil didn't subside, even as she avoided facing the aftermath. Dragging herself towards the shower, she sought solace in the biting cold water, letting it envelop her in its freezing embrace.

By the time she got out, she was too cold for lust or for sadness, and she just laid down on her bed, wondering how she could allow herself to be fooled again.

She rolled over, reached for her phone, and unblocked his number before she stared at the text screen through blurry vision. There was a long crack across her phone that had splintered off into many smaller ones that nearly restricted her from seeing herself in the tiny reflection. On the fractured glass, she began to write, to erase, to rewrite, and this process repeated until the first teardrop dripped down her cheek and onto her thumb.

Once the first one came, the next was close by, one after another in silent succession. She watched them cover her screen, caught in the splintered cracks as she stared at his name. She had many things she could say, such as 'I am not a one night stand' or 'I will murder you' or 'where did you go this morning'.

The last thought nearly divided her heart as she was reminded of that woman from so many years ago who had sent him the same thing. 'Where did you go this morning? I miss you.' Rhaenyra would never forget it and never forget how insignificant she had felt when she read it. Most of all, Rhaenyra had felt oddly superior back then, as though she had a such hold over Daemon that he was leaving another woman's bed in order to come back to her.

Where did you go this morning? Rhaenyra thought, watching her fingers clench the phone, hating herself, hating him, hating Apple products. I miss you.

So, Rhaenyra wrote nothing, but left his number unblocked, unable to help it.

And from the other end?

Silence.

Nine times out of ten, when Rhaenyra was in trouble from the gossip of a nefarious nature, she blamed Otto Hightower. Any discretion she was up to in her adolescence, any rule she broke anytime, it had been Otto to go running to her father.

"You didn't think I'd find out, did you?" Viserys said, slapping his hand against the desk and nearly making her flinch. It had been a long time since Rhaenyra had gotten chewed out by Dad, a long time since she was caught doing any misdeeds, so her mind immediately went spiralling on lists of things she had done in the last two years.

She already struck Daemon's name off that list, since her father wouldn't be screaming should he have found out she f*cked his brother. She imagined the room would be chilled, brimstone smoking in the background, and he would already have disowned her, disinherited her, or something worse that even escaped her own imagination.

"You're going to have to be more specific," Rhaenyra said carefully, lips pursed, and leaned back in her seat as she crossed one leg over the other. There were so many things that she thought he'd not find out about and the list was so long that she'd run out of paper to fit it. Drugs, stealing, and alcohol might actually be a problem. Or perhaps that night in Switzerland last year when she went hiking naked. She had been so completely f*cked up by shrooms that she barely remembered it, but she and Laenor had fun, and that was how he met Qarl. However, she did remember the 100K she spent to cover it up.

Viserys had a very particular expression when so infuriated that he might just steam up like an engine. His lips would curl into a smile, as if he couldn't believe he even had to go into details. His lids would narrow until she could barely see the whites of his eyes, and he'd ask very mocking questions.

"Did you think you were being smart?" Viserys asked, one brow arching and leaving just the tiniest sliver of nerves in Rhaenyra's husk of a heart. She wouldn't bother going into the details of her numbness as of late, when she had cried herself into a half-naked sleep on her bed. Or how she would walk by the park, see an old couple, and have the strangest urge to toss her caramel macchiato at them. Those details only succeeded in making her feel bitter, ashamed, and pathetic.

"Generally, I do find myself rather smart," Rhaenyra said without pause to consider. It seemed somewhat reckless, again with all the terrible offences as of late, to make a guess only for it to be wrong. Perhaps it could be the time she went out drunk bowling, throwing a pumpkin down one of the lanes. She had even paid handsomely for the replacement equipment and put the owner's son through college. Now, she even met up with him every month or so for co*cktails.

Viserys finally slid the paper across the desk so hard that it nearly fell off the wood and into her lap. It looked like the Times, but was still in production, with half-done articles and clippings put together in a haste, all displayed onto newsprint. She hid away any expression as she noted the image—certainly not conclusive proof of her involvement. Her face was hidden by her own hand, holding a lighter. It was a dark photograph, filled with speculation, but Rhaenyra recognized herself easily. It could be anyone. Silver hair was common. And even if that was her, and even if she was holding a lighter, it didn't directly show her committing a crime. Mysaria had gotten lucky at the time of the shuttering camera that had gotten her mid-turn, capturing only the back of her head.

Well, how about that, Rhaenyra thought with a growing frown, hating that she'd have to admit that she had been wrong about her recollection of the night. Just last night she even had an hour-long argument about both of their contrary memories of that night, four weeks ago.

"That's not concrete evidence," Rhaenyra said cautiously, gazing up at her father. "I might have simply been lighting a cigarette," she added, pushing the paper back toward him, too drained to engage with the potentially offensive slander of the New York Times. Other publications wrote commendatory articles, hailing her as the New York Delight or the contemporary Saint for her regular charitable endeavours. However, the Times had turned against her the day she assumed the mantle of heir. She went from being a 'delight' to a supposedly self-centred and indulgent whor*, a portrayal she eventually found herself living up to.

"Lighting a cigarette," he said with a chuckle that spelt her doom. "This building had been there since the early 1800s." His voice had lowered into a deadly calm that normally would have had her counting her days. "Do you even know what that means?"

"That age made it very flammable," Rhaenyra answered, glancing over at the paper. She already knew all the information regarding the incident, also conscious that it had been evacuated when the fire started. So, besides a very pissed off cat, there were no deaths or injuries and the guy's insurance handled the rest. At least, until now.

"Flammable," Viserys laughed, looking down and shaking his head. The temper was sudden, and he had flung the contents of his desk onto the ground. She attempted to look unbothered, but the flinch came about despite her best efforts. He didn't see it, already standing and bracing his fists against the wood as she let out a loud gulp. She always hated her dad's wounded affection, his loud rage, because it always simmered down to a poignant anger that left her feeling as though she were the worst daughter in the entire world.

Rhaenyra's jaw clicked together, not dignifying that with a response considering it wasn't far off base. The past had a way of prowling about, searching for her, and it was only a matter of time before she finally faced the angry mess considering it had been trying to fight her at every turn. She just wished it would make her meet it with something less damning than lighting a historical building on fire and burning the tail off a cat. She finally grabbed the paper and looked down at the article, incomplete and as offensive as she thought it might be.

"If you exhibited a sense of control," Viserys bit out, his voice chilling the space between them and making her grateful for the desk. "This wouldn't be happening. If you had a modicum of restraint or duty or-" He let out a sound, waving his hand and resting it on his face. She watched the anger fall away, settling into such disappointment that it had him flopping back into his desk chair like a dead fish.

"I could say it was an accident," she suggested, hearing his wheezing chuckle at that. Her mouth was filling with the coppery tang of her own blood and her fingers were itching to pick at her cuticles. She never understood Alicent's habit of that, but now, with the rising levels of anxiety, she was finally accepting that this was happening. When her father finally lowered his hand, revealing a sunken expression, as though he had drunk deep from his cup, only to find a dead co*ckroach at the bottom.

"Then you should have done so earlier," Viserys said, hand still upon his brow as his disappointed scowl deepened. "I have tried Rhaenyra. Tried to get through to you. Tried to get you to start acting like an adult. What more can I do?"

Just like that, as if she were a candle and he just blew her out, the light in her went dark. She had to grip her knees to keep herself from burying her further in his ire. "What would you like to do? Disinherit me?" She gestured to the paper. "Finally give the mantel to your son?"

She watched the fire ignite, instead, in her father who burned with it and reminded her that he too was a dragon. He showed little expression, despite the simmering darkness that now blanketed the room and made her nervous. "You think I would not? You think your position is secure?"

"No. I never have," she told him, now standing. "I have always felt like a placeholder." She watched his anger diminish, only slightly, before he too stood, towering over her.

"The Yarrows who own that building have refused the money offered out of spite, but the papers agreed to take out the article from their next printing in replacement of something better. The Yarrows, however, have fine connections with another of the families. If you truly knew a thing, Rhaenyra, about the balance of our houses, you'd know not to offend the Baratheons. How does one fix this, I wonder," Viserys said, palms against the desk and leaning over it. "How do you make anything right? Or must I once again break and bend spines to fix your mistakes? Your poetry or flowery language will hardly buy your way out of this."

Rhaenyra's smile thinned, already sensing the years at work, law, and studying, going straight out the drain. Her status, her reputation, and her existence all added up as a reason to publically make an example out of her. It made for a good lesson and solid entertainment for those who took enjoyment from seeing famous people fall. Especially, she supposed, if that same person deserved it.

"I will fix it and you can decide afterwards how you will handle me," Rhaenyra told him, moving her hands behind her back, somehow finding her audacity. "Make me a spare or keep me as your heir, you'll find I don't much care. How's that for poetry?"

She tossed the half-finished newsprint back on the desk and walked out of her father's office.

The fruition of the year and the culmination of her terrible choices, all lead her into pressing her forehead against the wall of her father's office with a loud thump. A fool was too weak a word for her. A dollard, an imbecile, a cretin, and the worst daughter to ever exist. She didn't even know where to begin, and as if the world wanted to add a tipping stone to her ever-present foul mood, she was fairly certain she just started her goddamned period.

Rhaenyra began to laugh, her shoulders shaking with every light bit of sound as she finally turned back around, facing the hallway, and muffled the hysterics as she rested against the wall. Her back nearly slid down, her face buried in her hands as she went through her list of contingency plans should she ever decide to commit murder. She swallowed all of them, not even knowing who she was supposed to kill.

She slowly raised her phone, both cracked and shattered and not recognizing her face, which was fine because she could barely recognize it either. She entered her passcode, scrolling down her contacts until she reached Brya's name. Even as she stared at it, pursing her lips at her hostile cousin's number, she still didn't press. She began to pace, feet moving back and forth, back and forth, as she tapped the corner of her phone against the space between her brows.

Finally, she braced her head against the wall and slid her thumb against's Brya's name.

Of course, her cousin was determined to make it hard for her as it went straight to voicemail. Almost immediately, her phone pinged with a text message.

Bad Bitch Brya: new phone. who dis

read 1:35 pm

Rhaenyra stared up at the ceiling, her anxiety so heavy that she felt it in her steps as she carried herself back downstairs, past the elevator that lead to the lower level of her father's offices. The tower was extraordinary, filled with different displays of nepotism with cousins constantly vying for positions to up their status in the Targaryen's eyes. She couldn't even remember half of their names most of the time, but they waved at her as she passed.

She pointedly did not wave back, leaning into her own resting bitch face as she made it to the subsection and to the garages where her little Mercedes waited for her. She practically yanked the door open and slammed her face against the steering wheel.

Rhaenyra: answer the phone or imma watch you burn

Bad Bitch Brya: lin well miranda?

Anger coursed through her blood alongside embarrassment that she even had to make this call. Brya was childish, but had more approachability than most of the Baratheons on account of her need to get the last word in every situation. Rhaenyra tapped her fingers against her phone with increasing anxiety—each tap in succession with the next.

Rhaenyra: listen up co*ke whor*

Bad Bitch Brya: ohho look at you cuz. finally moved up from using a raven and quill

Bad Bitch Brya: you harry potter drafting c*nt

Rhaenyra: Those were owls, not ravens. Maybe you'd know that if you ever got your bf's dick out long enough to press the still watching button on Netflix.

Bad Bitch Brya: it's not even on netflix you cranky turkey necked crusty bitch

read 1:50 pm

Rhaenyra's grip on her phone was tight as she redialed, finally hearing Brya pick up. There was a deliberate pause on the other end, born from a lifetime of mutual disdain. Rhaenyra ran her tongue across her sharp canines, attempting to formulate words that might temper the hostility in the call. Perhaps labelling her a "co*ke whor*" hadn't been the most judicious choice of words.

"You must be calling about the Yarrows," Brya said, and her voice was a chilly frost on the other end. Rhaenyra clicked her tongue, biting into her thumb as she attempted to come up with something that did not end with her on the front page as a disinherited arsonist. All that time spent wanting to be exactly like Daemon and here she was, about join him on the outskirts of her stupid family.

"You certainly made your rounds," Rhaenyra said with a careful pause. "Who told you?"

"I overheard a very interesting phone call," Brya said with a smug laugh, and the sound grated on her every singed nerve. Her cousin had been an extremely unbalanced person all Rhaenyra's life. She was both extremely hostile and misanthropic. The softness she had was always exclusively for her sister Lucy, but other than that, her intimate relationships had always been limited. Even when Rhaenyra tried, initially, to get closer to her and build a familial relationship, it often ended with more of the same offensive banter. It amused Rhaenyra most of the time, but it also made it hard in moments like this.

Her malicious feelings were first exposed to Rhaenyra when Brya had been invited to a dinner party with extended family back in Southampton. It had been years back, when Baratheon and Targaryen finally tried to mend fences after years of tense drama that divided them. At times, a lacking sense of social behaviour could be its own sort of charm, but when paired with Brya, it had been alarming. Brya deliberately grabbed one of the candelabras and slowly tipped it over atop the table, setting fire to the tablecloth. When the smoke arose and the room filled with its singeing aroma, Brya only lean away and blamed the entire ordeal on Rhaenyra.

Due to Rhaenyra's reputation, not a single person believed her. Brya had been only 12 back then, but she had years of lying experience by then while Rhaenyra had only just begun to learn. Much time had passed, but here they were, and Rhaenyra was at a loss for what to say.

"Which Baratheon must I appeal to for this to go away?" Rhaenyra finally asked, wishing the nepotism could extend to her now, as it had her entire life. She only had the numbers of four Baratheons in her stupid phone, and one was Lucy who was, quite frankly, an idiot. The other two were twenty years her senior and hadn’t taken her seriously before being named heir so wouldn’t look twice after.

"You do not know my family," Brya said, despite that family being something they shared. The Baratheons were cousins in name only, the divide having nearly severed in half when the great debate of succession had ruled in favour of Rhaenyra's father. Their wounded pride had made them versatile enemies, and when Viserys had frozen them out of the Targaryen business entirely, they had grown as vicious as they were spiteful. Rhaenyra didn't know much of the details, having deemed it tedious, but now wished she paid more attention to the private conversations of adults in her youth.

"I'll do anything," Rhaenyra said carefully, hating that she was sitting here, begging. It was humbling to say the least, and the words felt like charcoal in her mouth.

Brya paused, but only for a moment before the silence was discontinued. "Rhaenyra, I hate you. I truly do. I dream, often, about bashing your teeth in. It gets me through particularly difficult days." Rhaenyra's eyes were heavily lidded, her scowl deepening as none of the words came as a surprise. "You are given everything and you still found a way to f*ck up. You had the love of my life and f*cked that too."

"Oh my god," Rhaenyra said, rubbing her fingers down the bridge of her nose and squeezing. "Is this seriously about Criston?"

Brya was silent, but that cold chill on the other end was telling. "It's not notabout him."

"Brya, you're joking. You must be joking," Rhaenyra asked, losing a bit of the grip she had over her temper. "He's so much older than you. Bitch, he's older than me."

"Age is only a number, you buck-toothed bitch," Brya replied, her temper flaring.

"This is all because you caught feels? What are you? Seven?" Rhaenyra couldn't believe this was how her week was going. She only wanted to mourn her wounded pride, nurse her broken heart, eat an entire box of chocolates, and fall asleep atop her vibrator. "Watching my life fall apart because of a crush?"

"I'm not interested in watching it, you narcissist. But will I help you? Nuh uh. Wanna know why?" Brya had now raised her voice, and Rhaenyra was currently tapping her head against her steering wheel. "Maybe you should ask your uncle."

And then, because she was 18 and had the emotional stability of a baby Aegon, Brya hung up.

Rhaenyra only stared down at her phone, the space between her brows narrowing, pulled together with her own dread and irritation. She let out a sound, barely a breath, as she realized that there was a lower level, past rock bottom, and she had just hit it.

The fruition of the year had come, reaching the last month, and the night was one that should have been magnificent, with the moon in the sky and the crisp frost in the air. It was not to be. Instead, it rained and little puddles of water shone out from under the many street lamps. The darkness of the drooping trees of Central Park had cast a large canopy of leaves and water. Rhaenyra was soaked to the bone, her trainers squelching with every step, and her legs burning with the force of her run that had now slowed to a shallow walk.

She had been jogging for the good part of the early morning, but now the moon had lowered and the sun that was supposed to come back up was hidden by storm clouds. The rain likely would chase away the press she had tipped off, which was a negative point for her since that meant she was freezing in the park for nothing. The calories she burned could have waited until the day was clear.

Rhaenyra was currently balancing on her heels when she spotted Criston Cole with an umbrella and a blank expression as it cast a shade over her, allowing the rain to blur around them. She had thought of many opening lines, should she decide to pick up her courage off the ground and actually talk to him again. Instead, it was to happen like this, where she felt the sinking in her gut, the loss of her nerve, and the guilt that rose so high in her throat that she might very well choke on it.

I can't do this, she thought, squeezing her hands into fists in her jacket, gripping onto the velvet box with a deep despair that only seemed to tug her under. She was an awful, unfaithful, selfish girl, who ruined not only a relationship but a friendship that had meant more to her than she realized.

"I wasn't going to come," Criston admitted, his lips rising in that sardonic way that made her feel worse somehow.

"I wasn't going to make you," she replied, her hands fisting so tight now that the velvet box might just crush in her grasp. She was reminded of his loving affection, his light kisses, his gifts, and his constant displays of romance. He had been the one who organized an entire picnic in the living room during the pandemic's lockdown. He had made the living space look like Central Park, order five dozen roses, and they made love, sprawled atop the blanket. He always put his entire being into her, every last attention when she entered the room, even when she was cold or distant and made excuses not to see him.

They spoke now, as distant as strangers who had just met. If they were strangers, it would be easier than this, less uncomfortable and awkward as her eyes glid past him to the little car with the camera peeking through the window. She immediately calmed her expression, morphing it away from the anxious one she had the moments prior.

"Still posing for your next photoshoots?" Criston asked, his voice cutting her. She forgot how well he knew her, and how well he could read her. He was enamoured, at first, by the way she'd morph into a different person when the cameras hit her. Eventually, however, he grew cold when she pretended like they weren't in an argument in public, or 'discussion' as he called it, since Criston never liked to say they were fighting.

"It's easy for you to say," Rhaenyra finally said, hating that he could still say one word, one sentence, and the anger rose inside her so easily. "You're not in the spotlight like me." She refused to say more, since they had this same argument one thousand times already.

She bit her tongue and slowly opened the velvet box from inside the pocket of her hoodie before taking it out. It fell, open from her hand and onto the ground between them.

"sh*t, I'm sorry," she said, but he had already knelt down, one knee resting in a puddle as she held up the umbrella for him. He picked it up carefully from the ground, and her expression morphed into a softer one as he finally forced his eyes from the diamond and back to her. "You must hate me," she whispered, and his lips sunk down, staring up at her.

"One can be very much in love with someone else without still deluding themselves to wishing they could spend the rest of their lives with her," he said carefully, and she slowly bent down, dislodging the diamond from the velvet box. She stroked the ring with glistening eyes, feeling worse than before.

"I did love you," she said with a breaking voice as he now stood straight, taking back the umbrella from her fingers. His eyes scanned down toward the ring that she pressed to her lips with a kiss, before carefully putting it back into the velvet box, watching him close it.

"You think me a greater fool than I really am, don't you?" Criston said with a scoff, looking away before his eyes were back on her. "I had absolutely no illusions about you, Rhaenyra. I know you are selfish, beyond words even. I know you are frivolous, vain, and contemptuous. I knew you were vulgar from the first time I met you. Your ideals and your appetites," he said this carefully, casting her a knowing look that practically speared straight through her. "I knew they were immoral and wrong, but I loved you. I loved you so much that they didn't matter. Even with my great understanding of you, I love you with all my heart."

Rhaenyra's eyes blazed, a tumult of anger and overwhelming grief swirling within her. Perhaps there was even a twinge of guilt. It was all too overwhelming. She gently placed her hands over his, guiding the ring back down, moving in closer. She dared not look at the reporter—a single glance would be enough for Criston to discern the ruse. Stepping in, she pressed her trembling lips to his. Once, at the corner of his mouth, she felt his hand slide up her arm.

She didn't have it in her to speak, wondering how strange a heart was that made one thoroughly abhor a man just because he loved too much.

An awful, contemptuous woman, she couldn't help but agree.

They went their separate ways. He would hate her in the morning, despise her even, as much as a part of her did him. 54 minutes she walked through New York, in the rain, feeling it upon her cheeks with terrible clarity that she was irrevocably f*cked up. Where would she go when she makes such a realization? Past the rain and past possible pneumonia that had set into her very bones, she stood now in the elevator after finessing the staff. When she made it to his door, she nearly faltered. Nearly, because momma may have raised a stupid, dumb bitch, but she had not raised a coward.

She already picked the lock with the pins in her hair, silencing the alarms that went off when she entered her uncle's place. His passcode wasn't hard because Daemon wasn't original, despite how he might think he was.

She had barely begun to enter it into his security box when she heard his words, "I regret teaching you to do that."

His voice slid along her spine like a caress. The void in her damnable chest was filling with violence. It was a hushed, yet defeated rage that might have earned her, at least, the right to hurt. "I was going to call," she admitted, not looking at him as she entered the last number of Viserys's birthday, and the alarms all ceased. "But I had my doubts you'd answer."

She had wanted to scream at him, shout all the expectations she had for him the morning after. Yet, she halted, stopping herself when she realized that perhaps it wasn't fair to expect those things from him. She went into it, knowing who he was, yet life was not fair, and it surely didn't wait for her to grow up. It took her five years to give him all of her heart, so it hurt to watch him throw it away after one single night.

"Did you break in just to argue with me?" Daemon asked, breathing out as if the very notion was already exasperating. She now turned to him, dripping rainwater onto his nice hardwood floors. She was reminded, once more, of that girl from three years ago who was as saddened, likely, as Rhaenyra was to see he left in the morning.

But that was who Daemon was. He was capricious and fickle and charming and he ensnares people into his stupid, tangled web. He always made certain that the balance of power was never even, never equal, so he could easily walk away, leaving others with the knots. She knew that. She knew he did terrible things and that she wasn't an exception to the rule just because he cared about her.

She knew that his dark webs ran deep, tainting her life and ruining it with vendettas that had nothing to do with her. She could bring up the Baratheons, but she couldn't get out the words.

Her unapologetic, mercurial, bastard of an uncle.

She didn't want empty words.

She straightened, wringing out her hair onto the hardwood floors. Her Lululemon tights were stuck to her thighs, her sports bra exposed as she unzipped her wet hoodie and flung it over his expensive suede couch. He watched it with a deadpan, but she caught the slight irritation as he rolled his eyes and went to grab it.

"So, you are angry," he remarked with a sigh, folding the damp, brown hoodie with its high collar that had once provided warmth against her chin during her run. He hung it over the coat rack, a detail she had breezed past as she kicked off one of her soaked shoes.

"I'm not," she said, knowing that 'angry' was too small to describe it. She was cold. She was bitter. She was no better than a one-night stand, which would be fine if her feelings weren't so f*cking strong. She was still dripping water over everything when she kicked the other shoe off and nearly knocked over the standing lamp before her socks came off next.

He faced her now, lips drawn together as his eyes finally ran down her. Her nipples were peaked from the sports bra, too thin to hide it. Practically all of her stomach was exposed as she trailed her fingers over her collarbones, then down between her covered chest, and further down to the ties of her joggers. She wasn't smiling, her eyes intense upon his as she undid the tie. She watched him stare up at the ceiling, leaning against the back of the couch and gazing up at the wood panels.

"Do you have anything warm I can wear?" Rhaenyra inquired. She watched as his eyes closed, chin lifted, hands clenching the couch.

She wasn't satisfied, but she didn't think satisfaction was the point. She knew enough about him to comprehend all the flaws, but here she was, like a fool. However, she wasn't here yearning for his 'love,' and even if he offered it, she wouldn't believe it.

"You've helped yourself to everything else," his deep voice hit her, and she shivered with unbridled lust as she was flooded with all her imaginations of it. She had pictured him in so many ways these last five years that he nearly turned into an incorporeal being and one that wasn't even real anymore. She had pictured this too, but with less reluctance on his part. He wouldn't even look at her, and she needed him to. "Don't let me stop you."

"Do you remember," she said, now lowering her joggers off of her so she was just bare skin, dampened with the rainwater. It wasn't all she was wet with, but she didn't care about anything anymore. Her life was f*cked and it was his fault. It was also her fault, but it felt better to hate only one person at a time. "When I called you the night before we drove to New Haven?"

"Yes," he practically had to wrestle the word out, and it emerged as a guttural sound. His hands were pressed into the couch, fingertips digging into the suede. She felt the corners of her lips twitch upwards as she approached him. With delicate precision, she trailed her index finger along the fabric of the lounge chair, across his knuckles, up his arm, and back down. Under her feathery touch, his muscles tensed, yet he still refused to meet her gaze.

"No," she said with a light smile. "Do you remember? The breathlessness in my voice. You asked me what I was doing. Do you remember?" He had frozen now, as she trailed her hands up his arm again, tracing the part of exposed skin of his forearm from the rolled-up dress shirt. He must have just gotten back from the office, but there were specks of blood on his collar. She had never seen that before, but oddly enough, the part of her that might have asked questions was shut down. "I said I was studying."

He finally let out a deep breath, his muscles stiff from under her touch as she slid her palm over his chest, feeling the grooves of his body from under the deep red button-up. She dusted her lips over his bicep, her naked knee against his leg, and she watched his shoulders sag as he finally turned his head to look at her.

His eyes were dilated, his patience thin, and his lips were parted. She was staring into him, through him, so aroused that she was practically shaking. "What are you doing?" Daemon's question was met with a twitch of her lips, her fingers nimbly undoing the top buttons. Her other hand soothed the burn down between her thighs, and he watched her with glazed eyes, fixated upon her as he had avoided doing from the moment she walked in.

She kneaded her fingers over herself, feeling the slight tingle of pleasure as she said, "Studying."

His breath hitched, scanning up her body as she waited for him to make the final steps. It made him feel better to think he had some control here, and she'd surrender him the illusion of it. He had turned toward her now, facing her as she smiled and walked around the couch, sitting against the cushions as she spread open her legs. Criston had called her vulgar. He called her immoral.

And that was the last of Criston she thought of when she touched herself, her hips bucking into her own soft fingers as Daemon leaned over, hands bracing against the couch. He certainly was pretending very well to have restraint, but Rhaenyra wasn't buying it.

"You are insane," he whispered, his voice harsh in a way that cut deep into her. But he had always understood and accepted every intimate impulse and genuine thought, responding to them in a way that nobody else had. Not a lot of people could turn into such mirrors of one another.

"So you do remember," Rhaenyra exhaled, and his scowl shifted towards her, his eyes once again tracing over her form. Eventually, he let out a laugh, his hand sweeping over his face as he followed the same path she had taken.

She had spent many days on this couch as a girl, where they had talked into the long days. Often, those talks were littered with gold, where he'd gift her extraordinary pieces of art and jewellery or where he encouraged her to act out her worst impulses at school. It hadn't been her idea, after all, to take a bat to Deiron Velaryon's Maserati.

But now, those days as a girl and uncle were long past as Daemon practically caged her in. Her lips curled up as one hand rested near her head while the other trailed down to her thigh, where he tugged her down, off balance, and made her lay back. As she rested against the cushions, he locked eyes with her, his other hand gliding back up the course of her body until he completely encircled her.

"What's wrong?" Rhaenyra asked him, eyes half-lidded as he made a point not to touch her. "Now that you've f*cked me once, you're bored? I wish I could get someone out of my system so quickly." He had a look of experience about him, deep in the indigo, as if he had been told far more scandalous words from more people than she could count. It was the dangerous invitation that lurked deep in his gaze, that told her that he wasn't thinking about any of them.

His confidence, even when she tried to knock him off balance, was alarming and potent, with charisma she could feel wash over her. His hair was bright silver and dishevelled in the longing touch of the light that cast him in a glow. She was trapped underneath the gorgeous spread of his shoulders, from his hips that made her picture every thrust, and the ache was now settled in her belly.

"You don't know what the f*ck you're talking about," he whispered, and she let out a sound when he pinched her thigh. His hands were as restless as him and the moment she went to argue, his palm was against her, fingers trailing and sinking into her, flush against her cl*t through her lingerie. She could only let out hot air, and she groaned as he massaged circles into her flesh.

His breath was against her neck, against the rain-soaked skin, and his tongue lapped against her thumping pulse. He pinched her inner thigh, and the sound that tore from her throat was half pain half pleasure. "What are you doing?"

"I thought we were studying," he whispered, gliding his teeth across her skin. She arched her back, her hand against his waist, clenching the material of his shirt into a fist. He began to move faster, then slow again, over and over in a way that had her clenching her teeth, bucking against his hand, and nearly in pain as he traced his lips across her jaw.

She gripped him by the neck, attempting to kiss him, only for him to pull away. "Kiss me," she told him, ordering it with a near bark. She watched his dark eyes for a moment longer as his touch against her quickened, causing her to nearly lose her breath as she slid her free hand up his shirt, untucking it and feathering it along his spine.

"Would that get you out of my system?" Daemon whispered, and just as quickly his touch removed from her, leaving her breathless and needy. She traced her tongue across her bottom lip, and he watched it with such ferocity that it might have knocked her back four thoughts.

"You are such a coward," she told him, and his stare darkened with anger, and that was the anger he used to kiss her. It may have begun as a furious smacking of lips, but his hand quickly pressed into her hair, his touch sinking into her. They separated once, gasping for breath, only for his dark eyes to gaze down at her with a sort of reverence that had her sinking into the couch. His lips were back against hers, each brush sending her body ablaze. His leg was pressed in between her own, hips moving with perfect synchrony with the savage press of his lips. The thrill, like the anticipation before a great leap, filled her, pushing aside everything that burned her in fury.

The liquid heat pulled into her core, turning her body into an object out of her control. She was rubbing against his knee, her nails digging into his skin, and his kiss turned all tongue and teeth. The friction of his clothes against her own left her on the edge of madness and had her hands dragging to his hair, pulling on the strands by the roots. The guttural sound that escaped Daemon's mouth had her taut, had her moaning when his hand gripped her hips to adjust her, to stop her from rubbing up and down his knee and reaching a quick org*sm. He was grinding into her, his hand beneath the small of her back, arching her up into him as he practically bucked her back into the cushions.

He pulled away from the kiss before she was ready, and she forced herself to swallow the impulse to beg for more. She may be a needy bitch, but she'd rather not voice to him how she could kiss him forever. He moved down, nuzzling her shoulder as he kissed it, sending shivers through her body. She gasped at the tiny bite of pain that was replaced by a pleasure so intense it almost hurt.

"Do you trust me?" Daemon's breath was a fragrant whisper against her skin, and she felt his hands slide beneath the material of her dress as he gently lifted it up. His fingertips were gentle with their caresses, digging lightly into the firmness of her thighs as his lips followed their path, giving small kisses to every inch of exposed flesh.

"God no," she answered, earning his laugh.

"Good," he whispered, and his tongue swirled the circumference of her naval, tracing her in a way he had the day Mysaria had interrupted them. The motions were slow and patient, even when his eyes f*cked her. She was gasping, letting out sounds when the tip of his tongue, a feather-light caress, trailed to the molten sex that was covered in naught but thin, diaphanous, silk. His kisses that covered her inner thighs had her arching, had her growing delirious. He ran his fingers lightly across her panties, nosing them out of the way before he trailed his tongue up the delicate skin of her inner thigh. She gasped as he licked and kissed her most sensitive spot, exploring every inch of her with an unbridled passion.

The throaty growls emanating from him were feral and commanding, like a great cat finally devouring its prey. His tongue, experienced as it was, lulled her to a place of pure pleasure as it flicked and circled her cl*tor*s with precision. With her free hand, she grabbed at his head of thick black hair and tugged, desperate to be closer to him as the sensations overwhelmed her. Suddenly, he clasped her wrist and pinned it to the bed. Her legs coiled around him like a vise, instinctively seeking out more pleasure. He inserted two long fingers inside of her without warning, sending an electrifying current throughout her body. She felt herself clenching tightly around them as an eruption of heat built in her stomach.

And just as quickly, he had pulled away, tongue darting out to lick his lips in such a way that had her panting. She felt her head slam back against the cushions, not remembering when she had lifted it as her chest rose and fell before her eyes.

She barely got another gasping breath before he had flipped her over, his touch somehow forceful, yet gentle all at once. "How far would you go with a man you do not trust?" His whisper was against her ear, harsh and cutting and making her so hot that she couldn't breathe. She was on her knees, his hand stroking the length of her spine.

She went to reply, say something smart, say something cruel, but his palm slapped against the flesh of her arse and she went slack.

"Finally," he whispered, kissing her neck. "A way to shut you up."

"There are lots of ways," she breathed out, feeling the hard length of him, digging into her back. She reached behind her, undoing the buttons of his slacks with a single flick of her fingers.

"You might be too good at that," he said into her ear as his breath hitched.

This was true, she thought with a slight smile, and also an unmarketable skill. He didn't know the half of it. She didn't even have to look at a bra to undo the latches.

He groaned when she reached out into his slacks to caress her fingertips up the length of him. "Will you make me beg?"

He laughed, but cut off into a tone of molten heat, "Maybe a little."

"How about you f*ck me before I change my mind," she whispered, and his hand had snaked around to her front, fingers against the wet bud of her cl*t. She cut off, face digging into the cushions until she was suffocating in them. His breath was hot against the nape of her neck as he moved closer, a soft moan escaping her throat when his teeth delicately grazed her skin, sending shivers down her spine. Her body tensed in anticipation with each press of his hips against hers. She was about to beg when finally, with a thrust, he filled her completely.

Every motion bucked her deep into the cushions, the sensations travelling up her veins as she let out gasps. She met each thrust with her own, his fingers still circling her cl*t as she lost all sense. She was begging, begging for him to stop, begging for him to slow, begging him to go harder. Her mercurial wants were limitless, and yet he met each one as if they were duel pianists, each travelling along the same note. Some time into it, she had draped over the couch arm, clenching the suede into her fists.

He whispered something in her ear, something low, and in high Valyrian. In time, she'd ask what it was, the word that was drowned by her own moans. In time, she'd ask many things, but the time was not now.

His teeth pressed into the lobe of her ear, biting and sucking and bringing her to the heights of pleasure that had her quivering. She felt him in her stomach, felt him in her blood, just as potent as the first time. She vaguely remembered begging him not to stop, vaguely hearing his breathy laugh in reply. "I couldn't even if I wanted to," he whispered, for once not sounding as if stopping had never entered his thoughts. It had her undone, it had her finished, flooded with sensations as vibrant as ecstasy and as potent as heroin.

Her lungs were burning, his hand clenched around her neck, just enough to cut off air, but not enough to hurt. The org*sm that took over her body had her shivering, had her gasping out his name, had her insane, clinging to his touch as it bucked her forward again and again.

More Valyrian was uttered against her skin, as warm as his tongue on her shoulder.

She turned back to him and allowed him to stare at her, jerking his hand through her hair as they lay side by side. Their limbs were entangled as if they were made as one or as if they were trapped in webs together. His thumb trailed over her bottom lip, tracing it and filling her with more sensations that had no outlet, no air, so they could only expand into her and fill every empty space until they popped right back out. Slowly his thumb rested at the corner of her lips when he reached forward and gently pressed his lips to her own.

The new sensations that filled her were unwanted, untrusted, and not at all like the violent lust she tried to replace them with.

She could only trail her hands up his face, kissing him back. And because she respected herself just enough, she dressed in clothes that were not her own and left him first.

Chapter 18: Crafting the Narrative

Chapter Text

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𝒸𝓇𝒶𝒻𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Laena Velaryon was the kindest cousin that anyone could ask for. But somehow, she always seemed to stick her nose into every bit of gossip and whisper of drama in New York. So Rhaenyra should not have been surprised that Laena was inside her penthouse the evening after her bar examination.

She hadn't been planning to take it so soon, planned to make certain she felt ready, or until she felt worthy. If she failed, there wouldn't be a soul in her family that did not know. Now, even after taking the test, she wondered if it would matter.

"Oh Rhaenyra," Laena said, her tone not exactly scolding but certainly not comforting.

"Who told you?" Rhaenyra asked, flinging her bag on her couch. She had spent two days cleaning her place after her tantrum. The breaking of everything had felt spectacular, freeing even, but the fifteen trash bags that she had to lug down two flights of stairs? That sucked so much that Rhaenyra decided to find less destructive ways to release her anger.

Speaking of, she thought, walking over to her desk where she lifted the dragon stress doll that she proceeded to squeeze.

"I text Liza here and there for recipe exchanges," Laena said, her shrug casual as she walked over to the couch and sat down. She had a Target bag where she proceeded to take out a bottle of Stella and another of dry wine.

Liza was the soon-to-be ex-wife of Brya's dad, but Rhaenyra hardly knew many of the details when it came to Baratheon gossip. She minded her own business, especially since the drama of her four immediate family members was exhausting enough. "What are you doing?" Rhaenyra asked, watching Laena take out two wine glasses from the bag. Then came the corkscrew, ever the girl's scout.

"You burned down a building, you've been distant and a bit of a downer, no offence, so I have been giving you space," Laena explained, pouring a tiny bit of wine into one cup. "Sweet or dry today?"

Rhaenyra only pointed to the bottle of Stella.

"So I haven't been that great a cousin or a friend. I'd like for you to sit down, stop waiting for me to attack you with my Target bag and talk to me," Laena ordered and Rhaenyra awkwardly sat down. She did not speak, even as she sank into the cushions, palms against the fabric, and watched the busy streets of New York in motion. She also did not grab the glass of wine Laena had poured her. She hadn't breathed much since the first article printed in the Times.

Targaryen Marries Rags to Riches

Her phone had lit up with four messages from Criston when the article had been released this morning, but, coward that she proved to be these days, she hadn't opened them. It staved off the article on her misdeeds, but she owned 8 more stories, or 8 more scandals, for the papers to forget it. The deal was a salve on an open wound that threatened the last foundations of her f*cked up life. She did so little right lately, but law school hadn't just been her dream, but her mother's as well.

So now, watching Laena sit and wait as she crossed one leg over the other, Rhaenyra was at a loss for what to say. She grabbed her glass, the bubbles settling at the top like a layer of sea foam. Rhaenyra watched them dissipate, fading back into the sloshing red before she finally let out a strangled laugh. "I'm so tired."

Laena waited, and the patience in her expression was the only thing that managed to pry the words from the iron lock over Rhaenyra's mouth. So often, Rhaenyra preferred suffering in silence, hating the entire idea of asking for help. She could be drowning, sinking to the bottom, and still try to slap away the hands attempting to reach for her. "Do you want to talk about it? Or would you rather yell at me?"

Rhaenyra finally looked up from the popping bubbles of her glass, her fingers digging into the translucent surface. Even with all the heightened emotions, the confusing tornado of guilt and longing, she still couldn't put a single one into words. Every time she opened up, to Alicent, to Daemon, to even her own father, it was like she was screaming into the wind. It would never answer her or hold her or even stick around.

"You know I'm not going anywhere, right?" Laena said carefully, her eyes narrow as she leaned forward. "I don't care if you burned down a historical building or a person, I'm here with you to bury that body. You know that right?"

Rhaenyra felt her bottom lip tremble, and she attempted to look away, to take a shaking breath and cast it aside. "Am I a bad person?" Often she awoke, feeling like the most unlovable, monstrous person to ever walk this earth. She often wondered why she couldn't seem to do anything right and why it was so easy for people to just betray her. "Am I the drama?" Rhaenyra groaned into her hands, attempting to both complain and find some manner of humour in the very real question.

If it had been just one great, catastrophic and incandescent destruction, Rhaenyra could have managed. Yet, lately, it had felt like smouldering decay, lingering more and more in these consecutive days. She was lost in this lethargic and remiss feeling that had her wandering on a winding trail that lead only to more heartbreak. She knew that Daemon was only a part of it all, but that part was so consuming that the more she had of him, the more she lost of herself. The truth was, she'd do whatever he asked, give up whatever he asked, whatever it was, and they both knew it. If he asked her to cut her own wrist, she wasn't certain she'd have the strength to say no. She was her own shadow, both dark and lonely, and searching for love in all the people who would see her starved of it.

"You know I love you, but I have literally no idea what is going on, so if you have anything to tell me, I'm listening," Laena said, now moving to sit next to her. Rhaenyra felt the couch sink at the touch, felt the arm wrap around her shoulders in a half embrace. "You don't have to tell me, but I can't answer your questions if I am this in the dark."

Rhaenyra let out a laugh through her own burning eyes. "I burned down a building because I was bored and angry and heartbroken and now dad is going to disinherit me. I'm going to get my application denied because my 'moral character' is low, and I'm fairly certain all I do is cling to people because I can't do anything on my own." The sentences flowed out like vomit, coating Rhaenyra's restless hands. Once they began, she could not stop, and each one came in growing succession. "I manipulate and I lie and I steal. I betrayed someone who loves me and I should feel guilty about it, but Idon't. I know I should. I know I am supposed to, but I can't."

She could feel the backs of her eyes sting, tears finally slipping out like the wax on a candle. She had wasted so many tears alone, in her room, in her car, or on the streets of New York. She wasted even more on tears that she'd force back in, just so she didn't make a scene or be thought of as weak. She was exhausted from the number of times she'd stare up, whispering 'no, not now,' only to slap her cheeks and continue on. Most of the time she was crying on the wrong side, filling the bottomless well inside herself.

"And I should feel worse," Rhaenyra continued with a laugh. "I should feel awful about making my father worry, but I don't because he's finally looking at me. I could beg him to talk to me about my mum. I could beg him to just talk to me, scream at him for leaving me alone on Dragonstone to spread the ashes. Yet,he acts like the victim while I am this petulant child. He acts like he has tried to steer me on the right path, but he's the one who tossed me out in the dark. I am so tired of begging people to love me."

She already wanted to cry for wanting to cry. This cycle was destroying her insides.

"And now, I don't know what to do. This family is hopeless and nobody talks about anything. We just bury it and seek other ways to slight one another, and then that leads to new slights until nobody knows where the f*ck any of these grievances come from. And crying does nothing. Begging people to listen does nothing and I know that but I do it anyway because I am weak and alone and—" She paused, slapping away her own tears until her cheeks were red. "And I don't know what I am doing."

Even now, she pictured her father as he once was, in Dragonstone, holding his venerable white head against her own, after she skinned her knee. She would watch his stoical heart break, helping her up after her clumsy climbing of the cliffs on the island. She hadn't been accounting for the torrent of water that crashed her against the rocks. She had nearly fallen in, nearly drowned, but her father shouting her name, wading through water, had come back to her.

She hadn't been too scraped up, but the cuts had drunk in salt and sea like a thirsty vampire. Anyone who had walked by would hear the irrepressible sobbing and her father's soft coos, despite his own wet cheeks. Some could be accounted for the waters, but they remained, even when the ocean had dried upon his skin.

Now, it all felt like a different world and one that had shattered with New York.

Laena listened, her eyes glossy and her bottom lip quivering as she held Rhaenyra closer. "Do you want to hear the soft love or the tough love, Rhaenyra?"

Rhaenyra laughed, the sound coming out choked and strained as she breathed in the amber scent of her cousin's silver curls. "Whichever is the most honest."

"Just now, what you told me, it's all told to the wrong person," Laena said, stroking her fingers through Rhaenyra's hair. "Your father is an idiot and he's stubborn and he didn't know how to talk to you when you were seven so it's not surprising he doesn't know how to now. You control the narrative and the more he learns of you from other sources, the less he really knows you. If you tell everything as you see it, the story cannot be bastardized by others for profit."

Rhaenyra lifted her head from Laena's shoulder, brows furrowed inward as her eyes ached from behind her very corneas. "He doesn't listen to me."

"Because you speak out of anger," Laena said, stroking the pads of her fingers over Rhaenyra's cheeks. "Our family is exactly as you said it. The Baratheons will not let this go, seeking any reason to cause strife in your house for the harm that has been done to them." Rhaenyra racked her fingers over her cheek and back up to wipe away tears. "But if you release your own story, your own recollection of what happened, then you can at least control the outcome. You cannot control what your father does or Alicent or anyone else in this awful world, but you can control how you react to it."

Rhaenyra had grown up thinking that romantic love was the height, the apex, of all emotion. She had dreamed of princes and knights of old, rescuing her and loving her as they would in a Disney movie. She never would have guessed that she'd fall not for the handsome prince who went to rescue a maiden in a tower, and instead the dragon himself. She never would have guessed the true pinnacle of emotion was exactly what was reflected back in Laena's eyes.

Romantic love might just set her on the cusp of condemning flames, but it just as easily sweltered her flesh as it did ignite her heart. There was a comfort in the warmth that Laena offered instead.

"And for the record, you are hardly the worst person in the world and even if you get your examination declined, you are more than just a license. It's not forever," Laena whispered, turning Rhaenyra's face towards her to wipe away stray tears. "You are not bad, Rhaenyra."

The silence stretched, thin like butter on bread. "You don't know that," Rhaenyra said, her body burning as though it were trying to digest its own grief. "You couldn't know that."

Laena pulled her arm away, placing her palm upon Rhaenyra's knee and her other fingers softly against her chin, tilting it to her. "Is there anything more you want to tell me?"

The probing, kind gaze had Rhaenyra trembling, looking away, studying the ceiling, towards the draped golden curtains. Her restless eyes continued to roam, continued to consider it, but her trembling hands were a giveaway to her own rising panic. "How do you get out of love with someone?" Rhaenyra paused, stumbling, stuttering, and uncertain. "How do you stop loving someone you know you should not? I don't know what to do."

"Rhaenyra, who is this about?" Laena asked in that gentle voice, absent of judgment, and it gave room for the words to slip away from her cousin.

"You truly haven't seen? Truly, have you not suspected?" Rhaenyra was begging, begging to not have to say it out loud, the fear now so powerful that it nearly subjugated her. She closed her eyes and leaned away from Laena's touch as she tilted her head up to face the boundless world above, covered with just eyelids constricting the darkness. She could ask for some small mercies, some hope for understanding, some fleeting light here in this space they filled with abundant, yet emotional reticence.

"Is this about Daemon?" Laena said into that sinking darkness, greeting the accompanying silence. Rhaenyra wanted to feel ashamed, summon up words that proved that she never meant to feel this way, that she hadn't planned it, and that she'd change it if she could.

"He doesn't feel the same way," Rhaenyra said, shaking her head and the motion caused her brain to rattle in her skull. "And I've tried, tried to move on, tried to not feel this way."

Laena leaned her back into the couch, her body limp, her gaze far away and distant. Rhaenyra mimicked the motion, joining her with her eyes soaked with tears. Her hands and legs were vibrating like the strings of a violin, the vibrant tremor causing a sheen of perspiration to cover her brow.

Laena leaned forward, her elbows against her knees and her hands resting on the back of her neck. She was shivering, her legs shaking, and it filled Rhaenyra with trepidation that had her mirroring her cousin. With slow contemplative thought, Laena pressed her palms against her face, hiding it away.

"What are you thinking?" Rhaenyra was too afraid to meet Laena's eyes, as if she might disappear into the space between the couch cushions, into thin air, just to get away. Laena opened her mouth, but then closed it so hard her teeth clicked against one another.

"That you have the worst taste in men," Laena said, her light, sonorous lamentations reaching Rhaenyra until they drummed over her veins in pulsing tremors. Laena leaned back, her hand dropping to her legs, fingers pressing into her thighs. "How long?"

It was unreal. This was a secret that she hadn't truly admitted to even Daemon for all these years. She had no problem telling him of desire, but love had yet to leave her throat. Mysaria knew, but Rhaenyra hadn't said the words, merely agreed with the implications, merely spoke around them.

“Who really knows? I've loved him all my life," Rhaenyra said, the words becoming easier, flowing out like a gradual symphony. It was as though her voice had been trapped in a little box, expanding and swelling and waiting for her to let air inside. "I loved how he listened to me and how he never spoke down to me. He always looked at me and not through me, never looking disinterested. When did those feelings turn this way? I don't have a day or a moment where I-" Rhaenyra broke off, her voice in strangled laughter. "Two years. Five. Twenty-four. I have never not loved him.”

Even when she hated him, she often prayed to feel nothing at all. Hate was as consuming as love, two sides of the same f*cked up coin.

She lies back, deeper into the cushions, sinking and nursing her red cheeks, saying nothing for a moment longer. Her head was thick with emotions that refused to part or drift away, yet was not so thick that she cannot begin to be fearful of what Laena might say next. Laena gave nothing away, even as she grew more thoughtful in the coming moments. She just taps her fingers against her bare knees, the skirt rising higher from her thighs as she finally turns her head to meet Rhaenyra's skittish and uncertain expression.

"I want him, even if it's frightening or if I may not be adult enough for a relationship or if he doesn't love me the same way. I want him today, right now, tomorrow, and every day following," Rhaenyra cuts off, her throat raw with uncertainty, but Laena only waits. When Rhaenyra's silence grew, Laena smiles once, that comforting, 'go on' sort of expression that eased away the knots that had clung to the inside of Rhaenyra's throat. "And maybe I shouldn't trust him because he doesn't seem to trust me at all."

Was it always this hard to get close to him?

Rhaenyra felt as if she should hate herself more, for this buried secret, this squalid reverence, and the craving that had her choking on the aftertaste of feelings she tried so long to bury.

“He's married," Laena said, and it caused a teetering laugh to erupt from Rhaenyra's dry throat.

"I know," Rhaenyra said, turning the words over in the same manner she had to her glass of wine, circling her fingers over the rim, trailing over every sensation. "And he's callous. He's cruel. He can walk away just as easily one day and make me feel as though I'm the most important person in the world the next."

"Does he want you back?" Laena was asking more, but it was the unvoiced sort of question. It was one that she refused to put into words as a way to spare Rhaenyra from having to speak more than she was comfortable.

"Want isn't the problem," Rhaenyra divulged the words carefully, all but admitting it—admitting that these weren't just feelings and praying that Laena would understand without making her say it. Her voice is low, tremulous, and perhaps like the shadow of a shivering girl. Perhaps like that girl who attempted to climb the cliffs in Dragonstone, thinking she could ever make it past the thrashing waters.

"He's old," Laena said, her nose wrinkling and now they both laughed, as if age was the worst of his flaws or as if he wasn't the most handsome man Rhaenyra had ever seen. Age had never even crossed her nonsensical thoughts. "And mean. Rhaenyra, truly, the worst taste."

Rhaenyra was grinning now, tears slipping out as a sense of relief crashed against her in more violent a manner than even the ocean waves. Here they were, discussing her feelings for her uncle, and Laena was upset that her cousin's incestuous thoughts were about a man who was 'mean'.

"I know," Rhaenyra finally said, lips thinning. "And after—after we—after that. He didn't stay. He just left before I awoke, not a note, not even an imprint on the pillows. Nobody hurts me quite like him, but I can't stop wanting him." Laena's hand reached through the little open space between them, intertwining their fingers until they were clasping onto one another's hands. Her thumb stroked the pulse of Rhaenyra's wrist, little circles that calmed the fear. "He left me with a box of Planned B and nothing more."

Laena's touch froze. "What?"

Rhaenyra laughed, though saying the words aloud had only solidified the hurt and anger she had the morning she held it in her hands. "I am so tired."

The space, the very air, was as thick as treacle when Laena reached for her phone. "I'm going to f*cking murder him."

"What would that solve?" Rhaenyra said, bits of worry slipping in as she considered that perhaps Laena wasn't joking as she opened her phone and scrolled through contacts.

"He'll be dead. Murder is the solution," she replied, and Rhaenyra yanked the phone from Laena's hand when she clicked on the contact named 'Florist'.

"I don't know what you're planning, but I didn't tell you for your vengeance," Rhaenyra said, hanging up the call before it reached the second ring. "And who even is this?"

Laena's nostrils were blowing out smoke, and her eyes narrowed before she shut them closed like a rusty window. Rhaenyra watched her cousin grip her own knees before her eyes opened again. The expression was softer then, as though she had gathered up all the little pieces into a neat pile that hid away the will for murder. "Has he ever hurt you? Or hit you?"

"With everything but his fists," Rhaenyra admitted, shaking her head as she stared up at the ceiling again, willing back in the tears. "I know what it must sound like when I say that he's shown me other sides. He was there for me after my mum, he listened to me, and he cares about me. He gave me a place where I felt seen and that history doesn't go away just because he's been cruel. He's the only reason I didn't end up dead, high and in a ditch. I was on self-destruct, ready to burn out when he saw me and—and that doesn't just go away. We spent three years apart, but I still couldn't let go."

"You were concerned about not letting it get serious?" Laena said, shoulders slumping, likely contemplating every word where his name dropped in conversations. She was likely sifting through interactions where the pieces of a puzzle were all there, waiting for someone to put them together.

"Yeah, because I'm a stupid bitch with no impulse control," Rhaenyra said with a weak chuckle, staring at the light bleeding in through the crack in the curtains. "Do you find me repulsive?"

"The only thing I find repulsive is him," Laena said with a steady breath. "I think love isn't black and white and we can't choose where it goes or how it manifests. I think you can do better than a man who is both married and an asshole."

Rhaenyra finally took a long drink of her wine, not stopping until she reached the last bits of red, clinging to the sides of the glass. "Sometimes," she admitted, staring at the empty dregs. "It feels as though we are mirrors to each other, the same thoughts and fears reflecting back at one another."

"And I'm sure he suffers with the same lack of communication that ails his brother," Laena said, now drinking her own wine.

"Are we not just the most f*cked up family?" Rhaenyra agreed, and they both took one look at each other before the laughter nearly buckled them. Their heads tapped against one another, a gentleness and silence illuminating the space between them as one hand slipped into the other, cuddled to each other as the droplets of wine clung to the glass.

"Thank you for telling me," Laena's said, kissing the crown of her cousin's head, the affection burning away the fear that had curdled in Rhaenyra's stomach since the beginning.

One kiss at a time, one moment at a time, it unravelled.

Rhaenyra had opened up Criston's messages at the end of the day, deep into her second bottle of wine when she finally read his words. They were as she expected, despite the tiny sliver of hope that he might have just forgotten about the reporter who had been there since the beginning. He likely went through every last one of her actions, turning them over in his mind as he realized how intentional everything had been.

Rhaenyra wasn't clumsy and she didn't drop anything, she threw them. He likely now saw the plunging of the ring, her casual gripping of his umbrella so he might have free hands, and he'd feel so used over how quickly his knee had lowered in that motion that perfectly suited her.

She just read his text messages, over and over, lingering on the words that were cruel and pointed and meant to hurt her because they were true.

Love and hate, the poets say, were two sides of the same coin. Despite everything, it hurt to see his coin flip. She did not reply, not seeing anything she could say to better it. She could say 'sorry' as easily as 'I didn't know about the reporter' or 'I would never do that to you', but Rhaenyra saw no reason to cover one lie with another.

She had spent the rest of her day after Laena had left, chatting with lawyers who were sworn to confidentiality. She had thought the best course of action was to just admit her wrongdoings online, but then she went back over arson laws in New York and her selfishness and self-preservation could not withstand such jail time. Her lawyers agreed, one calling her initial plan as dumb as setting a building on fire in the first place.

So, instead, she was buried in legal fees that she was determined to pay on her own. She had gotten some manner of independence from her father in the days following the Sebastian incident where he cut her off and froze her credit cards. She went into modelling and did commercials, and endorsem*nts that earned her the money to afford her extravagant lifestyle.

Her father had called her fifteen times, but whatever he had to say, Rhaenyra wasn't ready to hear it. She had used every last bit of her mental power to talk to Laena, and after she left, Rhaenyra had melted into her own couch. Currently, what she was attempting to do is find the person who took that blurry photo of her outside the club. The evidence, her lawyers agreed, was circ*mstantial since there was no proof of arrest. Of course, she’d be ruined by the gossip should they get out, but she wouldn’t be convicted.

At the very least, her uncle had done something right and erased her from the system that day.

She was still scraping her pen across the page when Harwin Strong took a seat across from her at the table. Her lips twitched up, bits of life coming back into her face as she adjusted her bulky glasses atop her face. "That's a fair disguise," he told her with a smile as he leaned forward against the table. "I almost did not recognize you."

The little cafe was lit with twinkle lights, a small place that got few customers into the late evening. "What gave me away?" Rhaenyra asked carefully, lips curled into a slight smile.

He grinned, and it was the sort that hid nothing and exposed his own heart. Rhaenyra admired that ability, even if she did not have a bit of it herself. She had spent so long hiding her heart, guarding it, that she could act as though it was nonexistent.

Just ask Criston, she thought with a sardonic smile.

Harwin's smile widened, kicking his foot into her own, causing her legs to uncross as he disrupted her balance. "The shoes. Your clothes are all H&M, but those shoes are Saint Laurent." There was no logo on the brown, leather Pantaboots, and fingers drummed against the table twice in thought.

"How do you know designer?" Rhaenyra asked, scrutinizing his black attire, jeans and a corduroy jacket. He was well dressed, but where Rhaenyra and her uncle preferred swathing themselves in luxury, Harwin preferred comfort. She might have called them peasant clothes in the past, but Rhaenyra rather liked them.

"We were raised in the same world, heiress," Harwin reminded her with that mocking grin, all in good humour that Rhaenyra found comforting. "Not all of us like to lord our status though."

Rhaenyra let out a little sound from the back of her throat, surprised. "I do not lord my status."

Harwin took a sip of the latte he had gotten when he had walked in. Rhaenyra's own cappuccino remained untouched, the foam already settled into milk and sunken froth. "It's cute that you can pretend to be so humble," he told her, and her lips smacked together. "It adds an air of mystery to an otherwise spoiled girl."

"You can actually leave now," she told him with a cold tone of voice that had him lightly kicking her leg. She knew he was flirting, even if she thought him bad at it, and she was slowly discovering she hardly hated it.

"I see you want to turn your little princess nose up at me then, but however will you see what I brought you from all the way up there," he said in return, now dropping a flash drive on her stack of paperwork with a tiny pat of his fingers against her hand. "All there, just as I promised."

Rhaenyra sneered but plugged it into her computer with a deep sigh of exasperation. "Was it where I thought it might be?"

"More or less. What's Mr Hightower have against you anyway?" Harwin asked, watching her peruse through the images of her igniting the lighter outside the club, yet not a single one of her actually setting an object aflame. There was, however, one of Mysaria making eye contact with the camera, and another of her approaching. The last photo in the listing was of the bricks on the wall.

She could have said something, Rhaenyra thought, nose wrinkling as she took in how Mysaria had ditched her that night as the sirens arose from the background. Perhaps she wasn't entirely awful, even if her motivations were likely corrupt. Perhaps Mysaria had spoken up, and as self-absorbed and high as Rhaenyra was, did not listen.

"Thank you for this," Rhaenyra said with a smile, not answering Harwin's question. "Truly, you might actually be too good a fish for even the sea."

"And yet you still won't date me," Harwin said with a joking grin that caused her smile to falter. "I might just be less willing to help you. Obviously I'm trying to use this to get close to you."

Her grin came right back, her amusem*nt sweltering as she finally took a sip from her flat cappuccino. It tasted awful, but it gave her something to do with her hands. "And not at all because you hope I might stay in power long enough to give your father more room for growth."

"A man can multitask," he joked right back, filling the air with an easy clarity that she could probably like him. Harwin was clever, handsome, and polite, and all of these were in a way that Criston was not. Criston Cole was perfect, yet partial to knowing it, partial to knowing that she did not live up to his standards. She was 'vulgar' or 'improper' and her humour was 'callous'. Harwin, in contrast, seemed to enjoy these aspects, even when she was using them against him. Rhaenyra leaned closer, grabbing Harwin's phone from the table where it faced up towards the ceiling.

"What's your passcode?" Rhaenyra asked, and Harwin took a sip from his latte before leaning his chin into his fist.

"111111," he answered and her eyes rolled back. "I have nothing to hide."

His lock screen was of him, his dad, and his brother Larys, all in front of their home back in New Jersey. He was younger here, with less facial hair and scraggly brown hair that caught bits of the sun that reflected back from the summer light. Larys had lost much movability in a car accident when he was a kid, and the rumours say that he'd never quite forgiven Lyonel or Harwin for the crash. Lyonel for driving, and Harwin for getting out unscathed. Rhaenyra could never tell what was truth and what was fiction in the world of entitled gossip, to which Mysaria had much of when Rhaenyra had asked about the Strongs.

"Are you looking to move on from Daemon or just satisfy an itch?" Mysaria had asked, earning Rhaenyra's faltering laugh from across the call. Rhaenyra thought of that again when she looked upon Harwin's smiling face, but immediately decided against it. She had used Criston initially for the same reason, and not only had it made her longing for another man worsen, but she walked out feeling both wicked and vile.

A child with an empty heart, Criston had written her.

A man who knew this and loved this child anyway,she wanted to write back, but she didn't. He had the right to be angry and she refused to insult him or mock him just because she was on the defensive.

Rhaenyra opened his phone, scrolling to his contacts and typing in her name and number. She then proceeded to take a photo of herself, bulky glasses, incognito disguise, and all.

"I'm not looking to date," she told him, tossing him his phone, and watching him catch it. He did so without question, and she was aptly aware of the placement of her feet, just near his own. Her fingers drummed against the table, the tip of her boot grazing along his trainers. Subtle and slight, little brushes of skin and his hand against her wrist as his thumb circled up her pulse.

"Would it make me less of a gentleman if I said that doesn't bother me?" Harwin asked, and he was all too eager to walk her back to her front door, lingering just outside the New Haven entrance.

Since she trashed her Penthouse, since she had brought Daemon back there, she couldn't cross the threshold without longing for every bit of him.

Now, Harwin leaned in, but he did not touch her skin, even when her lashes fluttered and her lips parted. She had dropped more than fifty signals, but it seemed his mirth and amusem*nt was the factors that kept him from kissing her, and not his lack of awareness. For once, she'd love to not have to make every first move, just to spice up her love life with some surprises.

"You look beautiful. I don't think I complimented you today," he said, despite her messy bun and beret, glasses that covered her entire face, and the lack of makeup that showed off the dark circles. She might have thought him mocking her, but there was sincerity in his expression that melted bits of her. Not her heart, which was ice cold, but it certainly melted the ice on her vagin* that had previously left her without desire.

"I have some tequila and a free shower," she suggested, her fingers dusting along his wrist. He only leaned against her door, his amusem*nt growing at her obvious flirtation. "And an extra toothbrush."

"I have all of that in my condo," he said with a growing smile.

She didn't bother to hide the roll of her eyes, giving up on subtlety. "In about," she looked at her Apple watch, "Ten minutes, there's going to be a very naked woman in my shower. You have all that in your condo?"

"Ah," Harwin said, and she fluttered her lashes again, the act of subtlety returning.

"You've been throwing yourself at me for weeks," Rhaenyra said with a growing frown as she reached for her keys, twirling them around her pointer finger. "Now you choose to play coy? I'm starting to get turned off by all the mixed signals."

"I'm trying to be a gentleman," he said with a pause, long lashes sweeping with his every blink. A light must have gone off in that handsome head of his, for an easy smile spread over his face, transforming him from the gentleman to the gorgeous lover she wanted in her shower. "Are you still flirting or can I kiss you?"

She went to speak, but he had already leaned forward and captured her mouth with his. She was drawn into it with a breath and it was nice, easy even, not so unlike falling forward into the lips of a friend. His hand was so polite, on her waist even as he crushed her body to his and had her fumbling blindly with her keys to unlock the door.

It wasn't much like a romantic movie, where the action went as rightly planned, and instead, it had her stumbling inside. He followed, a clumsy dance not so unlike the one they had at the wedding. Two feet, just shy of capturing the other in an awkward waltz that had her laughing from one kiss to the next. He didn't step on her toes, but they did break the Hobby Lobby vase when she went to toss her keys on the little table by the door.

They separated, watching it shatter with an easy smile that had her practically wheezing before he kissed her again. "I told you this would be more fun," he whispered in between kisses as he eased her beige coat from her shoulders, practically stepping on it before she shouted curse words about his brute-like neanderthal feet ruining the Chanel. He only chuckled and said, "In English please. I like to know the insults flung at me."

She hadn't even realized that she had switched to Valyrian until it was too late and she felt a little tinge of sadness before she swept it away with the next kiss. She practically ripped off his jacket, tossing it behind her with haphazard disregard. "Learn Valyrian," she told him, lips curling in amusem*nt even as the longing grew like weeds in her belly.

"I am still learning Spanish," Harwin groaned, taking off his shirt with a chuckle. "Where's that shower?" He followed her throughout the loft, where he unzipped her Pantaboots and stared down at her leather boots that doubled as pants.

"There's no sexy way to take these off," she admitted, awkwardly shimmying out of them and nearly tripping over herself as she did. He steadied her, both of them laughing until their stomachs were in physical pain as she sat on the counter and allowed his help. They were already breathing hard by the time the leather slid off her smooth legs, making jokes and glimmering with bits of precipitation when her shirt came off next.

"That was a little sexy," he admitted with a chuckle, bracing his hands against both sides of her legs on the counter. He brushed his lips across her own, kissing down and sucking on her neck. She closed her eyes, attempting to lose herself in the sensations. She made all the sounds of a girl in pleasure, gasps that spurred him to unclasp her bra. "But this," he made a chef's kiss motion, inciting her grin. "Stunning," his voice grew darker, deep, and honey-laden as her breasts were exposed to him.

Harwin removed his shirt slowly, exposing the most glorious six-pack she had ever seen. Harwin Strong was a care bear. He was a care bear with the physique of a bodybuilder.

It would have been perfect if he hadn't caught her staring and said, "Do you like what you see?" She immediately subtracted fifty hotness points for the cringe line that dried up her vagin*.

She wrinkled her nose.

"Did you just cringe at me?" Harwin asked, slapping his palm lightly against her naked thigh as he tugged her forward.

"I think we should cut the conversation a bit. Your dirty talk needs work," she said, feeling his hardness up against the material of her silklingerie. She pressed her fingers against the bulge, feeling it grow with her touch.

He bent down, lips just against her ear, yet did not touch. She felt it like a hot stroke to her skin as he whispered, "You are certainly hurting all my masculine pride." He then bit down on her lobe and she released a groan, nimbly undoing his jeans. "Is the tequila really in the shower or was that just an incentive to get in my knickers?"

She let out a snorting laugh, leaning back to chortle like a literal pig. It was the most unattractive sound she had ever made, but it had him bringing her closer, dragging the hard length of him down her sensitive core.

They made it to the shower, foundering and laughing when the water came out scathingly hot. Even in the midst of all the haze, the feeling of him inside her, the water was still hotter than she was. She attempted to lose herself in it, attempted to keep her eyes on him as he took her against the wall.

The perfect man, Laena would say, did not exist.

When they were done, wet and exhausted, they shambled back to her bed as she nearly slipped on the water puddle they made in their kissing and tangled limbs. He f*cked her against the bedsheets, soaking them with their own wet hair as they cackled like wild animals, stumbling into one another. They had shoved the sheets aside, onto the ground, tangled once more in laughter and sex.

And it was fun. Rhaenyra didn't even know sex could be like that, like two people dancing, or enjoying one another's company with the added benefit of an org*sm that had her slamming her head into the headboard. There were no complicated feelings or complex thoughts.

He even held her as she slept, and awakened her with his head in between her thighs sometime into the early morning, laughing when she almost screamed.

By the time they were both up, drinking coffee that he brewed and chatting like friends, he brought up an imitation of her face. "You scared the f*ck out of me!" Rhaenyra shouted right back, and he continued to drink his coffee with a snigg*r.

"I've never seen a woman scream when I was between her legs," he said with a snort, taking one of the blueberries that she had washed and put out for them.

She watched him with a slight smile, thinking about how much Laena would approve. There was no such thing as the perfect person, but the truth was, Rhaenyra didn't want perfect. She wanted to want Harwin more than she did.

She squeezed her nearly translucent robe tighter to her frame, glancing out the windows that were opaque with the morning frost. Harwin was currently tying up his boots while she went to say something more, interrupted by the doorbell. She clicked her tongue, scowling at him one last time before she padded across the room and got on the tips of her toes to look out her peephole to no avail since she was too short for modern architecture.

She opened it with a sigh and tried to slam it back closed on Daemon's face when his hand stopped the door with an amused smirk. His eyes skimmed down her half-dressed figure. She was shaking her head, all but telling him to leave when the light went out in his eyes. "Company?" Daemon asked, and he walked right past her, forcing the close proximity that had his familiar scent filling her nostrils as his shoulder brushed her own.

"Well," Harwin said, drinking his coffee as he casually belayed the last three of his buttons with a sheepish smile. "We are certainly not dressed for company."

Daemon stood there with nothing but a briefcase in hand, his eyes sweeping across the loft. He took note of the toppled vase that she and Harwin had knocked over, a mess she hadn't bothered to clean up yet. Harwin must have tried to gather it into a pile earlier in the morning, only to give up when he realized she didn't own a dustpan. She used to, but she'd used it to kill a spider once and promptly discarded the entire thing. It never seemed practical to have one when she hardly stayed in the loft. She did have a Swiffer, though—an unhelpful Swiffer.

"Certainly not," Daemon agreed, his deep voice without emotion as Rhaenyra closed the door behind her with an expression not unlike horror as she faced away from both men. "Does your father know about your guest?" Daemon said in Valyrian, and he could be a true dick when he wanted to be, which accounted for nearly every time he spoke. "Fraternizing in the company is frowned upon."

Rhaenyra thought death might be less awkward than Harwin Strong drinking his coffee casually at her table while her uncle prodded at her temperament. "Is it any more frowned upon than an uncle fraternizing with his niece? Remind me again," Rhaenyra said back, hating herself for stooping to his level.

Harwin cleared his throat, "It's been fun, but I think I'm gonna go before you two forget I'm here." He stood, finishing his coffee and walking up to Daemon with a smirk. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Targaryen." He raised his hand, and Rhaenyra watched Daemon only stare at Harwin's outstretched palm as if he were offering him a bag of sh*te instead of a handshake. Harwin let out an amused whistle. "You two are peas in a pod, but I think you'll warm up to me eventually. Rhaenyra certainly did."

Harwin's joke hit in poor taste, as Rhaenyra felt her insides slowly shrivel and die while Harwin continued to ignore the dark mood rising over Daemon. Harwin proceeded to pat his hand against Daemon's shoulder in lieu of a handshake before he turned to walk towards Rhaenyra. Because his back was to her uncle, he did not see Daemon wipe off the area Harwin had touched as if there were a cloud of dust in the shape of a handprint.

Rhaenyra pointedly looked away from her uncle as Harwin took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "Gevieriñītsos," he told her, and she had to bite her lip with a smile at his attempt at clumsy High Valyrian that he must have Googled into the night.

His pronunciation was perfect, but she figured he meant to call her a 'beautiful girl' and not 'beautiful child'. "Gevie tala,"she corrected, and he repeated it with a grin.

"A man can try," he said and looked back over his shoulder when Daemon scoffed. The sound was made louder with the slamming of his briefcase atop the table. "I feel like I just met your dad," he whispered to her and she let out a sound in between a laugh and a scoff.

"Don't mind his attitude. He's just cranky in the morning," Rhaenyra said louder, making certain Daemon could hear her. She decided to throw one last middle finger, kissing Harwin lightly on the lips with a girlish giggle just before he left.

It was fun while Harwin was in the room, since she hadn't realized he was a buffer between a faithless niece and an arsehole uncle. After he left, Daemon only poured out the coffee that Harwin had made and began to brew a new batch, and loudly at that. Rhaenyra felt like death might really be less awkward as she hugged her robe closer to her body and walked back towards the kitchen island.

"You certainly look like you had fun," Daemon said with a chuckle that ran down her very spine. She had the inkling on what was obviously going on with him, and his jealousy was one hell of a roommate. He had never seemed concerned over Harwin in this manner at the wedding, so she didn't know how to approach it.

"Why are you here?" Rhaenyra asked after careful consideration on her words. She lifted one of the blueberries to her lips, feeling shy, feeling nervous, her belly in tangled knots. Daemon hadn't been back here since their first kiss on the cursed wall she still couldn't make eye contact with. This was partly due to it bringing back the emotions of that night he left her alone and proceeded to ignore her for four months. It was also due to the portrait she put up, nicknamed the 'healing painting', which actually haunted her dreams.

"I got an interesting call from Mysaria about some photos that came up in the Times," he said casually, as though he were not talking about something that would threaten to ruin her career before it began. Not to mention she could get 15 years in prison if proven guilty of malicious intent.

"And that is none of your business," she said, hating Mysaria a bit for roping her uncle into this when all Rhaenyra wanted was a bit of independence.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Daemon asked carefully, slowly scooping a bit of espresso grounds into theEversys Enigma espresso machine that Laenor had gotten her last year for her birthday. She was still learning how to use it, but it seemed like Daemon had no problems as a miniature barista.

"Because you are not a prince, as you so kindly remind me on a daily. I don't need your help," she said, and he snorted in reply, perhaps finding her ridiculous. There was still some residual anger, coating him thick like molasses and she knew it would only make him vicious.

"You used to tell me everything," he reminded her, now turning back towards her. It was only the white marble island that separated them, but the distance wasn't enough. She was reminded, since her body wouldn't let her forget, of the sensation of his tongue against the length of her spine. She tossed it aside in exchange for her pride.

Mentally, because of him, she was in a gilded cage, trapped and hunted and abandoned when it suited him. She was locked inside, unable to f*ck someone without imagining him, unable to so much as org*sm without thinking of the syllables of his name. Try as she might, she couldn't imagine a future where she wasn't desperately in love with him.

"You used to be my uncle who I trusted," she said lowly, watching him lean closer into the kitchen table. "Who are you to me now?"

His eyes were narrow and dark as she dared him to deny it, dared him to deny what she was saying. "But you'll tell a stranger?"

So we were talking about Harwin, she thought with a single glance towards the painting on the wall before she dragged her fingers through her tangled hair. "Are you angry with me?" The timbre in her voice was a warning, not so unlike indignation.

Daemon's hands were braced against the marble, and as she watched them for long moments, the strength of his grip reminded her of the violence in his temper. "Did you enjoy it?"

She grabbed her cup, walking around the island to rinse it out in the sink, not answering him. She felt his hands cage her in, his lips against her ear. She shut her eyes for a brief moment, just basking in his proximity that had her seeing stars. He didn't touch her, his body was a distance away, yet she could feel the polarity of him, drawing her in. "Stop it," she whispered, squeezing her hands against the mug as she nearly dropped it in the sink when he blew aside strands of hair from her ear.

"Why? You've been begging for me since the beginning," he whispered, cutting at her pride with slow and lazy words that were meant to be sharp. "A little girl who dragged at my heels,scrounging for my approval whenever her daddy was too mean."

"And what does that make you," she whispered right back, her voice as harsh as his. "A man with an empty heart," she continued, barely aware she repeated what Criston had said. "Who only covets or wants this pathetic little girl when she tries to cast you away. You're jealous and it's ugly."

He laughs against her ear, and the feeling of hot air had her battling emotions of desire that she felt ignite her up in the way the boiling water of the shower had the previous night. She had to hold her breath, her hands against the counter. "Jealous?" Daemon tested the word, but he was growing angrier. "Hardly. I've been there and done you. Sufficient yet to satisfy an urge, but mediocre at best." She didn't bother to hide the sting that froze her muscles, causing them to grow taut in their place. She hid them away the next moment.

She tossed the cup down in the sink, turning in his caged arms to stare up at him with narrowed eyes. "You don't get to be angry. You don't have the right to be so much as piqued from a single thing I do when you have done nothing but steal bits of my soul, my very life." She shoved her hands to his chest, but he did not budge as he stared down at her, his gaze dark with an unreadable expression that had her dripping with aggrieved lust. "I get to take it back."

She hated him. He, who could chase off any man without even trying. He didn't even need to be in the room to do it. He didn't even need to have met him and it wasn't f*cking fair.

"He would bore you senseless," Daemon whispered against her lips, the High Valyrian swelling her mind like lithium. He was the capricious one. He was the cruel one, but when he was this close, he exerted his power over her without care.

"Stop," she whispered right back, barely realizing she had switched languages at his command. She had long since learned that these feelings were nearly impossible to fight.

"You've been begging for my attention for years,"he continued carefully, finally stroking up the length of her arm, closing in until his lips were up against her neck. "And it wasn't supposed to be mutual."

The momentum of his confession had her back hitting the counter, the marble pressing into her spine. She felt like a kite on a string, being dragged further out to sea.

"Whether I have the right or not to be jealous is irrelevant,"he told her, now moving back, still careful to touch her only the bare minimum. "You say I stole your life from you?" His fingers slid up her cheek, and despite the f*cked up nature of his words, they pulled at her, as if she were a decorative bow being tugged apart. Her lips opened and closed when his thumb smoothed over the bottom one. "You've had mine by the throat hold since I let you into it," his amorous whispers, all uttered against her lips, were drenched in desire.

His thumb made a slow, healing caress over her bottom lip. The haze in both of their eyes was stagnant, constant, and it had her leaning into his touch. His fingers sunk into her skin as if she were as soft and malleable as clay. She could feel his slow descent up her arm, skimming the fabric of her silk robe to expose the gooseflesh from underneath.

"Do you want me to stop?" Daemon's question was answered with no resistance on her part. He had eaten away at it, and now it was decaying ruins at her feet. She let out a sound as she felt him against her stomach, and smelt the mixture of his sensual cologne and the aroma of the espresso to her right. "Tell me to stop."

"You're the devil."Her voice was heavy with the imagination of his amatory words, influencing her and softening her and arousing her.

"Then tell me to stop," he repeated against her neck, chuckling into her skin.

What she felt for him was a grievous sin. “I should be with a gentleman. Harwin is a gentleman,” she whispered in English and his lips slid over her neck, finally kissing it, but at her utterance of another man’s name, he froze.

He forced their bodies closer, tongue at her pulse so he could feel it quicken. “I could be a gentleman,” he said, his breath hot against her flesh. His words were melting her as if she were decadent chocolate, puddling in the warmth of his hands. She wanted him to whisper it into her naked skin. She wanted him so badly that it wasn't fair.

"Apologize like a gentleman," she whispered, her hands against his chest, making him stare down at her with heavy eyes, set upon her. She nearly thought he'd bring her the moon if she asked him to.

"For what?" Daemon asked with a sensual smile that brought back her ire.

"If you have to ask," she whispered, pushing him away. "Then perhaps I will tell you to stop," she switched to Valyrian to answer, backing him into the island just behind him. His unwavering gaze fixated upon her, his eyes reflecting a sense of detachment and profound remoteness, while a scarcely audible exhale escaped his lips, as if carried away by a gentle zephyr.

"Must we truly talk more on the unpleasant?" he asked her, tilting his head sideways.

"That's not an apology," she replied, her voice softening as she reached forward to press her fingers against his cheek. He watched her hand as if she was moving to strike him. "I don't want a gentleman. I want you," she told him, admitting it, and watching his lips part. "No mask. Everyone, especially you, keeps dealing me a hand of cards that are straight bullsh*te.”

"You will have to be specific," Daemon said carefully, leaning back against the counter. He looked away, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The amount of offences is a long one. I'd like to know which order you'd like me to start in."

She looked over his shoulder, towards the painting she had placed on the wall. He followed her gaze and his face contorted into slight confusion at the grotesque oil painting. She watched that pass, fading into calm realization. "You can start there."

Chapter 19: When We Rebuild

Chapter Text

Ｎｉｎｅｔｅｅｎ
𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒷𝓊𝒾𝓁𝒹
╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

The graveyard was filled with the smell of freshly watered grass and bright red roses. Alicent was supposed to meet her in the evening, where they'd get ready in matching dresses. Rhaenyra had just turned 20, and she was on that odd cusp, not an adult and not a kid. Her mother had been gone for one year, and Rhaenyra had spent most of her birthday alone at the cemetery. Alicent was supposed to come, but Rhaenyra had woken to a voicemail that sounded like a vague excuse not to.

The urns were empty, ashes scattered around the rowan trees back in Dragonstone. Rhaenyra had bought out a crypt for them, and made them a niche so she could visit when the world got to be too much. Lately, this was every day. She sat on the ground, her hands pressed together as she attempted to think of something to say to fill the dead silence.

Rhaenyra had been clean for six months. She wished she could say it was all her doing, that she chose never to touch drugs or alcohol. It was not. Daemon had somehow made her an undesirable, and nobody would sell to her. She'd sent him fourteen text messages, rants so long that she couldn't look back on them without deep shame. She hadn't apologized for her words, which were undeniably cruel and undeserving.

If she had hurt him with any of it, he'd sooner die than tell her. They were similar in that regard, always burying and never sharing. She remembered bits and pieces of the messages in between her daily life, like hot flashes of ignominy, even when she was alone.

Daemon had listened to her entire story without judgment, hearing her at her worst, at her most cruel and malicious. He had absorbed her words into him, silently and without scorn. He took them in as a river took a rock or an ocean took the rain. If she had told anyone else that she had wished ill will on an unborn child, they'd turn against her. They'd know that the wrong child made it past infancy. Daemon had not. Instead, he helped her organize a resting place for the empty urns of a mother she missed and a brother she never wanted nor deserved.

And instead of gratitude, the lack of drugs had withdrawn not only her sense, but empathy and affection that had turned her into a vicious bitch.

Three times she had come here, and left without saying anything. This time, it was clear that visit four would end the same way. "I did the same thing," Daemon said from behind her, his voice careful as it slithered over her skin in a gentle pet. Rhaenyra turned to look at him, his face shadowed by the dark crypt. Bits of canary gold crept over his cheekbones as the candlelight dusted over the arch of his sharp jaw with just enough glow to make him look ethereal.

Nah uh, that's enough, she told herself, forcing her scrutinizing gaze away. She'd done much these last months to not look at him that way, but her body was just as stubborn as she was. It was like the more she told it no, the more it decided to react out of spite. "Did what?" Rhaenyra asked.

"She taught me the piano too, my mother," Daemon said, holding out his hand. Rhaenyra glanced down at it, her own weakness flooding her as she reached for it. "It was hard for me to play when she died, hard for me to want to do anything."

"How did you function? Because I feel like I'm barely doing that," she said, feeling his thumb circle the back of her hand with a soft smile. It made her feel like a child, which caused a rise of air to fill her chest, akin to irritation. The books all say that hot hair rises, and she could feel it in her throat.

"It's sweet that you think I'm functioning," Daemon said, dragging her to his side so he could tuck her underneath his arm. "It gets better, Rhaenyra," he whispered this against the crown of her head, kissing it once. Her eyes fluttered shut, a shiver trailing down her spine. She leaned into him, trapping the gasping breath in her trachea. Whatever was happening, whatever spell had been cast upon her, she refused to allow it in the crypt of her mother.

She untucked from his arm, her hand resting upon the back of her neck. She took two small breaths, attempting to think about hot actors. Jenson Ackles. Henry Golding. Henry Cavill. All the Chris's. That one barista who wrote his number on her Caramel Frap. She hadn't even wanted one, but he just looked so much like Daemon that she would have ordered a box of literal sh*te if he had recommended it.

"Something wrong?" Daemon asked, and by now he was leaning against the crypt entrance, unaware that his niece was sick. Unaware of how much she loved to be near him, despite the sporadic bouts of distance he'd give at his leisure. She felt it like a bubble around him, where he'd suddenly go silent and far away.

"No, everything is fine. Let's go," she told him, and she held out her hand, watching him reach out to interlock it with his own. He hesitated, and she wouldn't have noticed if she didn't watch him so intensely.

What was he thinking? She'd often wonder, even when those thoughts suffocated her in their intensity.

They had lunch at a little establishment downtown, where they fell into comfortable silence in between the comings and goings of the waiter. She was vaguely aware of his legs beneath the table, his shoe near her heel, and the clamminess of her hands causing the phone to nearly slide out from her fingers. She had moments alone with those growing, forbidden ideas before she heard the sound of someone's phone shuttering.

She looked up from the menu that she requested, despite already knowing what she wanted. Across the room, past the orange dim lights and the portraits of French opera singers, were a group of students, giggling and attempting to lower their phones and hiding them under the table. Her lips pursed, but she smiled at them in greeting, moving her feet as far from Daemon's as she possibly could. They snapped another photo, followed by nine more.

"They will only take more if you pose," Daemon said, not looking up from his menu. She thought about the smell of his collar when she held him in her arms. They weren't the most affectionate huggers, but the times she got to, he smelled of vintage books, creeping moonlight, rain, the grass at Dragonstone, and many other forbidden things. She bit her tongue, drawing away from those thoughts with such violence that she might have just ripped out her own nails.

She was grateful the silence ended. Her endless, filthy, sick imagination strived in the void. Her knuckles turned white, making her realize that she had been clenching her phone for dear life.

"I don't want to look bad," she admitted, her teeth sliding over her bottom lip in thought. She had been followed by cameras since coming to New York, since her father's rise to power, and especially when her mother died. She had seen herself from every angle on the covers of gossip magazines and internet memes. She had seen so much of herself that she knew exactly which angles she did and did not like. All of the ugly ones were captured first by TMZ who had a personal vendetta and sought to make her look hideous. Why it was interesting to capture her walking in sweats downtown, she'd never know.

CELEBRITIES RUINING THEIR LOOKS: SKIN, BONES, AND BAD TASTE

Rhaenyra had a meltdown when she read it. She might have lost her entire mind, but she got some manner of calm. Since then she never left the house without a full three layers of makeup.

He leaned on his fist, his eyes narrowed as they scrutinized her. "I don't think I've ever seen an ugly photo of you."

You f*cking liar, Rhaenyra thought with some degree of affection.

It wasn't exactly a compliment, but somehow, her heart clung to individual words, rearranging them in such a way that it made it skip. "That's because I pose," she said with a weak smile. She heard a vibration from her phone, thumping against the table.

"That must be it," he said lowly, glancing at the phone she was about to ignore entirely. "You can take that," he suggested in Valyrian, lips spreading into a lazy smile. She felt his eyes on her as she read a message from Brya. Her mood immediately dropped and the rest of the world fell away.

Bad Bitch Brya: bruh your family is sh*tter than mine

Bad Bitch Brya: this your friend????

Bad Bitch Brya: talk about et tu aliente lolol get wrecked 🫡🫡🫡

Bad Bitch Brya: https://www.nydailynews.com/snyde/targaryen-scandals-22-year-old-alicent-hightower-and-newly-widowed-elder-targaryen-seen-in-steamy-affair-20171104-g7tjf7rirff37houghxqbngr2y-story.html

read 5:43 pm

Rhaenyra dropped the phone into her lap, barely noticing it slide straight from her hands. The serifs themselves began to slither out from her screen, straight from the font. She felt them like tendrils, seeking her neck, wrapping it around like a noose, and strangling her. She shook them off, grabbing her phone quickly to click on the link. It missed once, then twice, and on the third, the shaking subsides and she watches as Safari opens with such slowness that it was as if Verizon failed her too.

The loading bar took its time, and when it opened, she felt her voice trap itself into a box in her throat. What came out were strangled words, a gasp, a tiny squeak, but it got Daemon's attention. "What?" His question wasn't something she was capable of answering.

Her throat was gripped by conflicting forces, yanking her in opposing directions, ultimately leaving her stranded in a soundless, soulless limbo. She attempted to respond, but he swiftly grasped that it was in defiance of her own body's will. He gently took the phone from her hands, drawing it closer to himself. She stared blankly into her own lap, her complexion paling, fingers clenching into the fabric of her skirt.

"Wow," was all Daemon said, callously and unapologetically himself. "Typical Hightower c*nt." He seemed to remember just who he was talking about and paused, as if he wanted to think better on his next words than he had the previous.

"It's a mistake. A misunderstanding," Rhaenyra whispered, feeling the teenagers from the adjacent table staring at her, snapping photos without a care. It must have been hideous. Every photo captured her ugly face that was contorting and reddening and morphing. The emotions were overwhelming, her eyes were on fire, and yet she was also feeling as if something was melting. She was going to lose it from the sound of the camera shuttering alone, she was going to stand up and break their f*cking phones.

She was already contemplating the logistics of it when she saw Daemon open the menu, creating a makeshift barrier between her and the shuttering noises. She finally met his eyes, but he wasn't looking at her, merely casting a death glare at the teens who immediately minded their own damn business. She watched the sculpted planes of his cheekbones, the soft and smooth skin that she wanted to caress with frenzied kisses.

"Cry, scream, whatever," Daemon said, not looking at her from where the menu covered them both. The dim lighting and soft jazz played in the background. The mimosa rested between them, untouched from the moment he got it for her since she had yet to turn 21 in order to get her own. "This stays up as long as you want it."

"I don't want to cry," she said, despite the burning against the backs of her eyes. He finally turned towards her, his eyes narrow in contemplation. The trail of tears was still there from the last time she sobbed into his arms and she was tired of it. She was tired.

"What do you want?" Daemon asked, and those destructive feelings arose in her again, now pushed forward with the damage the betrayal had done to the gates she had trapped them behind. She wanted to bite into him. She wanted to fill her lips with his whispers and tears before extracting more from him. She wanted to consume all of it until her uncle was so disgusted that he'd never want to so much as touch her again.

His brows furrowed together, and he nearly lowered the menu, but only leaned back, away from her. "Well?" He asked into her extended silence.

"I want to destroy something," she said, meaning it. She needed to destroy something soluble before she f*cked up and destroyed them both.

Daemon's lips twitched up. "My violent little dragon," he said, and she needed him to not say that in such a tone, causing her willpower to slacken. He grabbed her hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips. She watched the assent slowly, wondering when the pulsing of her heart would finally quell. "Now's hardly the time for a new scandal. Come on. Up. f*ck the food."

She wasn't hungry anymore. The menu lowered, their little bubble popped and his hand quickly dropped her own.

It was raining heavily when they exited, swept in a torrent of the on pour. Over the city was the sweet and rotting odour of everyone's pungent pollution, washed away in the onslaught. Inside her, that sweeping despair and violent anger had dissolved the many years she knew Alicent. By the time she threw open the door to Daemon's Tesla, all those years had melded together into one complex, swirling whole that she could no longer recognize.

It was silent, and not even his delectable scent could sway her from the burning anger. She was barely there, floating far away, following blindly when they made it to the private gym. She wasn't dressed for it, but he seemed prepped for that, already having someone waiting with workout clothes for both of them.

"I don't feel like exercising," Rhaenyra said with a far-off tone.

"I don't think I asked what you wanted," Daemon replied swiftly, tossing her the clothes. "Get dressed with minimal complaints if you can."

She gripped the clothes to her chest, surprised for a beat of silence before she scoffed and obeyed. "You are a dick sometimes," she muttered, but he only snorted and allowed her to head to the changing rooms. She was blinded with the many lights, her wet and rain-soaked hair reflected back at her from through the mirror, and her eyes glistened. She looked away, not wanting to sit and stare at her own wounds forever.

The workout clothes were simple, movable, and warm. She brushed through her hair with her fingers, untangling the knots when she finally joined the giant studio room. Daemon leaned against the wall with his face glued to his phone and whoever he was speaking to, he was doing so in low whispers, drowned out by the music playing on the speakers. She glanced about the room, simple and designed like a dance studio. The walls were covered in mirrors, but she didn't want to meet her own ragged and tired eyes.

She stretched instead, figuring that if she was going to be forced to exercise, she might as well not have to wake up tomorrow and have to limp to the bath. She was coming back up from her stretch when she saw his eyes scanning up her figure from across the room. It was a quick perusal, there and gone, but it had her nearly shaking.

He put away his phone and approached her. "You still have that pretty little blue belt?" Daemon's question was hard for her to comprehend when her thoughts were this unsteady.

She had taken Jiu Jitsu when she was 12, thinking she wanted to be a miniature Uma Thurman from Kill Bill. She had a hard time picturing herself in a wedding dress as of late, but now it felt better to smear that white gown in vengeful blood. "It's purple actually."

Daemon snorted but grabbed her hand to inspect her pale knuckles. "And yet you still came home with a bloody lip and a concussion. What belt were they?"

His reference had her seeing smoke. "Theycame out of nowhere," Rhaenyra said with careful enunciation as he pressed her hand into a fist with a vacant expression. He had shuttered it away, and it had her wanting to pad her fingers up his face, moving his lips just to see him smile. Her heart was beating like a broken metronome, but he was unperturbed by the sickness of a girl.

"You don't practice anymore." He slowly let go of her hand, and it dropped lifelessly to her side with a chill that left her outside in the rain. "You do very little anymore."

She had taken up piano a bit, here and there before the memories of her mother's instructions overpowered her senses. She'd cried atop keys many times the last few months, so the times she'd stroked ivory were few and in between. "Okay, Daemon-sensei. What belt are you?"

He was smiling, and the sort of smile that she had wanted from him. Once she got it, reflecting back at her as her own personal moon, she was filled with it and wanted more. "Come on, hands up." She obeyed, and he began to wrap her knuckles in white elastic. She was focused on his long fingers, his bare forearms, and his head just centimetres from her own. If she looked up, she'd be able to trail her lips over his jaw, his chin, and all the places she wanted to touch.

She squeezed her eyes shut and just looked down.

He dropped her hands and placed his palm to the small of her back. "Imagine the bag is Alicent Hightower." He had led her to the boxing bag the next moment, and she stood in front of it with a frown. "Come on. Use that Jiu-Jitsu for something."

"Not the same thing," she muttered.

"I'm going to take away your pretty belts," he whispered in her ear, and she felt a shiver travel down the length of her spine. "Come on. You're angry. Use it."

"The best fighters are never angry," she muttered in reply, but he only held her shoulders and stood behind her. She could feel his lips to her ear with just the strands of hair keeping her from feeling them against her skin.

"Okay Lao Tzu," Daemon said with a chuckle. She could feel his laughter on her neck, and she clenched her hands to keep back the coursing desire. "Do you wish to be treated asfriable as soil or as fragile as glass?"

"No," she bit out the word, and it came out guttural. Her desire and fury had melted together like candle wax, so now it was so merged that she couldn't tell one apart from the other.

"Then hit the damn bag," he ordered, stepping back when she slammed her fist against the punching bag. It ricochetedoff from the leather, using enough force that it could have vaporized the bag onto the back wall. It should have left the shaped impression of her childhood friend against the asphalt outside.

It barely moved and Rhaenyra stumbled forward, her legs clumsy, but she attempted to compensate for it. She drew into her boundless reserves of hostility and agility that set into her fist. She punched again. And again. And again until she practically collapsed against smooth leather. She imagined Alicent's face, the way her lips were pressed against the newly widowed Viserys in those photographs. She imagined it all so vividly that she was staggering.

She saw the late evening slumber parties, the moments where they'd pretend to be mermaids in the pool, the hot chocolate and chats about their dreams. Rhaenyra had always included Alicent in those plans, as if a future without her was a future not worth breathing. "How could she do that?" Rhaenyra hissed out, her voice straight from the void in her chest, hitting again and again. There had always been people in this twisted world that made it worse, but Rhaenyra never saw Alicent as one of them.

There was no blood upon Rhaenyra's fists, restricted by black elastic, but she was in agony. Not all wounds gush blood.

"Alicent is just like everyone else," Daemon said, stepping behind the punching bag, stopping it from swinging back at her next hit. She slammed against leather and he braced the force of it with his own strength. She wanted it to fly back into her fist, craving the brutality of the attack that might just release her. "Get her off that pedestal and see her for what she is."

Normally, she would have venomously defended her, defended her against the barrage of passive insults her uncle would gift the Hightower family as a whole. He, who hated Otto to his very twisted being so thoroughly that Alicent was just as guilty for merely being born. Rhaenyra couldn't muster a defence.

"What is she?" Rhaenyra asked instead, and Daemon let go of the bag.

"Someone who took the first chance she could to climb above her status before the ashes of Aemma ever hit the grass." The words were harsh, were bitter, but it had Rhaenyra seeing red.

Rhaenyra gripped the leather, her breathing staggered until she was nearly hyperventilating. He did not offer comfort, which was smart since she was pulsing with adrenaline. She still couldn't distinguish between her rage and her lust, so if he so much as touched her, she couldn't know if she'd attack him or throw herself at him.

"What am I supposed to do?" Rhaenyra asked through her own growing nausea.

"Whatever you want to do," Daemon told her, and his voice coursed through her veins as salt coursed through the sea. It made her light-headed and buoyant. "They betrayed you, not the other way around. And when the Hightower c*nt has a child, do you think she won't hope that he gets possession of your birthright?"

Rhaenyra hadn't even been thinking about matters of inheritance or power, but the moment he said it, she felt like a doormat to the Targaryen household. She felt like a placeholder.

"Hit the bag," Daemon suggested, shoving the bag back towards her. She didn't hit, feeling something crush inside her, making her feel as friable as soil or like the little girl who just lost a friend.

"Why do you hate the Hightowers?" Rhaenyra asked, catching the bag. Daemon only paused, walking closer until only that leather bag rested in between them.

"The moment my father died, Otto Hightower burrowed himself to your father's side. That's what he does," Daemon explained, finally raising his hand to swipe away stray strands of hair that rested against her cheek. She felt him tuck them behind her ear. "He poisoned my brother until all Viserys could see were the manifestations of what Otto wanted him to think. Alicent is his crowned jewel. Pretty soon, you'll be just as I am."

Rhaenyra was trying to remember words, to remember anything at all when she said, "And what is that?"

Daemon only smiled. "In the way."

Daemon hadn't said anything in nearly ten minutes so Rhaenyra continued to froth the milk for her espresso, waiting for him to speak his goddamned apology. She was currently scooping sugar, contemplating in what way she was going to scream at him to leave should he stay silent for two more minutes. It was likely that he felt as uncomfortable as she did, but she wasn't in the mood to be empathetic.

He called sex with her mediocre? Her? She studied the Kama Sutra for him. She practised pole dancing for him. She wasted bananas for him. She could f*cking kill him.

She aggressively ate a blueberry, contemplating murder when he said, "Quite ugly. I am sorry you bought it." He was appraising her 'healing painting' with an artist's eye, never mind that it was an expensive piece by a famous painter whose name slipped Rhaenyra's memory when she was this infuriated.

"That's not the apology I was looking for," she said, but it was noted. She hadn't been the one to buy it, so currently, her father was responsible for bringing the horror art into her home.

He finally sent her a deep, long stare that made her fill with emotions as if she were a goddamn sponge. Empathy was battling its way in, disregarding that it was irrational. "I know, my violent little dragon." His shoulders were tense when he continued. "I know."

She waited, consuming the rest of her blueberries, just so she wouldn't talk and interrupt whatever breakthrough he was about to likely f*ck up again. When it became clear that Daemon did not want to talk, she let out a deep sigh. "Okay. Get the f*ck out."

Daemon let out a laugh that didn't fit their situation. She wanted to fight. She wanted to scream. "This isn't working," he said, finally turning around and grabbing his keys from the island. "Let's go. You want violence right? To destroy something? Right?"

Destroy this puss*, her intrusive thoughts truly had no bounds. She could tell herself to chill, but she learned by now that it was pointless.

She was practically shaking, still in her silk robe with strikingly little underneath. Her libido could literally relax the f*ck out. She had no plans on sexing anybody today. She just took a shower so she wanted to enjoy some portions of her morning with her hot chocolate-scented candle. She wanted to watch terrible Christmas movies. She was f*cked out, f*cked up, and he could f*ck off. Then again, I say that every time, she thought with a bitter frown.

The scenario was so familiar that she already knew where he planned to take her. She unenthusiastically changed into Lululemon, and when she came back out to greet him, she watched him cursorily examinethe outfit with an obvious frown towards her coy smile. She traced her fingers up the same path she had when she had unzipped the sports bra in his Penthouse, but this time all she did was tie her hair up.

He finally met her gaze, the tension crackling with aggression between the both of them. While she felt like he had no right to be irritated with her, she understood him well enough to get an idea of why he was.

She was reminded of many filthy imaginations when they were alone in the car, where he reached over to change the song that was playing. She slapped his hand away, not looking from out the window where cars passed by on the highway.

He sighed, muttering about her childishness when she replayed Trisha Paytas's 'I Love You Jesus' for the fifth time. He went to speak louder, likely to berate her as he had back in her loft. He was probably planning how he was going to manipulate her into forgetting her own anger, but she couldn't allow that. She turned up the volume on her phone, making him rue the day he paired her Bluetooth to his car.

Then again, she had added her phone to his Bluetooth three years ago, so thought it was a little weird that he hadn't deleted it.

They made it inside the private gym where he already tossed her the fast wrap gloves, and she barely caught one while the other slapped against her neck. "I'd like an apology for that too," she told him and, after a brief hesitation, she begins to awkwardly wrap it around her knuckles, trying to remember how it goes.

He was already grabbing her arm, not giving her a chance to figure it out on her own before he takes over. Every brush of his skin was met with goosebumps across her bare arms at the soft touch. There was something sensual about the way he worked the wrap, contrasting his not-so-sensual words.

"You are so annoying today," he said, and he slipped on his own black glove pads. The inside of the room was lit up in a wide array of lights, filled with equipment of all varieties that she hadn't seen in three years. The entire situation gave her Deja Vu.

"I never asked you to visit," she replied, walking up to him and sneering. He raised the pads, intercepting her punch which would have had more impact if she hadn't been slacking on weight lifting exercises. For three years, she couldn't even wrap her fists without thinking of him.

"I never asked you to come to my Penthouse late the other night," he said in return, causing her to miss the pad entirely, striking the air. She scowled, making up for it with the next hit that finally forced him to brace his feet to the ground.

He had changed already, looking delectable in sweats and a tank top that showed more of his body than she would have preferred right now. The black muscle tank exposed everything, leaving nothing for her imagination. His gym bag was already prepped for him in his car, which explained why he looked so fit and his brother looked like a potato. Her eyes were already on the cut-open sides before she could help it.

"You didn't seem to mind or complain about mediocrity when you were making all those soft little noises in my ear," she said with a forced grin and went to strike again. This time, however, he shifted the pad out of the way, causing her to hit directly into his shoulder. She immediately attempted to draw back, but he locked her wrist in between his arm and his side, forcing her to nearly slam her chin into his chest as he drew her closer. "Are you crazy?"

"It's what you secretly wanted to do, isn't it?" Daemon's voice was harsh against her face, but she was already extracting her own fist. He let her go.

"I used a lot of force behind that hit," she said, hating him for making her feel remorseful about it. She also hated him for being right. She wanted to punch him in the face.

"I can take a lot more than that," he said, raising the pads back up. She hesitated at his charming, disarming smile. "Don't worry, once was enough for now."

"This isn't my turn to talk," Rhaenyra said, already knowing what he was doing. He was provoking her, making it so she screamed at him, or that she did all the talking so he could avoid it again. He was seasoned at that and she was just as bad for falling for it every time.

The sparks of anger vibrated between them, a crescendo of wrathful music. When she hit again, he met the blow, moving forward and making her step back. His muscles had gotten bigger from the last time they did this. She vaguely remembered the Rhaenyra from four years ago had done nothing but imagine what it was like to feel his hands on her hips. Presently, she knew exactly what it felt like and she desired it now more than even back then.

She was faster than the last time, but not as strong. Her gym sessions had mostly been stamina as of late, where she'd run for an hour straight, just to burn off the stress. "I shouldn't have said it."

"Said what?" Rhaenyra asked back, hesitating for a moment before hitting again.

"You're anything but mediocre," he told her, and she knew that the day was going to be a long one if it took this much prodding to get the words out of him. Maybe he was right. Maybe f*cking and never talking was easier, but she didn't want easy.

"Continue," she said, now kicking the pad. She had been hoping to surprise him, but he was faster. Whether this was because he knew her or he just practised more or fought more than her, who knows?

"You're annoying," he said, meeting her eyes as she slammed her fist once again against the cushion. It sunk in before the force drew it right back out.

"You're unnecessarily difficult. Why can't you just say anything? I haven't heard 'sorry' once from your mouth." She interrupted him before he could say what she knew he was going to say. "And apologizing for me buying that painting does not count."

"I don't know why I said all of that," he said with a deep sigh, and she quirked a brow, continuing with her angry assault.

"Yes you do," she said back, her breath staggering in a way that running never did to her. "Saying that I was begging for your attention and your praise."

"I was out of line," he admitted with reluctance. There was a tenseness in his muscles, and they had not once relaxed since getting in the car. She wanted to watch them unwind from underneath her touch, wanted to trace lines and muscles she had never touched before.

"You were right," she said, and he barely caught her next hit on the mat. "I look up to you and admire you and want to be exactly like you."

"That's enough," he said, lowering the pads and tossing them off his hands. She dropped her fists, her lips opening in a breathy scoff.

"We just got here. We just started," Rhaenyra said, deciding that maybe she really would hit him. He wouldn't look at her and she was about to lose her mind with the back and forth. "You will not shut down on me again. I listened to 'I Love You Jesus' fourteen times to get here."

"I wanted to change the song, but you were petty," he said in return, turning his back to her, likely planning to leave her alone without a car in a part of Connecticut she'd rarely traversed. She'd call Laena's Florist before she ever called an Uber.

"If you want me out of your life," she finally shouted in Valyrian, watching him freeze, the muscles in his back taut at her voice. She was about to lose her mind, fighting for a person who refused to lift a finger for her. "If you hate me or want me gone. Look me in the eyes and say it."

"I left you that night because I don't," he whispered, refusing the language, and she watched him drag his palm down his face. She began to move, but paused, her brows gathered. "All I have ever done was enable your tendency to be weak and vulnerable and dependent." He stared up at the ceiling. "I made certain that you had nobody but me to turn to."

She wondered if it was a purposeful thing and if she was just a dumb child who fell into his web. She wondered if it'd matter if it were conscious or if her feelings could get any less intense. Then, she wondered what he meant by 'made certain'.

"I know," she said carefully, the air deflating her as she finally walked closer. She trailed her fingers against his wrist, tightening her hand around it so she could stare at his own open palm. She traced the lines, meeting his eyes. "I waited for you to come back all night. All night, I watched the door and flinched at the lightning and waited for you." It made her feel pathetic to admit it. It made her feel vulnerable, but not weak.

"Kissing you that night was a mistake," he said, and he must have seen the way her face had fallen. He let out a staggered breath, the only sign that the words might have hurt him too, but like always, she could only guess at feelings he would not share.

"It was a mistake," she told him softly. "But I wanted to do it again and again." His dark eyes shut when he let out a breathy exhale. "I want to make one now."

He brought his other hand over the height of her cheek, lingering where he touched and the trail of his fingertips made an imprint of heat sear into her skin. She leaned into the warmth, breaking her own silent promises and loving him anyway.

"What do you know of love?" Daemon's question brought her out of her own thoughts, making her wonder if she said it out loud or if they truly were in sync. She wasn't one to wear her heart on her sleeve, but maybe it was that obvious to him. He wasn't drawing away, but his words had just cut through her. They released a viciousness that settled into the air and blended with the emotion he was trying to devastate.

She smiled, feeling the warmth of his gentle caress with the movement of her face. "Not a damn thing, but certainly more than you."

He traced her lashes with the sensual touch of his thumb, and she felt them flutter shut as if she were being hypnotized. It was overwhelming, and she wondered if she was falling under his spell once again. It was so easy to do. It was easy to let him sweep her away with his soft voice.

His lips raised into a mirror of her smile. "You were a child back then. A child who didn't know any better and I felt." He paused taking a deep breath and looking away. She moved closer, her fingers clasping onto his shirt to draw him back in. "I felt sick."

"I was 21, not fifteen," she voiced this in a light whisper, and he scoffed, tracing down her face and to her neck. "And I am certainly not a child now."

Everywhere he touched was weakening her resolve, and she could never tell if he was doing it on purpose or if it was just who he was. She watched her own wrapped hand press against his chest, and among the stillness was his pounding heart that was the only part of him that wasn't a liar. The exquisite little heartbeat was radiating from beneath her touch. He certainly liked to keep up the illusion of control and grew infuriated when something drifted from it. Like so, he'd likely excruciate his own heart before sharing it with her.

She could hear his every exhale, on par with her own. "You still look at me like one," he told her, and she met his eyes as his forehead rested against her own. It lay there as if he were too exhausted to try and lift it. His hand was now cupping the back of her neck, drawing her closer. "Romanticizing a sword as you always have."

"It looks like a cupid's arrow at this point," she joked, and felt his chuckle against her lips. He was her addiction, worse than the drugs of her youth. She had gotten a lethal dose and now she couldn't stop, even if the guilt or shame ate her alive for doing it. "I don't romanticize you. You won't let me." She thought back on the morning she awoke alone and released a forlorn sigh.

His grip tightened, and her eyes fluttered shut as the desire flooded her again.

"I hate you half the time," she told him, admitting it as if she had unfolded a secret from the inner levels of her heart.

"I'm not here with you to be your boyfriend. I don't mind your abhorrence," he finally bit out the words, pried from the void of silence that she began to miss. She saw it coming, but somehow it made her crumble all over again.

"So what do you want to be? Not my uncle, not my boyfriend, but obviously you want to be in my life," she told him carefully, answering her own question since he was determined to avoid it. "Do you want to pretend nothing happened?"

She wasn't a good liar, and she spent three years trying to forget him. All it took was one brush of his hand, a single magnet with his name in her grasp, to wedge himself back into her heart as if he never f*cking left.

She watched him sigh, watched him breathe, and her fingers brushed over his lips. They parted from under her touch, his eyes darkening upon her.

"You're not done," she reminded him.

"Apologizing?" Daemon's smile was back, and she wanted to see more of it. She wanted to see his face every time she opened her eyes. "Should I include the sh*te you don't know about too? Or is ignorance bliss?"

Her affection wilted at the implication, replaced by her own bitterness. He saw it all with another laugh, as though he were trying to make her wonder if he were saying so in jest. She knew him enough to know it to be likely true.

"If you're not going to take this seriously," she said carefully, her voice breaking as her hurt gathered in her lungs and suffocated her. "Then this is pointless."

She went to pull away, but he wouldn't let her. "It is pointless," he told her instead, and she already felt her heart in her throat. "You want to be Viserys's successor. What do you think would happen to your life if you get caught?"

"Is there something to catch?" Rhaenyra questioned, answering with a question of her own. She watched his slow blink, his lack of answer, and she felt herself move without thinking. She gripped his shoulders, forcing him to still, chest to chest before he could abandon her. She could feel the scaldingly hot skin against her hands, burning the flesh not restricted from touch by the elastic wrapping. She refused to put him to flight, refused to let him go, and his head rested back against her own as if they were both born to give into it. There had been a vacuum inside her for so long that it was bound to fill with something. Was it so wrong to want to fill it with him?

"If I said there was not," he told her, mint and espresso against her lips. She could lose herself now, so easily. He was responsive under her touch, gooseflesh beneath her palms as if she lit aflame to his very skin. She wanted to kiss his neck, span those serene osculations over his chest. She wanted him to crush her lips as one crushes grapes in wine. "If I said you search for a man that never existed?"

She barely understood words, her vision foggy, and trying come back to her own body. "Then introduce me to him." She was losing it, she was losing sense, barely able to understand what he was saying but knowing she'd do anything to keep him in her hands. She'd accept every shade and colour of him; however he may wax and wane like the moon.

She was no longer that balloon who had to anchor herself to him just to stop from flying away. She had other sources to keep her grounded, but no matter how high she got, she'd always want him to pull her strings back into his arms.

Daemon didn't look away, didn't speak, just hypnotized her with his sensual touch upon her collarbone as he stroked the length of her neck with his thumb. She let out a sound, a breathy exhale that had them both seeing red, each touch leaving a mark upon the blood vessels beneath the flesh, upon the very muscle below. She felt him, smelt his delectable cologne, and was losing her mind.

"Would that get you out from under my skin," he whispered, and his lips brushed against her own, sending a flush through her. "You asked what I want. I would have you on top of me, underneath me, next to me."He walked forward, forcing her to echo the movement back. It was a casual dance, with his hands in her hair, with all the force of a seducer. She was echoing him, even when the back of her calves hit the bench and he finally leaned in to trace his tongue along her bottom lip. She dropped down upon the inclined barbell bench, with Daemon already mirroring her to cage her against the cushions. His kiss deepened with the action until she was devoured in his grasp. Once was all it took to flood her blood with the dopamine that she was deprived of between one kiss and another. "Anywhere else but there."

He was always so quick to turn around the time spent loving and caring for her into manipulations and seduction. She never knew when she was faced with a liar or a lover.

She didn't know how to stop once she began, and his lips parting with her own won against the battle of her sense as they moved in sync. She was a bungler in this, in the ecstasy that had her dripping gold. He kissed harder, a sound emitting from the back of his throat as he accessed every space in her mouth with his very breath. Her tongue was ever the explorer, leaving the safe warmth in order to seek his, where it began the relentless search for any hibernating words. It searched for a hidden message, a genie in a bottle, a secret code in the engravings of his teeth.

No heed to her endless search, Daemon responded enthusiastically to the every movement. His tongue was a skilful monster and she could feel it nearly choke her with unbridled lust. They were hungrily intertwining, losing sense and will.

"Wait," she whispered, holding him back as he parted from her reluctant lips that wanted him to stay. "Wait."

"What's more to talk about?" Daemon asked with an enticing tone and the lingering touch against her hips that had her blinking back foggy lust. He was sliding his hands up her waist, the skin keeping her at his mercy as she arched into his warm hands on her hips. They slid over her stomach, his body lowering.

His fingers finally trailed further up, melting into her and towards the little zipper that kept together the last vestibule of sense. If he touched it, she was undone and if he tugged it down, she'd allow it. He was somewhere else, she could see it now through her blurring vision. He wanted to possess her, spewing his profanities into her skin as one would a loving kiss, and ravishing her senses with thoughts of his violence.

"Do you wish to supplant me?" Rhaenyra asked instead, from through the cage of his arms. His sinful mouth was full, rich with promise—his eyes smouldered. "Tell me that is not your goal and I'm yours. Tell me you aren't looking to betray me."

Daemon paused, but his smile came back even as his eyes grew distant. "I've already betrayed you. Every chance I had, I deceived you and used you and demeaned you." He somehow infused his words with an amorous tone against her lips, tracing upwards, his tongue grazing the shell of her ear as her brows knitted together. "My foolish little dragon, my hands are tied. You can never trust me."

It wasn't an answer, she thought, hating how he could do that so easily. The hair on her arms bristled with anticipation, with engorging heat that was at battle with everything in her that tried to dissipate and enter through his lips against her neck.

He knew how to encircle a girl so that she could easily lose sight of what he didn't want her to see. But Rhaenyra was attempting to not be so fooled, even when his fingers brushed against the zipper. She could hear the rattling of metal upon the teeth of the chain. She saw herself reflected back in his pupils, saw her own face, and her own want. His honesty was an aphrodisiac and she lapped up the crumbs. She wanted to hear everything in his heart as if she were tracing a map with her fingertips and conjuring the vast living environment with every caress.

She was breathing in his scent, intoxicated with the virile smell of his skin that held hints of everything she loved about him. Hints of his kindness, hints of his cruelty, hints of his attention and his longing and his confidence. His knees were wedged in between her thighs and her eyes were struggling to remain open. There was nothing romantic about his words, but he was correct. Against her own best interests, she romanticized a blade and expected it not to cut her.

He won't let me have him, all of him, she thought, and she wondered if it'd make a difference if she'd give him everything of her. A piece, a sliver, or everything at once. Just take something.

She gripped him by his face, dragging him down with her so she could pepper a kiss along his jaw. "I won't go down so easily. I may have been fooled," she told him, hearing his breath hitch, hearing what she was able to incite from him. "But I am no fool. I am no child. And right now, I don't want to be your niece." His palms were flat, bracing himself near each side of her head, his dark eyes boring into her own. She was no longer that child who wanted to believe so much in that which they wished was true. She may have gone through life with her eyes wide open, but he made certain she didn't see a thing so tricking her was as simple as twirling a strand of hair around his finger. "And I learned much without you in my life."

His eyes softened as if there were pieces of him melting from atop her. She wanted to be underneath him when that downpour happened. "We did fine without each other. You did fine without me," he told her. If he wanted to remind her that it didn't have to be like this, he was far too late. He behaved as if he wanted her to leave him or he'd be okay if she did. Judging by his attitude this morning, she doubted he'd accept her departure anyway. He was determined to be the caster, the one who threw them away so he wouldn't have to truly face her. Perhaps he wanted to lock them both in immovable stone so neither had to make a choice. "But there was a void in the shape of you," he whispered, and her breath hitched. "I could not fill it, and everywhere I went, it followed. So would I betray you?" He laughed, making her wonder if he himself did not know.

Nobody could know every last detail about another person. People were too complex and she was still learning pieces about herself. It was perhaps hopeless to expect to learn his heart as she would a map. It wouldn't stop her from trailing over it like braille.

"Tell me later," she whispered, and she kissed him, dragging him into her. But he stopped short before the next.

"If I ever hear that man speak his Google Translate High Valyrian in front of me again, I'll kill him," Daemon murmured, and he bit her bottom lip, tilting his head and insnaring her into his tangled web through the strands she never severed.

Slowly, yet very deliberately, his fingers traced the metal teeth of her bra, tugging it down without looking away from her eyes. The brooding edifice of his kiss upon her chest and his lips tracing further down had her in gasping breaths. The bra hung upon her shoulders when he stared up at her, allowing her to notice how incongruous they looked with their clothes dishevelled and her so red and sweltered.

His threaded exhale stroked back up and across her lips, and the enigmatic fragments of him that she thought she understood only expanded, radiating heat. She craved the re-embrace. He'd stolen distance between them just as easily as his casual slide of hand. She felt him against her thigh, hard and still unfamiliar. Her rigorous pulse banged loudly in her ears, and perhaps she might go deaf from its insistent reminder. Their lips pressed together in need, tongues desperate, and their noses brushed in between each kiss. The enticing sound of her moan reverberated to him, and Daemon moved with fueled fervour and trailed down her body.

His tongue was against the hills of her breasts, steamy and warm and making her brain fill its grooves with hot air. He stared up at her when he took her nipple in his mouth, and it had her giving in to the searing stimuli. She mewled out syllables when he took the hardening bud into his teeth, whispering his name in a long and broken speech. He knew exactly how her body worked, her breasts pebbling under his daring touch.

Her hips made sinuous movements as she heard the wet sounds of her breast in his mouth, his other hands trailing down to meet her thighs.

"I think I'll be his private tutor," she whispered in response to his threat. "He can call me professor just as scandalously as when you call me niece."

He chuckled, separating from her breast and licking a long trail up her chest with the tip of his tongue. The breathy sigh she released had her throbbing, it had her craving, and if he didn't take off his clothes, she'd f*ck herself.

"You'll be signing his epitaph," Daemon murmured into the delicate shell of her ear. His firm grip embraced the supple contours of her thighs, preventing any futile attempt to relieve the enticing friction that electrified their proximity.

She wasn't about to reassure him that Harwin wasn't who she desired or loved. She wasn't about to make any assurances, releasing her hand of honesty when he fed her decadent morsels of it. "When you f*ck me, I'll try to remember to call your name and not his," she said and watched him move back as though he had just been in danger of being struck.

He quickly smiled, but there was little light in his eyes as he leaned down to kiss her neck. It was a soft touch, barely the grazing of his teeth, but he was swift to bite down into a pleasurable ache that had her gasping. "When I do what now?" Daemon whispered, his fingers slipping into her leggings and cupping her. "I've never met someone who is always so wet for me. I think you're lucky to remember your own name when I touch you." He dusted his lips up, resting against her cheek as he had as a greeting when he'd visited all those times in Dragonstone, years ago. She had been nine back then, and he'd always been reluctant to give her the attention she craved from him.

He easily moved aside her thong and was inside her. He had ridiculously nimble hands, fingers that could reach and advance in every way that maximized the heat and pleasure. She was already close by the time he found her cl*t, and let out a whimper that lasted two seconds until his phone began to ring. He smiled at her, coy and disarming, before he leaned back to his knees and seized his cell from the pocket of his black sweats.

"How unseemly you are right now," he said, his expression morphing into a lingering and taunting leer as he turned the phone around. She could see her father's name flashing across the screen. She was about to strangle him, but that was when he sneered, pressing answer. She watched him finally take his hand out from her leggings, sweeping the two fingers that had been inside her across his tongue. "Brother," Daemon greeted, not minding her jaw going slack and the heavy exhales that she released.

She couldn't hear her father on the other end as she let her head fall back against the cushioned barbell bench. She pressed both her palms against her face, her sex still thrumming with heat that worsened somehow rather than quelled.

"Rhaenyra?" Daemon said, and despite how she knew he was not speaking to her, she peeked through her fingers as he trailed the pads of his fingertips across her thigh. "I have not seen her."

She let out a snort and attempted to move away as he brushed his palm across her naked breasts. 'Trust me,' he mouthed, and she let out a choked and extinguished laugh. 'Never,' she mouthed right back.

It was terrifying to love someone so forbidden or to feel something you could not easily speak of. To feel so powerful about something so horrible to almost everyone who could hear it. It was a love that could destroy any life around it.

His fingers traced her nipple which had softened, only to peak back out again at his touch.

But perhaps it was that horror and forbidden terror that made it feel so alluring.

She hit the back of her head against the cushion, her breath hitching as Daemon's voice continued. "I did hear about that. I figured she was a big girl and we don't need to baby her," he continued, and anger filled her stomach at the topic.

She had been avoiding her father's calls for days, so Daemon must have been the last resort. Somehow, it filled her with both warmth and resentment.

Slowly her shoulders shook with restrained laughter that she hid in her fist. She sat up, slapping his hand away from her as she stood from the bench. He only laughed, likely at her, likely to mock his brother before he laid back against the inclined cushion. She stared at herself in the wall of mirrors, a girl with messy silver hair and wild eyes. She didn't recognize that girl, who kept growing the more she understood herself.

"I don't know what you mean," Daemon said, likely knowing exactly what her father meant in response to whatever was being said. "I have nothing to do with any Baratheons."

Rhaenyra's stomach ached with lust and resentment at the name being dropped so she turned back towards him. He watched her approach, his eyes darkening as she sneered and slipped her arms out of her own bra, letting it drop to the ground. Dark understanding flickered across his expression when she got to her knees just beside him. Heat flared when she ran her hands up his leg and rested her elbow against the space of bench between his legs.

She smiled up at him with lazy bitterness. "I even have a solid alibi for the Long Island fire," Daemon continued, watching as she rubbed her cheek against the imprint of him, feeling the warmth from through the fabric. She watched him run his palm across his mouth, his voice irritated when he spoke to Viserys with bits of rubbish littered in every passing remark. She was barely listening anymore. Her pulse had deafened her and he had difficulty giving her any of his full attention.

She undid the tie of his Calvin Klein sweats, her fingers tracing the print as she tugged it down. The sound he made, a deep grumble, had released the shiver trapped in her spine and it made its path straight down. She smiled up at him before she wrapped her hand around the shaft, staring at it for a moment of hesitation before she licked it from base to tip. She could barely hear the strained breath that he had trapped in his own chest. He watched, eyes hard and hazy and surprised.

Very likely, he would have only teased her and left her wanting if she had stayed on the bench and let him touch her. She would be far more generous, and it was certainly more than he deserved.

She laved him with her tongue, making a breathy noise as she finally had him where she had fantasized since she was young, likely younger than appropriate. She had gone through puberty imagining him, even when her fantasies refused to give him a face. He had lit the flames of passion in her stomach, blooming it like little flowers, moving lower in a wave that spread just between her thighs. She squeezed her thighs together, wanting nothing more than to ease the ache. She watched his fist tighten against the phone, and she eased back, careful as she sucked at the head with just her lips.

She smiled as she cradled it, thinking of the bananas whose sacrifice was not in vain. "I haven't seen her since the wedding," Daemon hissed out when she suctioned her lips against the head. "We're not exactly close anymore."

We're perhaps too close,she thought, feeling his shaft somehow harden more with the progression of the phone call. She was stroking up and down with one hand, the other trailing up his thigh and skimming up the fabric of his shirt."You sick bastard," she whispered in High Valyrian, but her tone was light and airy. They had already committed every worst family debauchery, so what's a little more for two Targaryen degenerates?

He watched her remove the wraps around her hands with a shaking breath. She grinned as she did, yanking them with her teeth and tossing them behind her.

"I'll take care of Tamar Baratheon," he said to Viserys, and perhaps to her as well, sounding annoyed. She ran her tongue up the length of him again before she slid him deep into her mouth. She brought her half-mast, lust-filled gaze back up to meet his own.

"f*ck you," he hissed out, having already ended the call and chucking the entire phone to the side. She barely heard it hit the ground, crashing near the mirrored walls by the time he had cupped her head. She felt his fingers in her hair, softly moving aside stray strands as his thumb dragged across her cheeks in a gentle caress.

She bobbed her head once before she slid down deeper. Her eyes were watering as her tongue tented the length of him. She couldn't breathe when it reached her throat, but she met his eyes again and squeezed his thighs, signalling that he could do what he wanted. She wanted him to use her however he desired or pictured when he didn't want to picture her at all.

Her nails dug into his thighs, into his skin as she bobbed her head and his hands tugged against the roots of her hair. She could feel the trickle of pain in her throat, the lack of air, and his groan that sent waves of lust down her legs. He attempted to pull her back up, but she had clasped onto him with the aggression of someone who was not to be denied.

That half-lidded gaze had snapped up to his again and watched his clenched jaw as she grew softer with her hands, fondling the muscles she dreamed of touching. Her tongue was caressing him, swallowing him, consuming him, and air was unnecessary. "Rhaenyra," he warned, and his voice was guttural, making her lips twitch as her eyes blinked in her acquiescence before she trailed her other hand up his shirt and suctioned her mouth as if he were a straw.

His groan went hoarse as he finished in her mouth. She swallowed it with a lick of her lips as she slowly removed her touch with a teasing blow of seductive air. Her skin was hot from underneath the heat of his dark stare, his hand was in her hair, and her palms braced against his thighs as he pulled her up. She followed the motion with weakening legs, dizzy with lust.

"That was reckless of you," he whispered into her ear as her lips latched to his neck, sucking his flesh as she felt the pulsing ache grow between her legs.

"You started this," she whispered into his neck, her hands wandering up his shirt. "You did this to me."

He gripped her by the neck, forcing her to face him as her thighs braced on each side of him. She was losing her mind to the friction of her sinuous motions, rubbing over his lean stomach. "And you've returned the favour," he told her, assuring her, just before he kissed her. His fingers tugged on the roots of her hair, his other hand dragging her leggings off her hips.

She clumsily took off her pants, trying not to separate her mouth from his own when they dropped to the ground in a heap of fabric. His softening erection was already hardening, and she felt it against the naked skin when she sunk down onto it. She let out a whimper as it slipped in, absorbed inside her just as she often dreamed with other men.

His hands were at her sides, dropping to her hips as she bounced up. "f*ck," she whispered, dropping her head into his chest. She dragged his shirt over his body and tossed it behind her, meeting his lips in another rough kiss that had her seeing the moon. She let out sounds with every thrust, but he only ate them up as if there were nowhere else he'd rather be. There was no resistance in him or her own body as his mouth found one of her nipples as his other hand gathered the entirety of her breast. She felt them get bigger as he kneaded at her nipple.

The dual sensations had her moaning, practically doing splits from atop him. She was shaking, her legs attempting to come back together and close like a clamshell. His hand at her thigh kept them spread into position, f*cking her until she couldn't breathe. She met his lips again, but they didn't connect as her hand reached to cup his face. They were gasping, mirrors surrounding them, and their identical eyes connected.

She kept her eyes open, breathing his air as if she needed it to fill her lungs with every thrust and bounce. Her walls shrunk around him with the clenching of her stomach and she felt each motion flood her with sensations that had her delirious. Another large breath escaped her pursed lips as she slid her body forward and back.

"Mediocre?" Rhaenyra whispered against his lips, watching him let out a pleasured laugh.

"Shut up," he said back, thrusting hard enough to have her gasping. "Roll your hips like you did in dance," he ordered against her lips. Normally, she detested being told what to do, but her body obeyed with a moan, just to see the ecstasy on his face. She clenched her stomach as she moved, feeling his palm slap against the flesh of her thigh. She heard the sound echo, filling the studio as the beads of sweat formed on both of them in response to her movements.

"Do you remember that pole I mentioned back in New Haven," she whispered in his ear, bouncing against him.

"Not a thing a guy forgets," he muttered into her neck.

"One of my many talents that you've yet to see." She took his ear in between her teeth, tugging it. He let out a sound, a groan that had her dripping as her hands tangled in his hair. She felt his arms wrap around her back in an embrace as he thrust up one last time.

He was still holding her, she clutching him, well past the haze of relief. "Wicked girl," he whispered to her, his lips against her hair.

She swallowed, her face buried in his neck, breathing him in until she was sick of it. When it became clear that wasn't happening, she kissed into the crook of his neck. She felt his warm hands tracing down her spine, and she went to pull away, but he held her tighter.

"Just a bit longer,"he whispered into her hair.

Chapter 20: The Night I Knew

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ

══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾 𝓀𝓃𝑒𝓌

The boats in the harbour never returned. Laena would watch them drift further and further away from the Velaryon estate just near Montauk where she could see the lighthouse from a distance. There were many container ships anchored throughout the beaches of Long Island and Laena would count them as she trailed after her father along the harbour. Usually, Laenor would feign interest, always the first to ask to come along, but also the first to beg to leave. It took Laena four trips to figure out why.

Her brother was off on the beach, chatting with the son of the wealthy Boremund Baratheon. Borros Baratheon was not at all like his father, calmer and less prone to fits of horrid temper. Laena did not like him much, a rarety since Laena could normally get along with anybody. Borros was belligerent and his temper, when pushed, was explosive. Also, Laena had the inkling that he could not read.

She told her father as much.

"That's not a kind observation," Corlys would tell her, showing her more of the anchored containers. They had lost a ship just three weeks ago, but her father had been calm when he received the news. It had cost them millions in damages from a lone Russian missile that had sunk hundreds of oil cargo, flooding the Atlantic.

"He's not a kind person," Laena said, hating that her brother did not believe her. She decided to let Laenor get his own heart broken. Borros was neither kind nor into boys, so she thought it a waste of time. In hindsight, her brother reminded Laena much of her young, six-year-old cousin Rhaenyra, in that only great pain would teach them anything.

"He's grieving," her father told her, and Laena's gaze went back to the shoreline. She hadn't forgotten the Long Island fire at the Baratheon estate months ago. It coincided with her 10th birthday after all, and she had been irritated when everyone had to leave her alone before she even blew the candles out.

She had yet to see Tamar Baratheon afterwards, but she knew it was hard for him to get out of bed and face the world with all he lost. The fire had taken his home, but the rest that it had taken was hidden in adult conversations that Laena was not privy to. All she knew was that Borros had been close with his brother who had practically faded away overnight.

"Get your brother," Corlys said, just as Laena watched Daemon Targaryen approach from the docks. Laena watched with hooded eyes, reluctant to leave once she saw him. It was a childlike curiosity, and her dad was grinning as if the two of them were old friends. "Daemon, showing up in Long Island so soon. Truly shameless," Corlys announced, just as Laena lingered in the background.

Laena wanted to stay. The trek down to the beach where her brother chatted with Borros was a long one, and she didn't feel like taking off her shoes to walk in the sand.

"Your daughter?" Daemon asked, glancing over her father's shoulder to look at her. Laena knew plenty of her cousin, but her father was determined to keep her away from the business side of his world, which happened to hold the elusive Targaryen. Last she saw him, she had been Rhaenyra's age, and more interested in swimming than she was with her family.

Corlys smiled down at the daughter reluctant to leave. Laena felt his hand ruffle the silver curls, making her feel like a 4-year-old.

"She's more like Rhaenys these days. Headstrong and stubborn," Corlys said, and Laena hated when he spoke as if she were not there.

"It's lovely to see you again, cousin," Laena greeted with a polite smile that she had practised in front of mirrors often. Her brother would grow infuriated when she'd take her time in bathrooms, staring at herself and going through differing polite expressions. Wear this one for the party, she'd tell herself, and change it as one might an evening gown.

"Polite. Perhaps we should have her and Rhaenyra entertain one another more," Daemon said with a smirk. "She might just learn some manners."

Corlys laughed, but Laena didn't understand the joke. Rhaenyra was ornery, but she never seemed too quick to temper. Then again, they were right, Laena hardly saw her cousin so what would she know?

"My little Laena is too old to be fretting much with six-year-olds," Corlys said, always trying to push Laena into friendships she did not want. She did not like Brya Baratheon and hardly wanted to babysit. She did not like any of the Tullys. She got along with everyone, but the people she did like, were not 'appropriate' to a lady.

They were too poor.

"Darling, you live in a different world. They are takers, looking for gold," her mother had told her when Laena begged to go to a birthday party for one of the girls she met at school.

"I would like that," Laena spoke up, and Daemon's eyes crinkled in amusem*nt. Laena thought him peculiar, thought him strange, but she liked strange.

Corlys seemed surprised by his obedient daughter's request and were he her mother, Laena knew she'd hear a resound 'no'. Corlys, however, seemed to consider this in his favour. "We could organize something. They seem like they'd like one another." He turned his attention back to his daughter. "Laena, why don't you show Laenor and Borros the Driftmark jewel."

Laena's eyes narrowed, scanning between the two for a moment of thought. Her father hardly ever let anyone aboard the prized crown of his eye, so she thought it strange he'd allow her to go on it without supervision. She thought it strange that he looked to be almost hiding Daemon Targaryen from the shoreline itself. Perhaps the Targaryens and Baratheons are not close, she thought with a shrug.

Ever the compliant daughter, Laena obeyed.

She found her brother and Borros down near a flock of seagulls, feeding them. Well, Laenor was feeding them bits of bread. Borros, however, was throwing seashells at them. Her feet sunk into the sand as she approached, holding her sandals in her hands as she gathered all her negative feelings and placed them in a decorative, pretty little box. She wished she could have the beach all to herself, where she could lay in the sand and let the sun soak into her skin.

But Laena was the older sister and she had responsibilities. It didn't matter that she had been so excited this morning, putting up her hair and picking out bathing suits. She had thought they'd all get to see the lapping waters together, but then her father said it was just business. It was always 'just business' and Laena shut away her disappointment.

There'd be other chances, she told herself. The sea was always different, yet the same and she'd get to see it with her father another time. She watched the white-crested waves crash upon the shore when they made it aboard the Driftmark Jewel. It was an extraordinary ship indeed. She just wished she could see it sail without fifty family members, networking and backstabbing and betraying one another the entire time. She wanted it to just be her and her brother. She wanted to make faces as her parents kissed and held one another.

The masts sway violently in every direction and in the grey-painted sky, the gulls that her brother had fed were circling the ship like white specks. The clouds had dwindled in the hour and blue gaps begin to spread through the sky as the air brightens. It was a cold evening, tinted with silver. The only sounds were the seagulls overhead and Borros bragging about their family's cruise ship that was three times bigger than the Driftmark Jewel. Laena preferred the sound of the plashing oars and the creaking of the lone oarlock. She tried to drown out his voice with the springlike leap and flip-flop of the trouts.

"He's actually a bit annoying," Laenor told his sister in Valyrian, knowing that Borros could barely speak English. They had listened to him prattle about his family's wealth for the majority of the hour, and Laena was glad for it. The sacrifice of her own ears was of little price in comparison to her brother removing the cloud of his childish crush. He wouldn't admit as much, but Laena knew him like she did this ship.

"Perhaps we can tie him to the mast," Laena suggested right back.

Laena tried to be kind, thinking on the clouds that bellied out in the sultry heat of their estate. She had seen it from her window, seen the sky crack open with a crimson gash, spewing flames out into the Long Island sky. By morning, there was a mass of fiery tongues and booming sounds and sirens that howled throughout the hour. Half the sky had been black with smoke, obscuring the bloodied sun. She had been miles away and she had seen it all. Borros had been in the home.

"Stop speaking your stupid dead language," Borros finally snapped from across the ship. His face was pale from the chill, his hands fisted, and his scraggly black hair in thick curls. If she hadn't been repeatedly told that he was a cousin, she never would have believed it by looking at him. At the very least, she and the Targaryens shared silver hair, but the Baratheons were a different sort.

"Would you like to learn it?" Laenor suggested, sending him a calming smile that Laena knew would only incite him. Perhaps the seven-year-old Laenor knew as well, but it could be hard to tell with her brother who could go either way at the drop of a hat.

He can barely speak the one he is using now, Laena thought, hating the intrusiveness of it. She didn't even have much reason for detesting Borros Baratheon or any of the friends Laenor could make so easily. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she wanted it to just be the both of them in their small circle forever.

Borros stuttered, growing angrier as Laena knew he would. She looked over her shoulder, searching for two beds of silver hair on the distant wharves. Her father had taken Daemon out of sight and she spotted Boremund Baratheon finally leaving the little cabin where the meeting of the shipment unit was being held. She didn't know why her father was hiding Daemon Targaryen, but she knew that he hadn't wanted Borros to see him. Laena figured that such a courtesy extended to the father that was heading back towards the dockyards where Daemon and Corlys had disappeared off to.

"Hmm," Laena murmured, scanning the shore that was blanketed by seagulls. Boremund wasn't that far away, and the drop into the water was a diminutive one. Borros was near, now seething as he tried to put into stuttering words why he had no desire to learn High Valyrian. Laena pursed her lips, making an expression as if she saw something in the water. "Is that a shark?"

The ship was docked, she defended herself as Borros perked right up, rushing towards the edge where there was a dangerous little gap between the railing. Her father always said to stay clear of it. Borros's father obviously had not. Laena held out her foot, watching Borros trip and fall into the water below.

Laenor watched it all with a bemused expression as Laena turned back towards the shore and shouted, "Mr Baratheon! Your son fell!" Boremund had already sprung into action, a burly and giant man that fit all the Baratheon stereotypes. The two Velaryons watched him dive into the water to rescue the kid who could neither read nor swim apparently.

I did not know that, Laena thought with a trickle of guilt.

"Why did you do that?" Laenor asked in Valyrian. Despite nobody being around to hear, he seemed reluctant for any chance to incriminate her.

"Dracarys," Laena said with a shrug and he immediately nodded, ceasing his line of questioning. It was something she established early on, whenever the reasoning had to do with family drama and bullsh*t, they only said one word and that was the end of the conversation. It was to be used sparingly, not to be abused just to get out of speaking.

"Think he'll be mad?" Laenor asked, but Laena only shrugged. She thought back on her expressions in the mirror, going through them in her mind. She pulled one out in a hurry as Boremund dragged his son from the water.

"Is he okay?" Laena shouted from the rails, her brows drawn together with an expression of terror.

"Dad!" Borros cried out, spitting out seawater onto the sandy beach. He was shivering, such a small little thing. Laena and Laenor made their way to the gangplank, rushing onto the pier that neared the shoreline just a ways below. "Dad," the boy cried again as both Velaryons rushed down the stairs to inspect the scene. "Dad, she pushed me!"

"I-I would never. I could never," Laena said, her eyes glossy as she spoke between the spaces of crashing white-tinted waves.

"He tripped," Laenor quickly defended his sister, and Borros looked at his friend as one might a traitor. It broke Laena's heart, crumbling it just to see how Laenor had to cover the hurt. Eventually, she told herself, the tide would pull back. The tide always pulls back and they could handle it together. Just as she had that thought, the waves came up towards them, gnawing at the shoreline like a starving mouth. The icy water hit her ankles, so cold that she had to draw away. Borros must have been miserable, drenched in it, she thought. "He tripped and we were scared. Are you okay?"

Laenor reached to help his friend up, but Borros only slapped the hand away and stood on his own. Boremund, at a loss for whatever was happening, only stared, drenched in seawater.

Laena spotted her father from just above, on the higher portion of the cliffs. He was alone, watching with an expression Laena could not read. She smiled at him, just slightly, and he looked despondent as he took in the scene.

Daemon Targaryen was nowhere to be seen and the ocean here suddenly felt weird to Laena. It felt restless. It felt like the wrong kind of blue.

"Don't tell me someone stood you up," a guy says as Laena lowered her phone, wondering if he noticed she had put up her lock screen so he couldn't snoop in and look at what she was watching. She was in between bites of her pasta, eating alone and reading a book on composting.

Arryk Cargyll was a dick.

Laena finally drags her eyes up at the man who didn't know how to take a hint. She thought she was giving off the 'don't approach me' vibe, but here he was, approaching her. She thought that when she finished her bachelor's, she'd finally have perfected the bitch face as she wanted it. Unfortunately, whether it was because she was gorgeous or because her hair was so unique, people had never been afraid to speak to her all her life.

"I'm not interested," she informed him. She wasn't as famous as her cousin. She didn't do commercials or broadcast her wealth or flaunt her status or accept endorsem*nts. She had tried to go her entire life under the radar so she could have privacy.

Yet she couldn't even go one meal without being hit on.

"Come on, don't say that," he said with a grin, likely thinking he was charming. Laena opened her phone back up, sending Arryk another text asking where he was. "You're Laena Velaryon, aren't you? I'm a big fan."

Laena let out a deep sigh, "Of what?"

She wasn't like her cousin. She didn't organize charities and she wasn't in line for inheriting Driftmark. She didn't mind that Laenor would receive it instead, despite him being younger. She wanted to be alone.

"Would it make me more or less attractive if I said your beauty?" The man was undoubtedly finding a way to get on every single one of her nerves in the span of three minutes.

"I'm not interested," she said with careful enunciation as her phone pinged with Arryk's text that he couldn't make it.

"Give me five minutes and I'll make you feel lots of new things," he said with a dazzling grin.

She plastered a smile, looking him up and down as if she were dropping into a role. "Listen. I can go up to anyone here and score a phone number. Do you really think I'd choose you?"

He leaned back, his eyes narrow. "Whatever. I wouldn't want to get frostbite on my dick anyway."

"I don't know," Laena said, crossing one leg over the other and going back to her phone. "Maybe it might kill the chlamydia."

"f*cking bitch," he muttered, walking away with a snort.

Laena sniffed, undisturbed by his brazen comment. She was rather used to it and at this point, she could pick out the ones just like him in a noiseless room with just a few glances. They were what she called the 'time bomb men' who'd feign politeness and explode with rejection. She didn't bother with a mask around them for there was no point.

"Where's Arryk?" Laenor asked, walking up with a wide smile that brought out her own. She immediately tucked her phone into her bag, standing up. They were all supposed to go together this time since it was Arryk Cargyll who always mentioned that the Velaryons never gave him moments to network.

"He decided Alys Rivers was a better date than me," Laena said, gathering her bag as Laenor stole one of the leftover fries she wasn't planning on eating.

"That's very fair," he admitted, watching his sister tuck a strand of curls behind her ear before they both rejoined the busy streets outside.

"I don't much trust her," Laena said as they got a taxi. Laenor hadn't perfected the whistle, but Laena practised everything to perfection back home. "As gorgeous as she is, that girl is poison."

"I was going to invite her for clubbing," Laenor admitted after strapping in. The city passed by in a blur of bright lights and motion. She loved New York even if it was filthy and the traffic was so terrible that it was easier to walk. She loved it even when her family wanted to tear each other and the very city apart half the time. She even loved the terrible climate where it could go from 90 to 30 degrees in a mere month. It was home in a way that nowhere else could be.

Even when she looked everywhere for silence and solitude, she never encountered it in a city that was always bustling with the next piece of business. She could find serenity in Central Park, amongst nature and the morning joggers. She could be stabbed and nobody would pause to check the blood. She liked the solitude that this endless city could at times provide.

"If you wish, but personally, I wouldn't invite that girl so much as to the bathroom," Laena said with a snort, texting Rhaneyra to see if she was already there. She texted her cousin often in the past few months, knowing that the funeral had been hard on her last year. However, hearing about the shotgun wedding of Viserys and Alicent must have been devastating last week.

"Harsh, but also fair," Laenor said, texting the guy who tried to steal his kidney. Laena glanced over her shoulder at his phone with a look that revealed her displeasure. "Don't start. He's changed."

Normally, Laena would stay out of relationship bullsh*t, but in Laenor's case, she felt her voice rise up her throat like a tidal wave. She immediately quelled it, turning silent and casting her gaze back out towards New York in motion. Daemon's penthouse in Noho was often a subject of scandal, from illicit affairs to parties that were too loud or chaotic, even for New York.

Laena had never been inside the Noho building, but when she stepped into the mammoth and luxurious tower, she was certain that the rumours she heard were true. Daemon Targaryen was not a good man, Laena had heard others say. She didn't believe in anything as arbitrary as good or bad. Daemon Targaryen is a criminal, Laena heard. That, she did believe.

She heard other nefarious rumours. Brya was convinced that he was the reason her brother Tamar was crippled. She believed that the two men who broke into the Long Island home and held a gun in her pregnant sister-in-law's throat were sent by one man. She believed that the fire was a result of the Targaryens.

Normally, rumours meant little to Laena Velaryon, especially considering Brya's young age and small worldview. However, Corlys must have believed them. He cut off public business with Daemon for a reason, now meeting in shadows and private boxes set aside for their ventures. The Noho penthouse was a multibillion-dollar piece of real estate and not something a second son with no inheritance could afford. Follow the money, Laena often quoted, and see where it goes.

"Criminal," Laena muttered when she entered the elevator.

"What was that?" Laenor asked, finally prying his eyes from his toxic boyfriend's message.

"I could find you someone better," Laena suggested, hating the name on his screen.

"Who?" Laenor said with a snort.

"Literally a doorknob at this point would be better than Jeffery Dahmer," Laena answered, feeling the pivoting of the elevator as it slid up. She held the bag to her side, feeling the weight of it with every passing second. They were already purposefully late since Laena preferred to skip the opening bits of a party. She preferred when everyone was already a bit drunk, so blending in became less of a chore.

"I hate when you call him that," Laenor said with an irritated frown.

"I hate that I have to even worry that you might wake up in a bathtub of ice," Laena declared in return, catching her reflection in the bright silver metal just across from her.

"You really think he'd buy me ice?" Laenor quickly asked, and she slapped his arm with her phone, earning a laugh. "What face will you use today, Laena? Friendly or ice queen or what?" Laenor asked, earning another slap.

All the doors hung wide and unobstructed when the elevators opened on the top story of the penthouse. Silk billowed from the open windows, illuminating the dark moon outside from through the many panels on the walls. There was loud music, reverberating from corner to corner. Likely it came from the band on the roof, but it flowed straight down to reach them here. She spotted strangers and friends and cousins that she'd need a pen and paper to figure out their relations. None, however, in the crowd was Rhaenyra Targaryen.

"I was thinking to try and be me," Laena answered with a sweet smile towards the footmen by the doors, looking upstanding in their black and white.

"Wouldn't that be a sight?" Daemon Targaryen said, appearing out of nowhere like a spectre. "What does the real Laena like to drink?" He was ever polite, Laena supposed, even if she mistrusted him. He could be an asshole when he wanted, but he seemed calm when she did not prod him. He was calmer yet tonight.

"Only her?" Laenor asked with a grin over the music and the chatting guests. "I think I'd like a Peach Bellini. Where is your bar, cousin?"

"On the roof, cousin," Daemon said, casting a glance down at the bag that held a carefully wrapped present. "As is the birthday girl, last I saw. Rhaenyra is rather like a labrador. She goes where the attention hits most."

"What a charming description," Laena said with a bright smile, as she spotted Alys Rivers walking down the stairs. Laena immediately felt her mood sour, wondering if the girl truly was a witch to have beaten her to the party with time to spare.

"Don't let me keep you," Daemon said with much too coy a smile as he followed the gaze to Alys with a look Laena recognized since often men sent them to her. "Give her your gift."

"I heard she came with Arryk," Laenor warned, catching his uncle's eye, but Daemon only arched his brows. "Ah, you don't care. Don't let us keep you." Laena only hummed, her smile cat-like. She didn't bother to warn her cousin who Alys was, figuring that Daemon would only want it more. He was rather peculiar that way, but Rhaenyra thought the world of him.

"Thank you for opening your home," Laena said, digging into the supply of manners she often attempted to draw from when the situation called for it. She promised Rhaenyra to be nicer to Daemon and to leave the name-calling at home.

"I know you do not like him, but be nice,"Rhaenyra had told her, to which Laena had agreed even if she didn't think the statement accurate. Laena loathed only a small number of people, and Daemon was not one of them. However, she'd certainly never trust him as blindly as her cousin.

"Anything for my niece," he said with a smile, already turning away from the conversation. It was a genuine enough smile as far as Laena could tell, and perhaps the only time she saw the hard ice over her cousin's eyes melt was when he said Rhaenyra's name. It had hardened back again into that blasé, yet amused expression he had mastered. It was always the perfect balance so he may switch from suave flirtations to elaborate barbs at the drop of a dime.

"Hopefully Arryk is not too attached to his date," Laenor said with a snort, already moving to head up the stairs and to the roof. Laena only sent her cousin one last, fleetingly polite smile before she joined her brother. They passed staggering wanderers on the stairs, some making out on doors, and some attempting to make it to the many bathrooms.

The music grew louder the further up they got until it was exploding out in vibrant noise that she heard deep in her ear drums. The song grew more exciting and melodious under the tranquil, dark sky above the roof. It was quite different from the inside, where the noises were all stifled in a lock box. It was a raucous scene, a cheerful canticle for more beer and louder music. Confident girls weaved in between the guests, knowing they looked decadent in their revealing bikinis as they found the hot tub.

Laena was not surprised that in this joyous centre of the group, through the endless ocean of faces and voices of all shapes and colours, was Rhaenyra. Just as Daemon said, she lavished in the midst of it all, mid-laugh, from the jacuzzi where all the constantly changing lights slid across her skin in dusting blues and reds and yellows. The air was charged with that of pealing laughter and clanking crystals.

She spotted one of the young looking boys, pouring champagne into the top of a tower of glass flutes while everyone clapped. Laena found it to be a delightful and splendid waste. Laenor was of a different mind, already itching to join the party and the decadent laughter. He likely wanted to disappear in the blur of silk and booze and sequins.

Rhaenyra had a gift for spotting everyone in a room the moment they entered it, and her eyes immediately brightened when Laena made it three steps onto the roof. She already gently swatted away the other guests in the hot tub as she made her way out of it. Water splashed against the shining wood as someone handed her a towel as if she truly were a princess and these people were made to serve her. Laena admired that confidence, even if she thought her cousin faked it half the time.

"It's been droll without you," Rhaenyra said with the slightest slur that made Laenor chuckle.

"You certainly look aghast," he mocked, reaching over to wipe some of the glittering dust that rested on her chin. It only smeared the streak of gold down her cheek and while it was messy, Rhaenyra had a way of making anything look beautifully intentional.

She held up a half-full flute in her hand. "I have drank my champagne and flirted with all the cute boys and girls, but it has been altogether awful without you both to fill my glass."

"I will allow that because it is your party," Laenor said, gesturing for Laena to raise the bag and watching Rhaenyra's face break out into a smile. Laena had seen her cousin smile thousands of times. She had seen her smile over nothing, over wine, over the bees themselves, but they had always held genuineness in the light. It was what Laena liked about her younger cousin. She was authentic. Not good, not bad, but true.

This was not her Nyra. Grief, perhaps, had morphed her and now it reminded Laena much of herself. It reminded Laena of her long hours in bathrooms, making faces in mirrors. Laena pushed those thoughts away, not yet holding up the bag for Rhaenyra to take. Rhaenyra only continued to dry her hair for a second longer, before steering them out from the crowd and towards the little back room on the roof that she opened with a code. "Come on, it's a little weird to open gifts in the middle of a party."

Laena could understand the need for privacy in a life where they were given the granules of it. Laenor whistled as they entered the spacious lounge with an indoor jacuzzi. "Well, this is lovely," Laenor commented when Rhaenyra closed the door behind them as the lights all bathed the room in luscious gold.

"Daemon said that guests are gross and this was his," Rhaenyra said with a slight smile. "But his passcodes are so easy." Laena hummed once, handing Rhaenyra the bag which Rhaenyra took with a far more genuine smile that put Laena more at ease.

"What is it?" Rhaenyra asked as she dipped her feet into the warm water, sitting and opening the bag to a little black box. Laena only grinned, kneeling over and kissing the crown of her cousin's head while Laenor kissed her cheek. Rhaenyra whithered in the affection, like a turtle going back into her shell.

"You always ask that before you open anything," Laenor said, sitting down next to her and tapping his shoulder into her own. "Is your uncle gonna get mad if he knows I've put my peasant feet into the water."

Rhaenyra let out a sound, not unlike a scoff, untying the bow around the little black and yellow box before dropping the silken ribbon atop her lap. "You don't get to call yourself a peasant," she reminded the new heir to Driftmark. It had been an implied position before, but last year, made official in all the papers.

"So he is going to get mad?" Laena asked dragging her fingers along the walls of the circular room. Her heels clicked against the wood, the steam warming her naked legs from under her dress. It was cold, even for October, but the warmth had quickly trapped itself in the room.

"He'll get over it," Rhaenyra said with a slight smile that seemed nearly nervous. Laena only watched her cousin finally open the box to reveal a shining, silvery key. It was stunning craftsmanship of Valyrian steel, made from some of the old metal blades her father had lingering on the walls for display. The real gift, Laena thought, was convincing dad to let me have one to melt.

Old Valyria had been known for its priceless ore which gained a huge pricetag when the volcano took out the entire island. Now, all that was left was what was already made prior to its downfall.

"What is this?" Rhaenyra asked, her eyes glossy as she looked between the two.

"I thought it might be nice to go sailing sometime," Laena said with a careful smile.

"I'm not sure I understand," Rhaenyra replied, glancing between them.

"It's a key," Laenor said with another kiss to her head, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. "To a ship."

"To Meleys," Laena explained, now kneeling down to reach across and graze her fingers against the key that Rhaenyra's grip tightened on. "Mom was okay with it after all. We all have a key, you know? What to get a girl who has everything? It's always such a challenge with you, cousin." Meleys had many names. The Red Queen. Driftmark Jewel. All of them meant much to the four Velayrons, but what it mostly meant was the solidarity of their family. To get one was to figuratively merge their houses, or so Laena and Laenor hoped.

Laena watched the expression on Rhaenyra's face morph, changing bit by bit as the seconds passed by.

"Wow, we've silenced the City's Delight," Laenor whispered, breaking the silence.

Rhaenyra's hand squeezed against the key, bringing her fist to her head where the silvery shine glinted from through her fingers. "Thank you," she whispered and Laena's eyes burned. She had noticed that Viserys and Alicent were nowhere to be seen. It was hard not to, but Laena doubted that leaving them out was something her cousin truly wanted.

"Do you want a hug?" Laena asked, sniffing and not realizing that her throat was so tight. "Not to brag, but I've been told my hugs cure depression."

Laenor made a face. "You have it the other way around, Lae."

Rhaenyra only let out a wet-sounding laugh, not a pretty noise, but it was true. "Actually, I think I just need a minute alone. You guys got me in my feels." She was looking away, wiping her thumb across her eyes as she sniffed into her hand. Laenor only grinned, hugging her anyway.

"I'll show you how to sail and everything. It will be real fun," he told her, and Laena only rested on her own calves, kneeling for a moment longer before standing. She wished Rhaenyra wasn't so distant, but not everyone wanted help. All Laena could do for her friend was keep having Alicent slammed in the press. The little things and all that.

Laena was nice. She was nice for not burning that bitch in her own home as Daemon had done, allegedly, to his own enemy.

Rhaenyra only nodded, hiding her face as Laena only left a long, lingering kiss atop her cousin's head. "Love and kisses, skan*," she told her, hiding the whisper in between strands of silver hair. Rhaenyra only pats her hand gently against Laena's, a sign of affection or perhaps appreciation, just before the cousins left the room where it clicked locked from behind them.

Laenor snatched hors d'oeuvres from a passing tray, the food too gorgeous to pass up as a cousin sent him a fleeting smile. Laenor was always the first to mingle with the guests, rather like Rhaenyra in that regard. At least, like Rhaenyra used to be. They could join with any crowd, even ones where they had no interests in common, and still, find a way to delight in the frivolity of it all. Laena was envious of the ease when she had to put such effort into it.

She was immediately swept into half hugs from people whose names she practised as she would her studies in biology classes. She knew everyone's name, their age, their nationality, and their thoughts on the economy. Laena was a lockbox of information. She was swept up in the trifle, but she wished she could enjoy it as her brother did. She stopped at the buffet table, making small talk with the passing Tullys as she attempted to make a grab for the crab claw. There was only the one, so she was irritated when another hand reached over and grabbed it first.

"No hard feelings?" Alys Rivers was stunning and tall, but Laena was taller. "About Arryk?"

Laena let out a light laugh, watching as Alys dipped her crab claw into the lemony sauce that made Laena's stomach lurch. Quelling the disappointment, Laena instead focused on her ice-cold champagne, crisp as an apple down her throat. "He's not actually that great a catch. I could swoop my net and pick up four more like him." Laena snapped her fingers towards the end of the comment. "Just like that."

Alys let out a laugh, not at all authentic so Laena did not like her. The endless night stretched out above, hearing the unintelligible and inarticulate clamour from all around them. "And who would you say is the best catch here?"

"For money?" Laena asked, head tilting.

"Sure," Alys said with a smile, twirling a strand of hair along her pointer finger. "For entertainment. For power. You don't like either much, do you, Ms Laena Velaryon?"

"None of them truly gives you happiness, Ms Rivers," Laena said, glancing over Alys's shoulder. "You won't find much with Arryk Caryll, you know?"

"He's only a footman," Alys said with a shrug, twirling her fingers in greeting to one of the men guarding the doors. "I just don't want any hard feelings." She tapped her fingers along Laena's shoulder, trailing down the sleeves of her dress. Laena watched the motion as one might an oncoming tiger. Alys wasn't about to eat her liver, and instead just toyed with the ends of the frills upon Laena's dress.

She had to be something out of this world, Laena thought, staring down the smooth and pale skin that was made to be far more ethereal in the moonlight. It blanketed strands of deep black hair and the bright green eyes that looked so much like Lyonel Strong's that it was a wonder more people didn't speculate about her parentage.

She was pale like a ghost, as if she stepped out of a nightmare, yet a sad one. "You chose the wrong brother to steal from me," Laena said with a slight smile, hiding behind it as she always did. Glitter glinted in Alys's lavish eyelashes, illuminating the vibrant strands with each blink.

"I didn't think Erryk likes these sorts of parties," Alys admitted, and Laena didn't know there was an elegant way to eat a crab claw, but Alys managed to find it. "So? My question?"

Laena spotted Daemon walking towards the little jacuzzi room Rhaenyra was currently hiding inside. It was the only reason she tilted her head in his direction, hoping to spare her cousin the noise and give her the privacy she asked for.

"Daemon Targaryen is handsome, I suppose," Alys said, taking a sip of her champagne. "He shall do." She turned back towards Laena with a smile that was too beautiful to be of this world. "Sorry about the claw. I saw you eyeing it and I just couldn't help myself."

Laena only hummed, taking a perusing glance at the fabled bastard of Lyonel Strong. "What are you after then? Money, entertainment, or power?"

"Have a lovely party, Laena," Alys says with a simper that only made Laena drink until she hit the dregs of her glass.

She was absorbed in the scents of luxury perfumes and colognes, permeating the rooftop in traces of Clive, hints of Joy, and tinges of Creed. She already had her fill on conversations with the variety of names and faces that she knew. She dined yet did not care for the sips of exquisite whiskeys and Bordeaux. She never got the chance for the crab, but she stuffed herself on spiced Kobe beef and shrimp as she watched Daemon give Alys the brush off.

Laena thought that strange, considering Alys was the most gorgeous girl at the party and Daemon wasn't known for his restraint. He only went straight for the private jacuzzi, opening it with a quick code and disappearing inside. Laena watched Alys barely hesitate before she was enveloped by a group of the most influencial at the party. She watched from the background, unable to take her eyes off of her as she gathered them all to her. She saw Borros Baratheon, Roderick Dustin, and Jeyne Arryn. It was an interesting mashup of names in houses that were more than influential.

From over Alys's shoulder, Laena saw Rhaenyra and Daemon finally leave the privacy of the little jacuzzi room. Rhaenyra was laughing, his arm was around her shoulders, and his lips pressed to her hair once. Laena felt her lips rise, hearing the laughter from the distance.

Genuine and truer than any other. Laena wished to hear it again and again.

Like other parties of any kind, they always begin with silence. It was a glorious ladder to reach argumentative all the way down to drunk. Laena and her brother had arrived in the middle in order to miss the awkward meandering stage, but he had skipped many steps and landed on drunk before any of the guests had left. Laena had him by one arm while Borros Baratheon had the other and the two of them dragged him down steps with an awkward tension in the air.

"I thought you hated the Targaryens," Laena finally broke the silence as they made it to the sitting room where they dropped the wasted Laenor atop the couch cushions. She tried to be gentle, but he had grown heavy in his muscles and she was wearing heels. His hand flopped against his own face, slapping it.

"Your words, not my own," Borros said, not answering, but Laena already knew. It looked bad on the Baratheons, a slight, to be the only great house to not show their faces to the cameras. Always appearances. Always fake. "My father believes in sending our good graces and wishes, even for a whor*'s spawns."

"Rhaenyra didn't do anything wrong. The fire was an accident," Laena said carefully, her blood boiling at his words. "So I'd watch your words. The next one might not be."

Borros only snorted, moving aside Laenor's hand to stop it from covering his face. It reminded her that they had been friends once. This was before Laena's jealous attempts at thwarting it.

"Are you openly threatening me?"

Laena paused at the question, grabbing the throw blanket on one of the other couches and tossing it over her brother's shivering figure. He muttered something, but he was in the inarticulate stage of the party, so she couldn't understand a word he said. "I'm saying that we are all family and perhaps it's time to remember that."

Borros scoffed, already turning away. "No matter what my father believes, you are all no family of mine."

Laena only slumped down at Laenor's feet when he left, feeling socially drained. The night had felt endless, with the black outside extending into the sky. She wanted to go home, but she couldn't leave her brother and he couldn't walk. Laena stared up at the ceiling for long moments before she dragged herself up to find water.

Daemon's place was a labyrinth of rooms, and Laena had to quell the need to snoop as she walked past interesting-looking secrets. They were locked in areas that she had no right to touch, like his study or bedrooms she didn't open. She paused, hearing a melody echoing throughout the rooms from just one more set of stairs down. It was away from the party that focused now on the upper levels of the penthouse where everyone was now too drunk to wander long. She didn't realize she was trying to hide the sound of each step until she was nearing the doorway of the dark floor, with nothing but the moonlight to brighten it up. It was dim except for the tiny light above the piano where Rhaenyra and Daemon sat side by side.

"No, no, no," Daemon scolded, playing the melody again. It was gorgeous, the sort of music one could visualize as vibrantly as colours. She could barely get a picture in her mind before the sounds halted in between one key and the next.

"I did that," Rhaenyra replied, and Laena watched from the doorframe, not meaning to hide, but instinctually, she had become particularly invisible. Rhaenyra played a melody, nearly the same as Daemon's, but Laena was remiss to agree with Daemon that it was not quite identical.

Daemon played the melody again. "Hear this," he told her, tapping his shoulder into her own. "This is music. The giant leaps might be too hard for your tiny, slow, and out-of-practice hands." It took Laena a moment to recognize the tune asLa Campanella, but Laena was only an enthusiast, not a player. Daemon switched the melody to a horrid, and bastardized version of the song. "This is what you're playing."

"It is not," Rhaenyra snapped, slapping at his hands so he stopped touching the ivory keys.

"The Little Bell has never sounded so offensive. Liszt would rise from his coffin just to gouge his own undead ears," Daemon teased, his eyes on Rhaenyra as he spoke, but Rhaenyra was focused on her hands as she attempted to recreate the melody. Laena felt a small smile appear on her lips, barely aware that it had arrived to stay.

"Wait, shut up," Rhaenyra ordered, the golden dust still smeared along her cheek. Some had gotten in her lashes, so the lights made her look like a star where they touched the strands. She played the melody again, but audibly messed up and reprised the notes.

"Nevermind, keep playing. Perhaps he might be merciful and gouge out my ears as well," Daemon said, leaning back into the bench to stare at the ceiling.

"Careful uncle," Rhaenyra warned, looking ridiculously childlike, sitting and playing the piano in a dress that was stuck to her bikini. "I still have a switchblade in my bag."

"Won't help the octave leaps that you failed," he commented, redoing the melody. "Practice your sight reading perhaps."

"You're distracting me," Rhaenyra said, her shoulders drawn into herself as she tried to keep her smile at bay.

"That E-flat distracted me," he announced in the midst of her playing. She practically whipped her braid into his shoulder as she slapped her palm over his mouth with a laugh. Laena watched the back and forth with growing silence in her own mind as if the brainwaves forming thoughts had just gone on strike.

"It was perfect. Say it with me: You are perfect Rhaenyra," Rhaenyra ordered him, but Daemon only laughed in a way Laena had never heard from him before. It was a muffled sound, restricted by her cousin's palm. "Come on. You can do it. You are perfect." Rhaenyra grinned as Daemon only shrugged his own denial. "No?" Rhaenyra switched to Valyrian. "You are stunningly perfect and you can do everything, Rhaenyra. Your turn."

Rhaenyra removed her hand, fingers sliding down Daemon's chin as he only smiled at her. "You are adequate at best," he told her, but Rhaenyra only let out another laugh. Laena watched her cousin's laughter cut off as if strangled and pruned from her very lungs when he continued. "But perfect at worst."

Laena felt as if she were intruding. She felt like a child holding her hands to cup her eyes and peer through another person's window. She quickly took a step back, away from the little dark corner they had made for themselves. She shook her head, turning away penthouse level with all its lights turned off. She had thought it odd, which was why she went to inspect it. She thought nothing more, going back up the stairs to find her brother.

"Where did you go?" Laenor asked with a groggy, alcohol-induced tone as she sat near his legs again. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Spill the tea."

"Dracarys," Laena said, digging out her phone so she didn't have to meet his gaze. He only shrugged and shut his eyes.

Chapter 21: Mourning We Met

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ－Ｏｎｅ
𝓂𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝓉
╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Sometimes, Rhaenyra felt as if she lived for condolences. Sometimes, it felt as if they gave her a pattern in her life, something to hold onto when the world got to be too rough. They made her feel as if some things were meant to be. At fourteen years old, Rhaenyra had only ever given condolences to dead horses and the litter of puppies that hadn't made it off the birthing bed back in Dragonstone.

Her father's hand was upon her back, guiding her further down the line of seats in the church. There was a sombreness in the air, the faith of the Seven—the religion of old Valyria—was still the only thing that connected Targaryen to their Baratheon relatives. Blood, they said, ran thick in the Great Houses, but lately, her mother would say it thinned.

She sat upon the dark brown pews, wishing her uncle had arrived this morning to make this entire ordeal pass with far more ease. Rhaenyra loved her parents, but the golden light seemed to come and go with Daemon's fickle appearance. She bowed her head as the silence cast the dim church in dark light when the Septon began to read the old Valyrian script—a language that most had forgotten, determined to kill off her culture.

She spotted the Velaryons a distance away, Laena's deep white curls were difficult to miss with the light bathing them like Valyrian steel. As if her cousin could feel the stare, Laena turned her head and caught Rhaenyra's eye, offering a fleeting and awkward smile.

The smell of flowers was heavy and without mercy, where it hung in the air like a cloud of vapour or as tangible as the condensation clinging to the stained-glass windows. The room was congested with white and red roses. In the middle of the far-off wall was a coffin balanced on shrouded trestles where the body rested at the centre.

The sermon passed with much bore and the rain had already begun to drizzle against the windows. Rhaenyra watched the slow droplets, noticeable if one truly squints. She prayed for it to increase—to blow off the very roof—that way she could go home and have pizza.

It did not and instead just continued its bare and minimal assault against red and blue and yellow glass. It was not enough to flood the cemetery, but just enough for the umbrellas to sprout out like little mushrooms, springing from the graves. Besides the Septon, the funeral of Luciara Baratheon, the estranged wife of Tamar Baratheon, was a quiet one. There were many mourners present, standing with their dome umbrellas, but none spoke a word.

Rhaenyra thought that odd, staring at the many distant relatives and friends. She scrutinised Boremund Baratheon with a child's eye. The elder man leaned heavily on his cane, having grown weary and worn in the coming years. The grounds were absent of sobs or even the flailing of the embroidered handkerchiefs. Tamar Baratheon was hidden from Rhaenyra's sight, but she could just barely make out the man's wheels upon his chair, his limp legs, and the burnt skin of his hands.

The red scars were a smattering of colour, restricted in a sea of black suits and gowns. Borros Baratheon met her eye and Rhaenyra was surprised by the intensity of its cold stare. He was unlike his father, who looked as unmovable as stone. Borros looked about ready to leap from the grass and attack her. Even the light drizzle could not push down the anger in the boy's expression, drawn perhaps from some old realm of despair. Rhaenyra didn't understand why it was directed at her so she scowled right back.

"He lost a sister-in-law," her mother whispered, placing both palms against Rhaenyra's shoulders. The girl could feel the swelling of her mother's belly upon her back—yet another child, yet another way to fix a mistake. Rhaenyra thought it might be fitting for a new birth to come into fruition, over the body of a lost life. Perhaps that was awful, but Rhaenyra didn't care about being awful.

Their entire family had the vast wealth of old royalty and it conjured forward all the mourners. Rhaenyra wondered how many were summoned forth today and what part of the city they had hailed from. She scanned the crowd, looking for the source of the sudden noise—a small gasping sob. An old woman buried her face into her handkerchief, a moaning girl hugged her side, and the husbands prostrated themselves as the body of the deceased lowered into the ground. Rhaenyra wondered who they were, these many people who were strangers to her and now laid siege to the graveyard.

Borros Baratheon looked at them as well, his expression mirroring her own as a confirmation of her harsh criticism on these people. They were practising the art of grief, a parody of anguish much like those who took to the Internet to wish well on the families of the deceased. 'I am so sorry for your loss,' Rhaenyra had read, over and over again about the woman who the public loved. It was the same words she would one day read about her own mother. Luciara Baratheon had been a generous woman, raising millions for foster children and homeless centres all around New York. She had donated and been a public advocate for civil rights. Then, some years before, had dropped all those endeavours in exchange for anonymity.

After these people shed their tears, mimicking sorrow and writing their tweets, they'd go back home and pat themselves on the back for their sympathies.

Everyone stared at the lowering coffin, gently sinking into the earth as the dark wind lifted the granules of dirt into the air. Borros had finally stopped scowling in her direction by the time the body was guided into the ground where the soil buried it. More words were spoken over the grave where the body was being covered further and further. Rhaenyra had never even met her, except perhaps through her Instagram feed where she had scrolled through posts the day it was announced she had overdosed.

Now, Rhaenyra thought she might know too much about what Luciara did, but not what she sounded like when she laughed. She did not know which of her dogs was her favourite. Rhaenyra was an alien here, no better than a stranger behind their phone screen, pressing like on a post. She was no better than the strangers typing, 'rip Luciara Baratheon' from underneath a YouTube video. She wanted to go home.

It was Boremund who knelt by the grave, and when he moved, it exposed Tamar to her eyes. His cheeks were damp, which could have been attributed to the light droplets of rain. It could have, but Brya Baratheon held the umbrella over his head like an immovable Queen's Guard. Boremund used his cane to brace himself, grabbing a handful of the dirt pile before he walked back to Tamar and passed it to him with a gentle touch.

Rhaenyra watched him let the dirt slip slowly across his curled palm as the breeze led little granules to the gravestone and against the lowered coffin beneath the earth.

The dirt was packed atop the grave with haunting slowness, with her mother's hands cradling Rhaenyra's shoulders. She slyly attempted to take out her phone, scroll through her feed and send Daemon some funny memes, but her mother only squeezed her fingers into her skin. Rhaenyra let out a deep sigh, submitting to watching the shovel work its way in and out of the ground.

By the time it was over, Rhaenyra waited by the oak trees on the fringe of the cemetery. Her parents were chatting with family, conversing with business partners and family friends. Rhaenyra watched from her place against the bark, watching her father fall into a laugh so unlike the ones back in Dragonstone. The others around him made a comment that broke the little party in similar laughter, all in tandem with their umbrellas blocking the tiny sprinkle of rain.

It was exhilarating, she supposed, when they first got off the plane in New York. Holidays were always exciting and New York was overwhelmingly immense. When she was six, she had been astonished to see the great towers and fantastic skyscrapers that cut into the very clouds. They had gone back to Dragonstone but had not stayed. The trips to New York grew longer and longer until she could barely remember what Dragonstone looked like.

It had been intoxicating, at first, to live in a great city of narcissists. She just hadn't thought she'd stay.

It was rather sad from beneath the leafy hands of the oak. She had expected to see the lush, deep greens that signified Spring, but there was nothing but blackened and rotten leaves. She was surrounded by grey and tan fungi, crunching beneath her shoes. She had expected a hush in the air, but there was a peal of odd laughter instead. New York couldn't get anything right. Not Spring and not death. It was a great city of rotten vegetation and egomaniacs.

"Luciara planted the trees," the voice greeted her, accompanied by the crunching of dead grass. Rhaenyra was still trailing her fingers over dry bark when she glanced over to Borros Baratheon, a boy of 16 according to the Wikipedia pages on the Baratheon family.

"They are lovely," Rhaenyra said with automatic swiftness, an involuntary lie that felt too natural in this polluted city. I don't know why I'm here, she thought with a glance down at her charcoal black dress. Borros didn't say anything when his palm rested a small distance away from her own, idling against the bark.

"They are dead inside," Borros told her, but he did not look her in the eyes. Rhaenyra felt betrayed by the sun's early foray, restricting some of the light and making the Baratheon Cemetary seem eerie and threatening.

"Perhaps they just need more watering," Rhaenyra said, scrutinizing the rotten leaves and gloomy fog, the sky now muddled in speckled greys.

Borros's eyes were directed down at the fungi that littered the ground, but his cold gaze swept right back up, locking her in place. "Water doesn't save everything, little Targaryen princess. It didn't save Storm's End after all," Borros said with a shrug, but his cold expression locked back upon her. "And it won't fix something dead inside."

Rhaenyra kept her eye out for any flower beds for a splash of colour, but all the roses were thrown atop the coffin and buried with Luciara Baratheon. It seemed she took every pigment with her. She had heard about the burning of Storm's End, heard even about plans to one day rebuild it, but she hadn't read much into it.

"Perhaps it's better to take the entire tree out," Rhaenyra suggested, watching as the boy tilted his head at the thought of a dying tree. "Plant something new instead."

"I'd rather wait for it to thoroughly die," he whispered, and finally his hand dragged down the length of the bark before it swung back at his side. "Your family is staying in New York indefinitely." Borros pauses and she didn't know why she disliked his considering tone. "Or so I hear."

The thought was a sad one as it had been when her father told her days prior. "I saw the photos of Storm's End," she said, feeling as though her mouth was possessed or she was nothing but a marionette being yanked by her strings. It had been a brilliant, castle-like structure upon the Gold Coast, but now it was reduced to ashes. Only part of it had been salvaged and the rest had filled the skyline in cinders that fell down, coating the city into clicker-brick walls. They had a significantly smaller estate now in Brooklyn, but at times, others of the Great Houses called the elder Boremund a 'Begger Lord.' "Such a shame to lose an ancestral home and a wife. I don't know how your brother could stand it."

Borros's hand froze at his side, and his face reddened, sweltering with anger. Rhaenyra's spine straightened, awaiting the attack, but instead, he audibly swallowed. "Ours is the fury," Borris said with a thin smile. He continued, his voice deepening with emotions that Rhaenyra did not understand. "And it does sustain even a grieving heart."

She had studied the words of all the Great Houses in New York. House Martell who said: unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Or perhaps House Arryn, known for: As High as Honour. But they were all just mercurial words, spoken without much meaning in the texts. Borris Baratheon, however, said it as pointedly as a threat.

They both looked towards Tamar, sitting in his wheelchair and gesturing for his brother to join him. "I am sorry that Daemon Targaryen could not make it. There will always be a place for himhere," Borris said with a thin smile.

"It was lovely meeting you, cousin," Rhaenyra said, her uncertainty and insecurity more visible than she would like. She was too used to Dragonstone, where there had never been a reason to hide it.

"Until the next funeral," he said in return, and then he was walking away.

The world shrivelled beyond her tinted windows, speeding past various buildings in New York. Her phone pinged countless times throughout the morning, but she had merely put it on silent and turned it around. It had been a salve, a paper barrier behind a dam.

She flipped her phone, watching the light flood the dark car as she scrolled through countless posts that berated her. Her reflection cast back at her from the white spaces of her screen, matching the images of her at her door, letting Harwin out of her apartment at 8 am. There were some of her letting Daemon inside, in nothing but a scanty robe that people used to call her a lascivious slu*t.

'Heiress Rhaenyra Targaryen and her Scandalous Affairs', one such article read. Rhaenyra had practically shattered her mobile against the window when she saw the image, already feeling the dread sink into her bloodstream before she opened Twitter.

Just a Fangirl @ btskpopqueen

Replying to @ jillyvalentnes

wow didn't she just get engaged????

M I A @ hotsht

Replying to @ btskpopqueen

WHAT A slu*t

Langa @ fashionpoeista

Replying to @ hotsht

crzy how celebs these days out here tryin to live their lives and we just hatin & poor

cgi fridays Silly Mango @ IDK2kp

Replying to @ PopBase

her networth is ridiculous. shame that rhaenyra gets away with being a whor* and doing nothing for society

myaa:) @ chellyberries7

Replying to @PopBase

she lookin a bit tubby. bet she has a stamp card to planned parenthood at this point

Ms. CEO @ kxketsoxoxo

Replying to @ PopBase

so criston is single. id let that man break my f*ckin back like a glowstick #rhaenyraisf*ckinglucky #harwinstrongtoowtf #mygirlissurroundedbyhotmen #daedaddyimlubedandready

Five nights of little sleep. Three pathetic nights she spent staring at her text messages and waiting for a single one from the person she wanted. She spent only one night obsessively gazing at her ceiling and trying not to call him. All of that culminated together when she saw that Criston Cole had liked one of the tweets. She could feel some manner of relief that it wasn't the one about what a dirty slu*t she was, but instead a long rant that she had yet to read out of pure, unadulterated anxiety.

Rhaenyra turned her phone back around, feeling like a literal trash bag when she leaned her head against the couch cushion and sunk her face into her own hands. She felt her phone vibrate from in her palm, the soft motions trembling against her skin. She did not answer the call, instead focusing on the slowing car, her own rapid heartbeat, and all that she had been determined to do. She set down her phone, letting the vibrations fade into the cushions of the car. Her heart slowed in tandem with the tinted automobile, which came to a smooth stop.

Light flooded the inside when she opened the door, determined to leave all those little fears inside with the puddle of anxiety she had stewed in for forty minutes. Her heels clicked against the Long Island sidewalk, her dress falling down to her ankles where they covered her in decadent silk. She felt the flashing of cameras and the clamouring voices shouting her name. Her scalp felt tight and heavy with her hair in intricate clips and ornate braids which draped over her bare shoulders. She smiled at the cameras, walking up towards the many guards at the mansion entrance where Laenor was already waiting for her.

"Ms Targaryen," shouted a familiar reporter with short black hair and the devil's heart. Rhaenyra often saw Dennis 'the Mushroom' Casmir's name associated with the terrible publicity in the Daily News. He certainly enjoyed making her look ridiculous, frivolous, adulterous, and promiscuous in every single one of his columns about her. "Is Mr Cole aware of your illicit affairs? How does he feel about Harwin Strong? Who's the father of your unborn child?"

The last comment nearly caused her to falter, but a hand reached out to steady her elbow, bringing her back to balance. "Pay them no mind," Laenor advised, his arm tightening around hers. "I thought you were going to wear the red gown," he remarked, casting her a sidelong glance. Rhaenyra felt a soothing calm wash over her as she listened to his serene voice, a welcome respite from Mushroom's incessant jabs. Laenor had a way of speaking without pity, easing the discomfort she felt after seeing the numerous posts that tore apart her character.

Her disappointment was drowned out by the music reverberating at the ballroom's closed doors. The sounds tumbled into the unobstructed hall when the footmen opened them up for them. The closing doors behind them finally broke off the flashing camera lights and she felt her shoulders droop and her fake smile lessen just a bit in its intensity. There must have been at least eighty people inside the ballroom, each gliding through the soft, orange puddle of light that was cast by the fluorescents of the chandelier. Her dress was wreathed in the glow of the light, each step showing off the golden glitter and cream material of her gown.

"And contribute to the rumours of my scarlet letter?" Rhaenyra replied, giving his arm a grateful squeeze as they blended in with the moving crowd that greeted them.

"And since when did my little Nyra care what others thought?" Laenor countered, his fingers sliding down to clasp her hand. Whispers fluttered around them, not yet drowned out by the orchestra's bravado on the stage atop the platform, nestled against the distant wall. He guided her towards the grand dance floor, where a parade of masked beauties and hidden characters lurked from behind their gorgeous masks. The hushed murmurs danced in harmony with the bellowing cellos, dulcet violins, and the velvety chimes of the harp.

His grip on her hand twisted, allowing her to interpret his intention. She felt a reluctant smile peak out as he grinned from beneath his black mask. The masquerade was filled with harlequins and jesters, all in beautiful ball gowns where they may pretend to be what they are not. Rhaenyra would perhaps always feel unease at these events where she had to pretend to be this person. Yet, when Laenor spun her into his arms, she felt a true smile begin to greet him as his comfortable jokes eased away the anxiety.

Gowns, capes, and cowls glide and swish across the floor as the throng of bodies compressed the ballroom. Laenor had a stunning ability to draw out laughter with his easy jokes and soft quips. He left them behind when she came in for the next spin. "What of Borros Baratheon? Will you speak with him?"

Rhaenyra had been trying to find her decadent host. It was the grand rebuilding of Storm's End after all, and it would be rude not to mark her presence and greet the man who was likely out for her head. "It's him speaking to me that is my ever-present fear." Rhaenyra could pick out her father at the table, eating and chatting with his mask around his neck. She had still yet to answer his many calls, but she couldn't help the lurching in her heart that wanted to greet him.

Her invitation to the Storm's End ball had been a letter and a dead rabbit at her door just two days ago. "He has the sense of humour yet for twisted jokes." Laenor had called for a footman to gather the rabbit and bury it the days prior. She had nearly called Daemon and asked for his advice as she might have in her youth. It was a habit that she had broken in the three years with Criston, but lately, that desire had returned. Rhaenyra had not made the call. She merely gathered the invitation and allowed Laenor to take the lead from behind her.

The pointed rays from the sun extended against her bright golden mask, likely causing her own face to become an unsafe venture to gaze upon. Laenor hadn't been daunted, taking her hand and leading their dance further into the crowd. "If he hadn't wanted me to come," Rhaenyra said, whispering it into Laenor's shoulder as he gripped her tighter. "Why invite the Targaryens at all?"

"It is not the Targaryens he has an issue with. Merely you," Laenor finally said and before she could ask, he continued. "Borros isn't going to hide a knife in the crowd," Laenor whispered and she spun away, but he led her once more into his arms. "He's not the sort to just murder anyone. He's not your uncle after all." His words switched to Valyrian, causing her to nearly stumble, but Laenor caught her. "Storm's End is now back in the Baratheon's grasp. Make peace with them while they are happy and then eat cake with me."

Laenor was the more frivolous of her family, always prompt to be the first to ignore the politicking and the excessive Machiavellian manoeuvring. She enjoyed him when they were high in the woods, hiking up the Catskills. She loved him when at a club, where he'd become the best version of himself, dancing and enjoying the bodies of the crowd. He was not much use, however, when she needed him to be serious in Storm's End.

"If there is time," Rhaenyra agreed, still searching for Borros in the crowd. Women swirled around them, deploying their butterfly masks and pushing through the dancefloor.

"Why must all be so serious?" Laenor complained, not minding how the crowd had ensnared them and they descended further into the uproar. "If it's about your torrent affair, just make it right. Let them know you never were engaged."

"I cannot," Rhaenyra replied, having noticed that Criston had yet to deny those rumours either. Perhaps he enjoyed the revenge of having her suffer as an adulterous whor*. It didn't seem like the Criston she knew, but neither had him liking posts that defamed her character. "I promised the Times that story, so it would not be in my best interests to refute it."

"How droll," Laenor said, scanning the crowd from over her shoulder as the song grew quieter, softer, and lovely in its orchestration. "Mushroom is a c*nt. Perhaps you can join us for sailing, getting rid of the city's taint and head to Greece or Paris or something."

"Running is not in my interest," Rhaenyra told him, watching his lips thin. With Laenor, it was easy to see the world as nothing but music and moonlight as the two of them swept through the crowded ballroom with the ease of fog, carried on the salty sea breeze.

"Weeds still grow, even if no one is around to water them," he replied in Valyrian, his eyes earnest and perhaps worried. Laena no doubt kept confidentiality about most of what Rhaenyra and she had spoken about, but what she could discuss, Rhaenyra knew she no doubt told her brother.

"And if nobody is around to yank them from the ground, they will overflow the garden," she retorted, finally spotting Borros. He was nearly unrecognizable in his mask and cowl, but his brother gave him away. Tamar Baratheon was a disfigured man, his head lying to its side and his burns ghastly, yet most hidden by his mask. He would have blended into the malicious Baratheons had it not been for the wheelchair he sat in.

She was late to the party and most of the guests already looked to have spent their entire evening deep in their cups, soaking in the music and staggering rather than dancing. Young women threw back their heads to laugh with their make-up running at the corners of their eyes. Some women were passed from partner to partner, hair loosening from clips they likely spent hours securing. Rhaenyra saw Laenor already growing distracted by the teasing dance of other patrons, beckoning him to join.

"You're usually more fun," Laenor said with a sigh, and she snorted in reply.

He was a faithful man to Qarl, but Rhaenyra always knew her cousin fell easily for the coaxing of a party and a good time. There was shouting in the crowd, some guests talking over the music and gesticulating with frantic motions in conversations that Rhaenyra couldn't distinguish.

"You are the one who wanted to come together." Rhaenyra thought it had been a kind gesture on his part, even if he tried to convince her to abandon the thought with the dead rabbit. "Don't tell me you'd much rather dance with the hot redhead." The man had been attempting to lure her cousin into a waltz since they walked in, but Laenor had attempted to merely guide Rhaenyra away.

"I'd rather find Qarl and snog him in one of these newly finished backrooms. Christen the place with us and a bottle of champagne," Laenor said instead with a slight grin from beneath his mask.

Servers move through the crowd with trays of drinks, but it was nearly impossible to signal them from the position on the fringe of the party. "I'd rather you stay at my side. I fear there just might be a knife in the crowd," she said to him, finally watching Borros's eyes connect onto her where he grinned and tipped his flute of champagne in her direction. She couldn't forget the dead rabbit with the bloody invitation and the knife pinned through the stag insignia, impaling the animal beneath. She had gotten the blood on her fingers when she tore the note from the blade. Her prints had made patterns upon the paper where she had debossed the parchment with shaking hands.

It had been a blatant threat, making her wonder if perhaps Borros had not meant to try and destroy her reputation. Perhaps he always intended to murder her to destroy House Targaryen. Maybe once she never would have assumed, but lately, it was easier to presume the worst.

"That's not his character," Laenor had assured her two days ago, but Laenor's word meant far less than his sister's. While he may be heir yet to Driftmark, he was handed the position and had little love for business. It was far more likely that he'd allow Vaemond to make decisions in his stead.

"I don't plan to leave you alone in the House of the Stag," Laenor assured her with an easy smile. "I'd rather you were at ease and safe, but you must bare my complaining as I make myself a martyr."

A gentle breeze caressed her skin, signalling that someone had at last opened the grand French doors, allowing the air to swirl and breathe life into the room. It whisked away some of the light sweat at the nape of her neck, and she thought a drink might calm the fluttering nerves in her gut, especially as the music shifted once more. Beyond the doors, it would be pitch-black, but the colossal torches illuminated the gardens, with guests dining al fresco in the flooding grass of decadent light and flickering flames. She could make out the fountain, water cascading into a reflecting pool, surrounded by numerous trees. Then, the doors closed once more.

"I do believe that many others desire your hand in dance," Laenor told her, reminding her that the song had switched and many women had met new partners. "But I could fight them off if you wish it."

Rhaenyra nearly laughed at the thought of her cousin in a fight before she remembered that he was a skilled combatant when he wasn't drinking and getting high at clubs. She watched a masked man approach and she could vaguely recognize the insignia of House Lannister before she trailed up to his face.

"Mind if I cut in?" Jason Lannister was a douche, but one from a reputable house as well as one of Laenor's friends.

Laenor was already moving away, allowing Jason to step closer. "I'd like you to fight him off. I'll even look the other way at a murder," Rhaenyra said in Valyrian, causing Laenor to laugh and attempt to hide the sound in his fist with a cough.

"What did she say?" Jason asked, but Rhaenyra only smiled with a serene and innocent expression.

"She said she'd be honoured," Laenor lied, and quickly grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing server. "Be nice," he ordered his cousin, before he finally caught eyes with that redhead who had been trying to get his attention all night.

Rhaenyra's nose twitched, her nostrils flaring, but she graciously accepted Jason's hand. "You get more gorgeous every time we meet," Jason said with a smile that he must have thought suave.

They had met the first time on a FaceTime call with Laena, years back. Their meetings continued often since her cousins liked him for some reason and she enjoyed Laenor and Laena too much to break his hand. His palm was dangerously close to sinking a centimetre too low and his smile told her he knew it.

"It's the mask," she said, referring to the golden butterfly mask and breathing inlukewarm insipid air.

"And I've seen you without," he said swiftly, and brought her closer than even a waltz would permit. She was stronger and held her form, keeping her distance as they swayed with the musician's music. Normally, she loved the elegance in the 'one-count' of the waltz that would lure the attention far from the loneliness and the disquieting 'two-three'.

"No you haven't," she said with a bitter smile. So few have, she thought with a snort.

Jason could flirt, but he could not count. She let out a squeak when he stepped on her toe, sending her an apologetic smile. The music quickened in tempo and Jason struggled to keep up with the gorgeous melody while making small talk. The dance was swift with each turn causing her skirts to swirl in maelstroms of golden diaphanous silk. It should have been like flying, but instead, she was soaring too fast, too high, and coming back into his arms with an unpleasant arc.

She was going to kill Laenor.

He didn't mind her tone and his smile only widened. "So I heard that Criston and you came to an amiable split."

Rhaenyra nearly tripped, but he quickly caught her, never mind that his hand rested on her backside to do so. "And who told you that?"

"Everyone's been saying it," Jason said with a dazzling grin as bits of blond hair cupped his cheeks. "I understand if this might be a bit forward. Perhaps even too soon, but you should know you'd be comfortable as lady Lannister."

Rhaenyra stomped his foot in between steps two and three. "Excuse me?" Rhaenyra thought she must have misheard, but he continued on without much pause to her offence. "I am confused. Are you proposing?" Rhaenyra was about to dip, smoke a cigarette out back and forget his hands on her.

"Merely an option," Jason said quickly, seeming to be confused by her growing frustration where she echoed the music's every beat. It had changed to a softer lull, fit for a paramour of some sort, but that was most certainly not Jason Lannister. "You would be cared for, you'd get to tend to the house, raise beautiful children, and you'd hardly notice the change in station. My mother could even teach you how to cook our secret lamb recipe."

The song ended, but it was clear Jason was going to try to guilt her into another dance. "You think I'd give up being heir to raise your children and cook lamb?" She was about to strangle him for the mere insinuation.

"Your father has a son," Jason said with a sniff, sliding his hands down her waist. "I only assumed-"

She interrupted him. "Lannister is a noble house with long-standing ties to my own, but keep talking and you might just fray them."

"May I cut in, or would you like to continue this long-winded rejection?" Borros Baratheon said, and Rhaenyra couldn't decide which was worse, his threats or Jason's proposal.

Rhaenyra simply sneered at the Lannister, allowing Borros to lead her away once she realized she always chose the more dangerous option. She got a few steps onto the dancefloor before his gentle grip grew rough and she practically stumbled. "I got your gift."

The music playing in the background was quiet to her, her ears now clogged with her own pulse. Borros didn't seem to mind, his dance boxy and stiff. "A bridge from my family to yours," he told her, his voice low enough to hear, and yet only just.

Rhaenyra had to pick the blood out from under her nails from his gift—his bridge—but she could see he was unperturbed about his blatant threat. "It seems you hold a grudge against me, but I have done nothing."

She was staring into his black stag mask, the little horns ornate and gorgeous. It contrasts his unruly appearance and the sort of a man who was unbothered by the lack of grooming that others often took.

"You do remember the words, do you not?" Borros said, and she didn't dare spin, even when the steps called for it. She didn't trust him with her back.

"I have done nothing to you, nor am I an enemy," she said this carefully, but he merely smiled from beneath the mask. "Our fathers are friends—family. Can't we be as well?"

"I am not my father and you are certainly not your own," Borros said slowly. "You, a frivolous little girl who has yet to play the game nor does she know how. Perhaps the Lannister name would be a step up for that girl."

Rhaenyra's eyes went cold, all attempts at refinement stomped out with his words. "Beautiful home that only took more than a decade to rebuild," she said without pause, even as his eyes narrowed and their stiff dance grew chillier. "Become my enemy and we will see how long a second rebuilding might take."

Borros's grin turned savage, "You truly do take after the Bastard of Fleabottom. What shall we call you, I wonder, if your father senselessly hands you the reigns?" Borros let her go when Laenor placed a hand on her back.

"You live in an old age, Borros," Laenor said with a deep frown, his mask around his neck and his hair slightly messy.

Borros just adjusted his mask, his eyes harsh as they scanned between Targaryen and Velaryon. "Times are exactly as they have always been. Soon enough, your father will do right and name Aegon in your stead. He, at least, has a chance to be raised properly."

Rhaenyra's jaw clenched in frustration that she had to bite back, even as a ball of visceral hate gripped her insides. It was wrong to hate a child just for being born, but Rhaenyra could not control it. She opened her mouth to say something, but Laenor's hand went to her elbow, squeezing it. "Don't prove him right, Nyra," Laenor said in Valyrian, his smile nonchalant as Borros's eyes hardened at the language. "I offered before, old friend, to teach you."

Borros's top lip curled, bits of dark stubble peaking out from beneath the mask. "Enjoy freedom, heiress. Enjoy your liberties as successor, for it is short-lived." Borros bowed, remembering his etiquette even after so thoroughly offending her. He wasted no more time, turning back around to squeeze through the crowd.

"What is his problem?" Rhaenyra asked after Laenor ushered her back onto the dance floor, towards the edge of the party. "He acts as though I burned down Storm's End."

Laenor only smiled, looking bored on the very notion of anything serious. "He's old school. It's not a surprise that he wouldn't like the Targaryens being led by a woman."

"So he'd prefer a toddler?" Rhaenyra said with a scoff, grabbing the glass of champagne in her cousin's hand, tipping her head, and shooting it straight. It burned the back of her throat, both dry and bitter. She coughed, thinking, my god, this is straight tequila. Laenor, the f*ck?

"He'd prefer anyone, likely, other than you," Laenor answered carefully, scowling at the empty glass in her fingers.

She was about to ask 'why', but paused, already knowing that she had no right to the question when she spent so long not taking any reign over her position. She had done remarkably little to incite trust as successor. She was caught in scandals of multiple lovers, had multiple trips in jail, and spent the last three years high. She could say nothing in return.

"I believe I saw Qarl out in the gardens, swatting at the mosquitos," a deep voice said from over the music. The sound caused a shiver to travel down Rhaenyra's spine, and she didn't need to turn to distinguish Daemon's soft voice as his hand gripped onto her elbow. "I can be her dance partner while you rescue your paramour from the fountain."

"Daemon," Laenor greeted with a bright grin, his grip already loosening from Rhaenyra. "I can't say it's not a surprise you secured an invitation. Borros must be in a generous mood to even invite you."

"Perhaps I'm a crasher," Daemon said instead, and Rhaenyra was swept into his arms like a rag doll, her hands steady against his shoulders. "Or perhaps he means to show off his prosperity."

"You alright with the switch, Nyra?" Laenor asked, now looking towards his cousin. "Or should I get my sword?" It was a fake blade at his side, a prop for the masquerade, but he looked too eager to draw it and show off his fencing skills. She turned from Daemon, her hands brushing along his arm as she let him go in order to face her cousin.

She couldn't look at Daemon just yet, couldn't show off the way her stomach curled in on itself at his proximity. "I think I'll manage. Thank you," she told him, and Laenor grinned, kissing her cheek, his mask brushing against her own.

"Almost as if he does not trust me," Daemon said in a low whisper in High Valyrian after Laenor crept through the crowd. It shouldn't have had the effect it did, as if he were opening a private bubble for them. She felt him spin her entirely, back into his arms. "It's not like looking me in the eyes is an implication of guilt, niece."

She did not meet his probing gaze, instead watching her cousin make it to the French doors. He opened them and showed off the swirling darkness from outside, through the exit he left ajar. The many torches had made shapes upon Daemon's shoulders. The firelight dripped onto her uncle's pale face, restricted by his dark grey porcelain mask. It looked like the scales of a dragon, befitting his ruthlessness.

She regretted looking, regretted the nearly impossible-to-fight urge to sweep her fingers over the scales and sharp barbs that lined the eye mask. "I am not worried about the implications of what I did in the past." Her smile was devious, and his hands were in all the appropriate places as he swept her into the dance. "Moreso what I want to do now."

He nearly staggered, but Daemon was as devious as she was, and only continued. The patrons and guests were so drunk that they were staggering in laughter and frivolity, not sober enough to recognize those beneath the masks. There was a certain serenity in the anonymity, and it lowered to her core and heated like the braziers outside.

"And to whom am I cuckolding?" Daemon's joke was not in good taste, and he was not done. "Crispen or Harwin?"

"It's Criston," she reminded, and his smile turned sinister as his grip tightened against her skin. "I didn't know you to read gossip."

She looked around for Borros once more, hoping he was far enough where she could relax. She did not see him and Daemon leads them further and further towards the doors. "What has you so fearful? You're tense."

Daemon's voice nearly soothed her, but she brought her gaze up to him without visible signs of her anxiety. "My invitation was a bloody rabbit. Perhaps you can enlighten me on why the Baratheons would make such a threat to me."

Daemon paused, but the tightening of his grip on her waist had her aware of emotions that his face would not display. "And what are you accusing me of?"

Rhaenyra's eyes ran down his face over and over, wishing she could do as she wished, wishing she could devour him at her leisure. She attempted to let go of his hand, but it tightened instead, refusing to let her. "I'll ask him myself."

Daemon brought her chest into his own, her breasts sinking against him as she nearly drowned in his beautiful scent that blotted out the richness of perfumes all around her. She felt her eyes grow heavy, her mouth dry, and she wet her lips out of habit. His eyes lowered, focusing down before snapping back up.

"Why must you go foraging for ways to incriminate me when I said I'd handle the Baratheons?" Daemon tisked and she scoffed in surprise.

"Why must there be so many ways to implicate you in offences?" Rhaenyra hissed, remembering the drug trade her father had his legal team bury. She had no doubt that Daemon had lied when he denied accountability. She had her doubts that he even quit, and instead, he likely just hid under the stones for a summer before he went back to doing whatever he wanted.

"Says the one enmeshed in an adulterous affair," he returned, his smile too playful, but she was in no mood for his games.

"The only affair I'm in is the one right now," she whispered, low enough so he could hear it. It was low enough so he could understand just how flushed she was and how it had enveloped her, despite her not being winded from the dance or the many bodies. The Viennese waltz was not her speciality, but Rhaenyra had always been a talented dancer.

The orchestra slides back into a slow waltz—signifying the much needed chance for the many dancing patrons to catch their breath. It gave the opportunity for the whisperings to flood the floor with urgent gossip and perhaps tender promises. She'd likely get neither from her uncle.

"Perhaps this was a mistake," he said, switching away from Valyrian, but she did not.

"Then why have you asked me to dance?" She was drowning in the intensity of his gaze, reminded of every touch and caress and kiss and it had her numb to the noise.

"Would you be so surprised to hear it kills me to see you dance with others?" Daemon had a way of asking a serious question with a tone of levity, making her wonder if he meant a word he ever said. A farce or no, his sensual words—spoken low and nearly against her lips—had her drunk.

There was a thrill of being surrounded, enveloped by something so wondrous and taboo. It magnified when it focused upon her, making her nearly beg for more of his minimal touch. The feel of his skin against her own, their palms kissing when their mouths could not, reverberates across the entirety of her body. She wanted to intertwine their fingers, but she dared not, even when his eyes taunted her to try.

"I need air," she whispered, moving her head back. Scent was so often minimised, but to her, his gave her evocative flashbacks to his flesh beneath her palm and her heart in his ribcage.

He was already dragging her, cutting through the crowd. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, but it slipped down to her hand when they reached the French doors. She caught her father's eye just before he shut them from behind their escaping silhouettes. The garden was nearly empty with most gathered near the far-off pool of water that reflected the moon. The pool was rectangular and thin with glowing lights from the depths, making the water flicker in colours of pink and red and blue.

"Where are we going?" Rhaenyra whispered, but she didn't slip her hand from his grasp as he led her past the cobbles and the many trimmed bushes in intricate shapes. The rabbits eating the grass scattered away, and Rhaenyra watched them escape with a knot in her gut.

"You weren't supposed to be here," he said with a smile over his shoulder that made her look over her own towards the doors that they had just left through. A small trickle of realization began to creep down her spine.

"Oh, what did you do?" Rhaenyra asked, barely managing to keep up with him as he led her to the gazebo with windows so tinted that she couldn't see through them. He cracked open the doors and she stopped him before she could be led inside. "No."

"So you can f*ck your little lover boy Crispen Cole in a greenhouse but not follow me now?" Daemon said with a grin from the doorway. He looked so dastardly and devilish in his suit. She could picture his hands upon her, and her craving for him nearly had her shaking. He knew that she'd rather have him f*cking her senseless than dancing in a ballroom of masked liars, making small talk. He knew she was merely pretending that his meagre presence hadn't driven her to insanity.

"How the f*ck do you know that?" Rhaenyra asked, and he laughed, but it was not the laugh of her uncle or her best friend. It was the laugh of a man who she didn't know, the stranger that he had alluded to, but had yet to introduce to her.

"Do you have any idea how much I've covered your arse, niece?" Daemon's smile turned devious. "Nothing is private. Not even this. Not with us. Not with you. Get in."

"I f*cking hate you," she whispered back, but she was moving past him, allowing him to close the doors to the bright lights that lit the room in a circle. She was overwhelmingly aroused, heat creeping up her neck and straight into her cheeks. Her rigorous pulse was racing in tandem with her heart as an understanding crackles like kindling between them. She moved away, to the far adjacent wall of the circular room. She passed the telescope, built into the wall, and slid her fingers over it before dropping her hand to her side.

Her heels clicked against the wood as a stillness settled over her, calmer than she had been in the ballroom with people who would see her dead. The room had already begun to crepitate with the horrid and wispy thunder in her blood. The airy whistling in her ears had her hearing the awareness between them, like heavy steps on muscovite. His eyes held her own with a frightening intensity like he would devour her with a single, fleeting touch.

"Ask me," Daemon finally ordered, circling the gazebo. She echoed his every step forward with one step back, keeping the distance.

"Ask you what?" Rhaenyra had her suspicions, but voicing them was like breathing life into the worst of her thoughts. Daemon smiled, still wearing his dragon mask, still looking like every fantasy of her adolescence. He did not remove scaled porcelain and she dared not touch her own. They were just guests at the mascarade, hidden away. They were not uncle and niece. They were not meandering the cusps of morality with every touch that brought them closer.

The haunting moonlight flooded through the windows, high above them in a circle around the gazebo. It shined bits of light in the darkness, bathing the circular room in an ethereal light that lit the silver in their hair. Daemon shook his head, taking another step closer, and she, another back.

"Ask," he ordered once more.

"I don't want to know," she finally bit out, not wanting to voice the thoughts she had about Storm's End and its downfall. It was a monstrous thing to do, and it would take a demon to cause the disfigurement of Tamar Baratheon.

"I thought you wanted me to introduce you," he reminded her, smiling with a shaking head. "Is that not what you said?"

Her jaw was clenched and she turned back towards the party, blocked by just the door. "I changed my mind," she said, but the slight turning was all it took for him to close the distance. He gripped her arm with his other hand against her shoulder and moved closer so they were chest to chest.

"Enemies should either be caressed or crumbled. Minor crevasse and cracks will allow them to enact their retribution," he told her, now stroking the length of her neck, up to her cheek. "But if you cripple them beyond repair, they can do nothing. My lesson to you, niece," he continued, now lightly kissing her. She instinctually went to kiss back, but he had pulled away. "If you need to hurt someone, to cause them harm, do so in such a way where you would have no fear for their vengeance."

She noticed a deliberate change in her uncle. He was not so unlike stone. He had a switch and when anything grew too hard, when he needed to retaliate, he merely flicked the switch. When like this, he was no longer her uncle, if he ever was. He was a machine.

He was all but admitting to the fire, but he would likely not say the words aloud. He wasn't one to incriminate himself with the syllables, just as he would never tell her truly what he felt for her. She could beg him, but she had just enough self-respect not to do so.

"You may not fear his vengeance, but I do," Rhaenyra said, understanding a bit more of Borros's dislike of her. Perhaps she was too much her uncle's mirror.

She raised her hands, removing the golden mask from her eyes, and tossing it to the ground. She wanted to go home. She wanted to rebuild the shutters over her sights and romanticise Daemon as she had in her childhood.

"Go back to the party, give your goodbyes, go home," he finally said, looking away from her gaze. She shook her head in reply.

"I said I was done, then I swing back like a pendulum. A f*cking idiot." Rhaenyra finally reached up, carefully, even when he moved his head back, away from her touch. She didn't relent, trying again, stepping closer so she could grip the mask. His hand went to her wrist, but he didn't push her away. His touch was warm and gentle, even if his words never were. His decadent words were a symphony or cacophony, swinging back and forth like that same pendulum. And he was awful. What he did was awful, but Rhaenyra did not care enough to let him go.

She slowly began to glide his mask up and he raised his other hand, echoing her movements and sliding the mask off his face. In his deepest moments, she could trust Daemon to say the most horribly inadequate things. There was no polished fairy tale waiting for her. Even if she stretched her every childhood imagination, she would not find a fantasy lingering behind.

His face was exposed to her with his dark indigo eyes unwavering and his hand still gripping her wrist. This was a searing and morphing force, both breathing and sentient and rough around its every jagged edge. It was likely as new to him as it was to her, both bittersweet and wholly unknown.

She wanted him angry, out of his mind, and focused entirely on her. She wanted to trap him.

"I will say no goodbyes," she told him, refusing his request. "Not to you or to the party. I will outlast the night and speak to my father. If you are going to plan an attack on the Baratheons tonight, you will have to do so with me there." She trailed her hands over his face, his molten eyes, and they were certainly tempting.

She wanted him to love her, yet all he wanted was to control her. She frowned, finally releasing him, but his grip tightened, resting his lips against the rising pulse of her wrist. His grip loosened and he guided her hand down, resting her palm flat against his chest. His heart drummed against her palm, rising and deafening her. She tried to remove her hand, but he gripped it there, resting his forehead against her own.

"Go home," he whispered, but she shook her head, feeling him laugh against her cheek.

"Come to the party with me," she said instead, holding her breath for his tiny baby steps in her direction. "Enjoy the frivolity. Hold my hand from under the table," her voice was against his lips. "Sit with your brother and come out of the dark with me."

"I cannot," he said, his palm warm against the back of her hand that squeezed her palm into his chest.

"Why?" Rhaenyra hissed, hating that she could not force him to bend to her will as easily as he could her.

His dark eyes met her own, both lost in this temporary world that would crumble like volcanic ash. It destroyed oldValyriaso it was fitting it destroyed her too. His other hand raised, tracing her lips with the tips of his fingers. "I don't have an invitation," he said with a devious smile that finally made her laugh.

"When has that stopped you?" Rhaenyra asked, and his soft eyes narrowed with an emotion she had no time to read before he kissed her.

"Do that again," he whispered into her lips, kissing her again.

"What?" Rhaenyra murmured, breathlessly.

"Laugh," he said with a thickening voice, now gripping her by her head to deepen the kiss. He dropped his mask and the porcelain clattered to the wood beneath her feet as he lowered his hands to trace her arms. The party was so far away, but here was the mouldering lyre, coming back together. She missed, at times, what they had been. It may not have been entirely real and he may have kept himself in check, but the kindness he showed her as a kid couldn't have been completely a facade.

She felt her back hit the walls of the gazebo with a light moan into his lips that he devoured. She had a wild longing at all times for intense emotions and wild sensations. Daemon delivered all of them with his insistent kiss and hands against her waist, erasing the sensations Jason had given her during the dance. It was a rage against the sterile life that would have her in a loveless dalliance with Criston.

The kiss turned breathless and they pulled away gasping, only to come back together as he lifted her and allowed her legs to wrap around his waist like a coiling snake. She had the furious impulse to break something. Storm's End, the gazebo, the gardens, him,herself. She wanted to pull the wings off the butterflies.

She kissed him harder, but he slowed her with his reverent hand against her cheek. His next kiss was soft, and instead of decimating the butterflies, they filled her with malevolent desires and lovethat was blinding. She couldn't see him. The terrific force was not unfamiliar, but it didn't make it any less intense as it shut up behind her ribcage. It always drummed loudly and against her own will.

His fingers gripped her legs, bruising them with the intensity of his hands, but it didn't hurt. "Daemon," she whispered in between one kiss and the next. She grasped onto his shoulders, grinding into him with insistent need. Her head hit the back wall, the heat searing her and yet she was shivering.

His lips went to her neck, kissing once, twice, before sucking the skin just below her ear. "Here?" He kissed her rigorous pulse and she gave him gasping breaths. He moved to kiss another area of exposed neck. "Your insatiable," he whispered into her skin.

"We've already crossed the Rubicon," she whispered right back, sliding off his suit coat.

"What?" Daemon separated from her neck with an arched brow.

"Don't tell me you don't know your Roman history," she said with another laugh that made his lips quirk up. She carefully undid the first two buttons of his shirt. She wanted to pepper kisses over his chest, but he stopped her from unfastening them. "Caesar was leading his legion into Rome, declaring himself dictator."

Daemon began to laugh, resting his head on her shoulder as his own shook.

"And there was no going back once he crossed the Rubicon river," Rhaenyra said with a chuckle. "Why are you laughing?"

"You'd sooner rehash Roman history than ask me to f*ck you?" Daemon whispered, gliding his teeth over her collarbone.

"Excuse me but f*ck?" Rhaenyra retorted, slapping her hand against his shoulder as she pressed her lips into the side of his head. Bits of silver hair tickled her flesh and she let out a contented sigh. "I would never ask something so crassly."

He lifted his head back up with a soft smile. "Forgive me. I had not realized what a lady you were," he said before she dodged his next kiss.

"As much a lady as you are a gentleman," she said, snorting out laughter as she finally felt her feet hit the ground with his hands at her waist.

"Why is that so funny?" Daemon asked, looking offended. She raked her eyes over him and laughed again. "Stop it."

"'I could be a gentleman' he says," Rhaenyra mocked, and he closed in, cutting off her laughter with a moan as he nipped her earlobe.

"Join me at dad's table," she asked again, and he sighed against her neck. "I don't want everything to be so illicit."

"So long as you replace my cigars," he said with a light chuckle into her skin.

"What?" Rhaenyra's mind went blank when he gave her lingering kisses against her pulse.

"They weren't just expensive, but rare.They were Cohiba Behike and you snapped each in half like an animal," he said, bits of irritation and amusem*nt melding together. It made her grow hot with his breath at her collar, moving down as he pushed aside her dress. He slowly slid her sleeves down, but the pins stopped him from moving them further. She slapped his hand away.

"It took an hour to apply the boob tape. I'm hardly horny enough to let you ruin it," she said, and he grinned up at her, his hands sliding up her waist. "Daemon."

"Whatever will you do?" Daemon said, nimbly undoing the pins and the tape with it. She slapped his devious hands again, but he pinned them above her head. She could have easily fought harder to get out of his hold, but when his knee rested in between her legs, she felt herself grow limp. He smirked, and he kept one hand pinning her arms while the other went to her breast, slithering under her dress.

She hit her head against the wall once more, trying to overcome the sensations of his touch with each painful thump. "I left one unbroken," she reminded him, referring to the cigars. His fingers circled her peaked nipples, and she stifled her own voice when he paired it with his knee raising up between her legs. The attraction was zig-zagging around her, as it had for the last five years.

"Oh forgive me, a gracious animal indeed," he said, and his phone pinged from his breast pocket, over and over again. He separated, leaving her cold without him as he went to unlock his phone. She watched his frown and slightly troubled expression that had her eyes narrowing. She stepped forward, normally one to respect privacy, but doing so required the trust that he had thoroughly broken.

"Who is it?" Rhaenyra asked, and he narrowed his eyes at her, typing a quick text.

"Nobody," he answered, and she just scowled, grabbing it from his loose grip and watching the expression of surprise cloud over him. "Rhaenyra." His voice was a warning, but she didn't care. She looked down, catching only the contact name.

"What kind of dumb name is Cheese?" Rhaenyra said and panicked when he stepped forward, dropping the phone down her dress.

"Do you really think that will stop me from getting it back?" Daemon moved forward, backing against the wall. The phone made its way slowly down the front of her dress and caught on her low-slung belt. Her skin prickled with goosebumps as the cold screen pressed against her stomach.

She felt a spark as his hands explored her waist, sending shivers through her entire body. His thumbs caressed her hips as his fingers trailed up the side of her dress. She heard voices outside their secluded gazebo, and he paused for a moment to listen. He watched her with intensity in his gaze, and she could feel her skin grow warmer as desire radiated from him. Just one touch was all it would take for him to know how wet she was, how much she craved more than just the teasing shadows of his fingertips.

"Come on, reach up my dress," she whispered, watching his steady and dark eyes on her before his hand continued. Once his palm touched the bare skin of her thigh, his gaze hardened, jaw clenching, and her back arched. There was an empty ache in between her legs, and she parted them for him, allowing him access.

The giggling grew louder, girls from the ball now wandering the grounds.

He let out a shaking breath but dropped her dress.

"Come to the party. Make a scene or ruin it as you tend to do, but come anyway," she asked, bending down to lift up both of their masks. She handed him back his own with a soft smile. She didn't hold her breath since Daemon was going to do whatever he wanted.

He took the mask while she adjusted her dress. They were both masked and at a wide distance when the gazebo doors opened.

"We were just leaving," Rhaenyra said with a bright smile to the three awkward teenagers. "Perhaps you can figure out the telescope. Mars is apparently visible tonight, but I could not find it." Rhaenyra gestured to the telescope that was on the far off wall, built into the gazebo. Daemon snorted.

"For the last time, Jupiteris visible tonight," Daemon retorted, and she waved her hand in an uncaring gesture. The girls made swift small talk and walked to the telescopes to check it out. When they were turned, Rhaenyra carefully and quickly slipped out his phone from under her dress.

She watched his masked frown for a moment longer before leaving the gazebo. As she did, she pulled her own phone from her dress pocket and went to Google.Well f*ck, Jupiter is visible tonight,she thought with a laugh, re-entering into the glittering light of the stone braziers.

Chapter 22: The Games We Play

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ－Ｔｗｏ
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝑒 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎
╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Her father taught her that—in the long game—defeat must become part of the strategy. At times, Alicent felt as if he had to say that just to go on to the next day. She was seven when she first watched him stumble in, alone and beaten. He was a man worn down. She had been just a girl back then, a child who had no mind to meaning on the cold purpose that drove each of his steps.

The light of their little loft was swallowed by the impeaching darkness. Little bits of snow fell from outside, where the white stalactites hung from the edge of the roof in the vast cavern of the city. The ice seemed to glow with purpose and that intent was to make certain she wouldn't be able to feel her own fingertips. "The power was shut off earlier," she told her father and watched as Otto gritted his teeth with a surge of indignation.

The Hightowers were once a noble house and perhaps some still were, but the name did not equate to prosperity in her house. Her uncles were well off, sapping up the pleasures of the faith while her father scrounged for silver in the dregs of his obeisance. Her mother would have never allowed it, but Alexandra Hightower was gone and she took a piece of him with her into the grave.

Alicent's weary ears refused to entertain her father's excuses any longer. She was drained by his reckless pursuits, his precarious gambles that had already claimed so much of their home. But Alicent was merely a girl, so she lowered her head and raised her hands to the stove, reheating the soup and silencing her thoughts. The sound of his coat cascading over the chair reached her ears, followed by the jingle of his keys and the heavy sigh that rumbled through his chest.

"It's only temporary," Otto assured her, but he had said the same thing when he had her read old books at Jaehaerys' bedside when she was 9. But Jaehaerys had succumbed to his sickness, and everything had remained unchanged. Her duty perpetually entwined around her like a relentless vine, but Alicent had no choice but to grow content with the thorns.

Her hands shook, the beds of her nails enflamed from the anxiety that brought her the compulsive urge to pick at her cuticles. She only nodded her head until it hurt. Her brother was nowhere to be found since her father had placed him as a ward in the Baratheon household when Jaehaerys had passed on. In the future, Alicent would look back and wonder if her father always moved them around like pieces on a chessboard.

"Are you hungry?" Alicent didn't know how to talk to her father and his lingering silence lowered her voice until she was but a mouse in the loft that they could barely afford. It was not the home she grew up in but at the very least, her father had removed himself from his cups.

He only let out a grunting noise that meant 'yes' and she filled the bowl with the twice-reheated stew. She saw bits of beets lap against the liquid, causing the red to splatter over her apron. She tried to steady her hand as she placed the bowl in front of him. He only gave her that long stare that made her feel transparent and filmy.

"How would you like to stay with the Targaryens for a time in the Hamptons?" Otto asked carefully, now raising his hand to lift the spoon. He was meticulous, circling the circumference of the bowl, tapping the metal against porcelain, before scooping it into his mouth without so much as blowing away the steam.

Alicent pauses, contemplating, standing still in her lavender polka-dot dress and feeling like a child. Otto was sitting right in front of her, bent down, slouched against the table, and yet still looming over her. Alicent wanted to shrug, to be indignant, or to act as if she couldn't hold in the ball of her feelings.

"If that is what you wish of me," Alicent said carefully, her hands clasping together in front of her, their interlocked fingers betraying her anxiety. It was an instinctual response, and already she found herself picking at the skin, disregarding the stinging sensation, while Otto's lips stretched into a pleased smile. Happiness carried a tax, and her father was adept at extracting it, leaving her with mere fragments. He walked away with a pocketful of her remnants, a testament to the person he had become, and these were the cards she had been dealt.

It was a deceptive kindness that he presented it as a choice. She would go to bed, convincing herself that she had made the decision, that she had taken control.

Her father had whisked her away to Sagaponack only a fortnight later. Surrounded by exquisite flowers and the embrace of frosty morning dew, she clutched her overcoat tightly, burying her hands in its sleeves and fastening the woolen coat buttons. He had kissed her cheek that morning, yet his affection seemed as distant as the chill that settled in her bones when he ascended the stairs. He greeted Viserys Targaryen with the familiarity of an old friend, but Alicent could no longer decipher the true meaning behind his expressions. He had been close with Baelon and was devastated when he passed. It was the first time she had ever seen her father shed tears, and she often recalled those moments—his hands gently wiping away stray droplets—as a poignant reminder that he was still human.

"I've never had a slumber party." Rhaenyra's initial words left Alicent in a state of disarray, her voice faltering as she locked eyes with the silver-haired girl. There were no horns or talons protruding from her, no ominous aura of the Stranger. Alicent had conjured images of a figure shrouded in a hooded cloak, with eyes as dark as night. When she envisioned the Targaryens, she often saw terrifying dragons, capable of reducing her home to ashes. She imagined menacing fangs and gleaming knives, symbols of danger and destruction.

Yet, Rhaenyra was only a girl of seven with a button nose and fat cheeks. Her hair was in intricate little braids that must have taken an hour to prepare. She had a soft voice, absent of Alicent's New York accent. It was neither the Queen's English nor as colourful as Jaehaerys' Brummie drawl. It was soft, absent of ill will.

"It's not," Alicent snapped, her fingers clenching around her coat until they trembled. The pressure on her nail beds burned. She longed to crawl away, to hide from the sun, to escape Rhaenyra Targaryen's innocent smile. With great effort, she forced her hands to her sides, her body rigid as if she were a statue. Alicent released a breath, attempting to banish thoughts of clammy flesh from her mind.

Rhaenyra's brows furrowed, her youth almost a reflection of Alicent's own. She inhaled deeply, fighting against the weight that pulsed against her face, her cheeks throbbing with every beat. "What's wrong with you?" Rhaenyra's question was cold and direct, and it brought a stinging sensation to the backs of Alicent's eyes.

Alicent sniffed, shutting them. That was a mistake. In the darkness, her mind conjured forth flashes of ignominy and fear. She couldn't feel so much as the brush of wind upon her face. She was haunted by a little white box with a red bow.

Alicent felt a gentle tug on her coat sleeve, guiding her arm forward until their fingers entwined. In the darkness, Rhaenyra's voice whispered, "Count to ten,” she said, her words carrying a hint of vulnerability. Alicent's mind flashed back to a time when she was a young girl, boarding a plane for the first time, overcome with fear and uncertainty. "My mummy held my hand like this," Rhaenyra continued, her voice filled with nostalgic warmth. The touch of Rhaenyra's skin against her own, the distant chirping of birds, and the gentle caress of the summer air all merged into a bittersweet symphony. It echoed the weight of Alicent's perceived failure and the remnants of her mother's wisdom. "She told me to count to ten. It helps. I swear," Rhaenyra's words hung in the air, a fragile thread of solace amidst the cacophony of doubts.

It didn't work. Alicent counted to twenty and yet no amount of numbers would cure her. She opened her eyes to see Rhaenyra's earnest expression staring up at her. She was silently asking her if she was better and Alicent saw no reason for honesty. "I'm fine," she said and it was worth the white lie just to see the seven-year-old grin.

"Then I'll show you my room," Rhaenyra said with an excited sound emitting from her lips. She grasped Alicent's hand, dragging her through the same doors that Otto and Viserys had disappeared through. The inside greeted her with the afternoon chiming of clocks that sounded the hour. These staggering chimes cried out to her with cuckoos calling out and deafening her. Moments later, the soft ticking.

Alicent was hyperaware of every noise in the metronome home that Rhaenyra dragged her through. The entrance hall split into four doors, but they walked straight ahead, giving Alicent an immediate view of the grand staircase of mahogany and oak. There was a round, stained glass window up on the second landing, but if Alicent squinted, she could recognize the odd dragon artwork with details too far away to distinguish. The window threw differing shades of blues and reds and yellows upon the entrance rug which was designed with more dragon artwork.

There were two mahogany carvings of dragons at the base of the stairs by the newel posts and above her head, reflecting crystal light, was a ten-arm chandelier. Everything looked so meticulously clean, making Alicent feel contaminated with the dirt from outside. She was hyperaware of the portraits on the wall of a happy family. Rhaenyra must have been three in it, her hair up in fishtail braids. Alicent's eyes were on Viserys, smiling in the painting. In between them was a woman with stunningly bright eyes and the loving expression of a mother.

Alicent only got seconds to view it, but it made her feel empty, as if her insides had been painstakingly carved out with the ticking clock.

Rhaenyra's finger traced the path through the empty rooms, a melancholic tour leading Alicent further into the desolate emptiness. Each room they passed held nothing but the haunting presence of clocks, their ticking echoing through the stillness. Amidst the silence, a small girl's voice filled the air with aimless chatter, a stream of words that held no substance or meaning. Alicent yearned for tranquility, a respite from the disquietude, but propriety restrained her from voicing such a desire. She moved forward, her steps vacant and hollow, as if she had been transformed into a mechanical being. The unfamiliar girl, a stranger in this surreal landscape, led the way, and Alicent dutifully followed, ascending each step with a sense of detachment.

"And that's your room," Rhaenyra had spoken more words in fifteen minutes than Alicent had heard all year.

What am I here for? Alicent wanted to ask her father this, but Otto had perfected deflection while she had become just as skilled at avoidance.

"Ah," Alicent's whisper was weak. She was striving to find some manner of her training and of her etiquette that was lost in the crushing defeat.

She was brought into the little girl's room and greeted by the enormous space that was a reminder of Alicent's first home. Her father's addictions had forced them to be uprooted from it, but he always told her that one day they'd get it back. He'd always told her that he'd remake their legacy.

But he always lied.

Alicent was a stranger in this place, wishing for isolation and yet being denied it at every hour. When Rhaenyra refused to leave her alone in the coming weeks, Alicent's only recourse was to act entirely bored, as if nothing but the books in the library were of any interest to her. Often, Alicent didn't even read them, staring into the serifs as if they might come alive and absorb her in between the pages. Rhaenyra found no amusem*nt in the grand library of the home and after an hour of pestering, she'd usually leave her alone.

She didn't think she could feel any worse if her own arms and legs were severed from her body. She missed her father as she had for years. She missed her brother who had never cared much for her.

She had wandered from room to room when Rhaenyra had finally fallen asleep mid-sentence. She discovered the many facets of the grand home, only to pause in front of the family portrait near the end of the hallway, just before the large staircase. Alicent stared up at it for long moments, the knots in her belly tying themself in complex little shapes that made her sick. Her nails dug into her palms, recognizing the vibrant silver hair of a pair of brothers, a wife, and a daughter.

It was ludicrous to be so frightened of a man in a portrait, but Alicent had been shivering since she first opened the package of a severed hand. It was the first time she saw true fear in her father's eyes, but if she had known he'd send her away over it, she would have never shown him.

The library was the largest room in the house, larger than the floor space in her entire flat back in Brooklyn. She couldn't comprehend why it should be so much bigger than an entire apartment complex.

"You're still up?" Aemma Targaryen's voice filled the quiet space, entering the room in her long robes. Alicent hadn't been reading the book in her lap, just absorbed in the smell of the old pages and the grounding feel of the aged parchment. It was the second week and Alicent missed her familiar home, filled with the quiet abundance of her father's lacking presence.

Alicent hadn't engaged much with the Targaryens in the household, nor had she ventured beyond her shell or explored the books. Aemma's smile blossomed as Alicent fixated on her clenched knuckles against the binding, too timid to face the radiant and expanding expression. Aemma must have only just returned from the party she and Viserys had attended earlier that evening, for her makeup remained untouched. Her lips were as full and vivid as the droplets of blood, beading at the edge of a fresh wound.

Alicent's hands shook at the thought, feeling foolish for being frightened of a smile.

“Ah," Aemma whispered, sitting on the little leather chair just across from Alicent. "Are you deeply religious?" She was gesturing to the tomb in Alicent's hands titled 'The Faith of Old Valyria'. Her father would call it an old religion, buried in the modern day. He would say that it was vital that she understood it.

"Dad says to read a passage every night," Alicent grudgingly admitted. She was taken aback by the motherly way Aemma talked as well as by her captivating loveliness.

"My father would have me do the same." Aemma's eyes shone in the candlelight, her voice soft with a fondness as she spoke. "May I?" With gentle reverence, she carefully held out her hand and Alicent silently handed her the scripture. Aemma ran her fingers over the worn leather of the binding before opening it slowly. "I would wake at seven to read the scripts, memorize the hymns, and once that was done, we'd make our prayers to the Seven."

"What are you praying for?" It had been ages since Alicent had uttered a prayer, not since she had clasped her hands together and pleaded with the Seven-Faced God to cure her mother. But neither the Father nor the Mother had listened, and she had wailed to her brother that it hadn't done anything.

"You prayed to the wrong God," Gwayne had yelled, his hands pushing her down into the wet mud. Alicent could still recall the force of the shove and the feel of her dress sticking to her skin. "It's your fault the Stranger came instead."

"Petty things," Aemma admitted, flipping through entire passages in the text. "I'd ask for a snowstorm to cancel school. New shoes. Fancy dresses. A boyfriend to make my friends jealous."

Alicent had yet to look up from her clenched hands, too nervous to meet the expectancy that she could never live up to. She had been struck by calamity on so many occasions that she had grown nervous over even friendly faces. First, the death of her mother, closely followed by her father's gambling addiction. Nothing pleasant followed each event and instead of holding her close as she wanted, Otto had sent her away.

"What do you pray for?" Aemma asked and Alicent heard the squeaking of the leather couch when she leaned back into it.

"I don't," Alicent admitted as she recalled the times she had spent at Jaehaerys' bedside, gripping his weathered hand tightly. He'd often prayed to her, calling her the Maiden. His watery eyes would plead with her to keep his last surviving daughter safe, and all Alicent could do was whisper the name back to her father—"Saera Targaryen."

Otto would respond by saying, "Well, just humour an old man."

"Then you don't have to read the boring passages if you don't want to," Aemma handed over the book once more, having flipped it to the many hymns towards the back. "Do you like music, Alicent?"

She only shrugged, carefully reading the song about the afterlife. The end was a sweet surcease, a joyous feast and a land of prosperous merriment.

"They sang this tune often back in the septs at Dragonstone. I still remember the smell of incense, the seven-sided crystal alive with light, and the echoes of the song that bounced against the bricks," Aemma was saying, eyeing the dark circles under Alicent's eyes.

"How do you know who you're praying to?" Alicent finally asked, lulled to speech with Aemma's soft tone.

"It's all the same God. He just has many faces," Aemma answered, watching Alicent stare down lines of song and back towards Aemma. There was an ugly candelabra on the mahogany reading table between them and it restricted some of the woman's face. "You don't always have to ask for things. Sometimes you can confess."

"Confess what?" Alicent's voice felt dry from her lips, melded in uncertainty.

"Your fears or your worries that you might not feel comfortable telling others." Aemma's smile was kind. "I'm sorry about Rhaenyra. She's never had a friend her age before. I know her attention can get overwhelming."

Alicent's hands squeezed the binding of the book, hearing her fingers indent the pages. "Why am I here?"

Aemma paused, considering the words. "Do you not want to be?"

Alicent only shrugged again. "I don't know."

"Your father was assigned to help with the development of the new tower," Aemma finally admitted, her brows furrowed. "Did he not tell you any of this?" Alicent quickly shut her mouth, not wanting to implicate her own father.

Aemma sighed, standing and holding out her hand. "Let's get you to bed Alicent. Tomorrow isn't so far away." She guided Alicent down the long hallway and into a room with a giant, four-poster bed with an ornate dressing table that she did not need. Her room was too big, too empty, but Alicent didn't want to admit that yet another thing frightened her.

At the door, Aemma pat Alicent's hair with an affectionate touch. "There's opportunity in Sagaponack. Your dad just wants what's best for you."

Alicent only nodded, allowing them to share their goodbyes. Once the door was closed, she walked through the giant room, and passed the three-winged mirror that she didn't like to look at. She found the phone her father had given her, sitting atop the nightstand. She still didn't know much about how to use it aside from text.

She opened up her messages, finding one from her dad. There were no words of affection or goodnights and instead a demanding order that gave her vivid flashbacks to Jaehaerys. She awoke early the next day, wandering the house in the early hours where everyone slept. Alicent crept through room after room, searching for the study.

It was unlocked, but she still had to reach up high to turn the knob. The inside was immaculate, yet eerie in the dark. A chair had been set by the window and Alicent sat in it, tempting to look outside and fall asleep against the armrest. She did not, only taking out the recording device her father had left her, not that she knew what it was at the time.

Alicent untangled her long chestnut hair from a makeshift ponytail at her neck, and peeled the film off the device in her hand. With a slight push of her fingers, it stuck to the bottom of the seat.

Her chestnut hair was gathered at her nape when she peeled the film off the device where it stuck to her fingers. She placed it under the seat, allowing it to stick to the bottom. Alicent recalled so few memories of her father, listening to him spin her fairy tales. Now she was stuck, listlessly waiting for tales that were nowhere to be found.

Alicent quickly hopped off the seat, picking at enflamed cuticles.

Rhaenyra was greeted with a bubble of silence at her father's table. There was an expectation to act as if everything was fine and it was one the whole of her family had been doing for years. What was one more dinner?

There were candles lit atop the surface of the table and they shook as she stepped closer, pulling out the chair over the drumming sound in her heart. It matched the music all around her. Viserys had his hands atop the table, Alicent seated next to him, and not a child in sight. Alicent was deep into her cup of some virgin co*cktail, seated poised and refined at her chair when Rhaenyra took her seat across.

"I saw you dancing with Jason Lannister," were Viserys' first words once she scooted in.

"If you call that dancing," she replied with a snort.

"And what do you call it?" Alicent asked with an amused smile towards her estranged friend.

"Being held hostage," Rhaenyra replied, quickly grabbing a flute of champagne from the passing server.

"Lannister is a reputable house," Viserys chimed back in, cutting through the shared glance between the girls. "Long ties, honourable men," he listed, either not knowing or not caring about the rising irritation in his daughter.

Alicent took a long sip from her drink while Rhaenyra spotted Jason in the crowd, stealing glances as he had since she walked back into the ballroom. She was waiting on the edge of her seat, despite knowing in her gut that Daemon wasn't about to grow a spine and sit next to her.

"He had strange notions on marriage," Rhaenyra commented carefully. "As if the match had already been discussed once before."

"I might have mentioned it in the passing," Viserys said stiffly, sending Jason Lannister a cursory glance. "He is a good man. Have you any complaints?"

Rhaenyra had hundreds but paused in the face of Alicent's warning sigh into her glass. It was a tacit way to steady her tongue, but watching the steady unity of Alicent and Viserys would perhaps always be cloying. Rhaenyra was about to change the subject and add this to the growing list of things she and her father would not broach.

"I'm not looking for a husband," Rhaenyra said.

"It's not about what you're looking for." Viserys was choosing his words less carefully now. "It's about what's best for you."

"I'm not marrying a random co*ck just because I am being slammed in the print and my back is against the wall," Rhaenyra said.

"We'll talk about it later," Viserys finally released the words.

"No," Rhaenyra said with a bemused scoff. "We won't. There is nothing to say."

Viserys scowled, but it dissipated when he spotted Rhaenys Velayron approach the table. "Cousin," she greeted, always managing to sound poise, no matter the circ*mstance. "I have yet to find my son since you let go of his hand," she said with a slightly fond smile in Rhaenyra's direction.

"I spotted him a bit after Rhaenyra left the ball, half an hour ago," Alicent said, despite the way Rhaenyra's head snapped up.

"I needed air, Laenor did not," Rhaenyra's hands squeezed and clenched her dress until the silk was resting between her fingers.

Rhaenys took a seat next to her while Rhaenyra absentmindedly raised her phone to check her own reflection. Her hair was styled to perfection and her makeup was unblemished upon the smooth mould of her skin. She was beautiful, but that didn't necessarily mean that anyone actually loved her.

She felt a vibration from Daemon's phone in her lap, and she lowered her eyes to it, ignoring the chatting on business and all the frivolities she did not care about. She saw herself in the black screen of Daemon's phone, his lock screen nothing special—just a sunset from atop the cliffside. She was staring at the newest message, written from that same contact titled 'Cheese'. All it said was 'Package delivered'.

Rhaenyra read the new message, watching the Face ID deem her unrecognisable. She entered one passcode, watching it fail before she tried another and another. Her nose wrinkled, her face growing hot as the phone proceeded to lock her out.

"Rhaenyra," Alicent said from across the table, reminding her where she was and who was there with her. Her mind felt scattered with her flesh prickling with longing for someone else. "Did you?"

"Did I what?" Rhaenyra hadn't been listening to the conversation, having mentally checked out the moment marriage had interrupted the discussion.

Alicent's frown returned, her hands hidden under the table. "Did you invite Mr Strong?"

Her father was looking at her now, his expression a mirror of Alicent's. Rhaenys was the only one minding her business which was always something Rhaenyra enjoyed about her. "Why would I do that?"

"It's a poor reflection," Alicent said stiffly, her voice lowering.

"How so?" Rhaenyra asked instead.

Viserys sighed, tipping his head back. "Perhaps you could see him publically in order to dispel the current rumours."

"What is this? The 1950s," Rhaenyra said with a sigh, hearing Rhaenys chuckle from her side.

"Perhaps this is best discussed at another time?" Rhaenys suggested, but she likely did not realize that postponing it a day would delay the conversation years. "Children are difficult. Laena often refuses my husband's matches."

"Laena and Rhaenyra are quite different," Viserys said stiffly, now lifting his fork back up to cut into his steak. The steam wafted up, drenching Rhaenyra in waves of nausea from across the table.

"All children are difficult," Rhaenys said, sparing a glance towards the younger Targaryen. "In their own way."

A part of Rhaenyra had wanted to sit down and laugh as a family, desiring a sense of normalcy that she didn't know how to achieve. If not normal, then at the very least she wanted to quell the isolation she felt here.

"Where is your father?" Rhaenyra asked, finally turning her gaze onto Alicent. She didn't bother to hide the ire in her tone, directing it like an accusatory knife at Alicent. "I have not seen him all night."

Alicent leaned back in surprise at the tone and despite how desperately Rhaenyra wanted to believe that innocently unaware expression, she could not. "I do not know," Alicent finally said and her voice was a soft breeze of indifference. She had years to cultivate the airy tone, yet Rhaenyra had never heard it used on her before.

"Right," Rhaenyra said, not minding the worried expression on her father's face as he glanced in between the two. "Rhaenys." Rhaenyra finally looked away from Alicent's furrowed expression, catching her cousin mid-sip. "I hear Vaemond and Otto have gotten closer as of late. How did that happen?"

"New projects arise," Rhaenys agreed with a pause, tilting her head in thought. "Currently we are working to overhaul the oil hedges and Otto has offered his legal expertise on the contracts."

Rhaenyra's smile thinned, sending her father a narrowed and pointed glance before her attention shifted right back. "Otto has made some risky investments these last few years." Rhaenyra redirected her stare towards Alicent and at the girl's hand that had been rested upon her swollen belly all night. "Perhaps having another set of eyes might bode well for our investments."

Rhaenys tilted her head back and the glittering material of her cream dress cast her in soft fluorescent light. She was the 'Heir Who Never Was' and Rhaenyra had always felt some manner of kinship with her. Despite that, she had gone her entire New York years feeling as though they were at odds with one another when they could have been working together.

"You wish to be on the project?" Rhaenys' lips thinned in contemplation over the sound of Viserys's fork and knife scraping against his plate. There was a voiceless noise at the table, filled to abundance with tapping heels, porcelain clamouring against silver, and Rhaenyra's slowing heart.

There had been near proof of her involvement in the fire down in Brooklyn and Rhaenyra had every inclination that Otto Hightower had her followed and watched. She had been watched from every angle since stepping foot off the plane into this city and it had deepened since being named heir.

"Why not? I'm qualified for it," Rhaenyra said carefully, daring her father to deny her. Infuriated with her, he may very well be, but he'd never openly repudiate her. He also never prepared her for this world and instead named her heir before abandoning her to New York's whims.

"Corlys enjoys new eyes," Viserys said in between bites.

"Vaemond does not," Rhaenys said, only to be interrupted by the clamouring of commotion towards the back of the ballroom. There was drumming from the timpani, blending in with the family of percussion and wind instruments until all was silent except for its loud clamour.

Rhaenyra could see through the crowd of patrons, still masked and dancing. It was through this haze of frivolity that she spotted Daemon Targaryen step up on the stage, in between one beating drum to its last. Viserys was mid-bite when he froze, his fist dropping to the table and clattering the silver when Daemon seized the microphone from the podium. Rhaenyra assumed it had been set up for the Baratheons to make some grand speech that was likely not to happen.

"What a beautiful home the Baratheons have rebuilt," Daemon said and silence settled into the party. Most had no idea the history behind the fire—as in the dark as she had once been. Some had inklings of the controversy and Rhaenyra could see it amongst the whispering Royces four tables away. All, however, knew who Daemon was.

He had discarded his mask and she'd likely find it flung in the gazebo outside. The inside of the ballroom was nothing like Rhaenyra had imagined when she prepared herself for tonight. She had expected Storm's End to be a melancholy pile with musty rooms, rich with growing mildew and decay. It had been rebuilt, grand and new and yet Rhaenyra could still picture the pellets of rat poison and dust covering the surfaces that were too high for the maids to reach. It was extraordinary instead, with a magnificent entrance hall that could fit the presence of a king.

When Daemon stepped atop the stage, however, the vibrant dishes turned into smeared silver crockery. The whispers had faded, filled with devious silence from behind their animated masks. As unpleasant as the fellow guests might seem, she was startled by the lacking thrum in their conversations. They were the lifeblood of this frightening place and without their splendid exchanges, a grim hush instead filled the spaces of the ballroom.

"I walked through Storm's End many times as a child," Daemon continued, his voice descending over her, motioning her closer until she could bare their distance. Her chair creaked with a cacophony of noise, but he did not look at her. Instead, his eyes were perusing the crowd in a hunt that went to a close as he spotted the Baratheons watching him from across the ballroom. "Walking through it now, I am amazed by the magnificence of it all."

Rhaenyra could barely see them—tucked into the crowd as they were. It wouldn't much matter since Borros Baratheon's black stag mask restricted the entirety of his face. She was aware of Otto Hightower, descending upon their table. She could barely restrain the upheaval of spewing hatred at his face now in close proximity to her own. He knelt near Viserys, who had pushed away his food and braced his hands against the table. She was aware of his white knuckles and pale face when he took in the scene his brother was causing.

"Should I remove him?" Otto suggested, nearly too quiet to hear but Rhaenyra could read his lips from over her champagne glass.

"And make a spectacle?" Rhaenys said, arching a brow. "Let him have his fun."

Viserys had yet to say a word, but Rhaenyra was not surprised by his lack of action. Her attention was snagged on her uncle once more. Daemon was smiling, at ease with the whispers of the party and the hostility that had become a palpable tension amongst the Baratheons. "Truly," he continued, now gesturing to the band. "And all this achieved in a short decade. I would toast to your success, Borros Baratheon, but as you see, I am without a drink."

Daemon pulled out a lighter and the disrespectful glow lit the heights of his cheekbones. Rhaenyra could count each of the devious specs in his eyes before her attention was drawn to Borros' tentative steps forward, cutting through the crowd. Daemon's lips quirked up, undaunted as he lit a cigar, filling the room with a cloud of smoke that wafted through in fumes so strong they reached her.

"Gods be good," Viserys said, sinking his face in his hand.

"On with the party and the music." The moment he said it, the orchestra began to play, but the notes were uneasy. The crowd was uncertain. However, none more than the vultures in the room could appreciate a scene. "To the Beggar Lord," Daemon said, blowing out the smoke into a chorus of laughter amongst the patrons.

The dance commenced as Daemon let the cigar slip from his grasp, its ember landing on the stage with a hiss of smoke. The swirling plume of black emerged—a menacing cloud that served as a stark affirmation of what a c*nt he was.

Otto slumped into a defeated position, his words dripping with disdain. "A reckless fool," he muttered, stoking the fire of Rhaenyra's anger. She strained her eyes, searching for her elusive uncle amidst the swirling movements of the crowd. Yet, amidst the chaotic dance floor, Daemon had vanished without a trace.

Otto's tone succinctly described both the display and Daemon Targaryen himself. Neither did he hold in high regard, but Rhaenyra brushed off his scorn. She had no defence of him either, looking down into her lap instead as she pulled out his phone. However, there were no more new text messages on his notification board.

"Was he invited?" Alicent finally asked, earning an incredulous, yet inscrutable glance from Viserys.

"As always," Viserys said, his hands still braced against the table. "My brother will do whatever he wants." He was standing now, staggering enough to make Rhaenyra wonder if he had filled his cups all night. The air was heavy, sweet with perfume that stirred like a centrifuge with the uncertain music that had begun to soar and glide against the walls. She was drawn to the many lights that led up to the top of the cupola, even as she desired to drape over her own chair like a wilted orchid.

"I will find Borros Baratheon and apologize," Otto suggested, lowering his head like a servant.

"More empty words," Rhaenys said, her fingers clinging to her glass as Alicent rubbed calming circles into her belly. "The Baratheons won't care for toneless apologies. Best bow your heads respectfully out the door." The mood at the table was a restless agitation which contrasted with the celebratory dance from all around them.

"Perhaps it's time to properly reprimand him," Otto said, leaning back with an expression that eloquently conveyed his own distaste for the events.

"I am surprised you did not see it coming," Rhaenyra said, losing the solid grip on her tongue. "You aren't having him watched and followed? Or is that purely reserved for me?"

He pivoted to face her, her confrontational tone filling the air, amidst the prying eyes of onlookers stealing glances at their table. His weathered hand found solace in the roughness of his scraggly beard, fingers combing through the wiry strands that stubbornly sprang back to their original position. His daughter resembled a shard of glass half the time with her thin, angular body and high cheekbones. Alicent had his hair, a shimmering brown highlighted in the lights. She was wearing a green dress, both fashionable and sensible for her pregnancy. Yet, Rhaenyra often saw Alicent in his dark eyes, as though he were her mirror. Or maybe she was his.Maybe Daemon was right.

Rhaenyra shook away the thought, hating when he was right about anything.

"What is this about?" Viserys asked while Alicent only looked to Otto with an expression inscrutable.

"Dad?" Alicent's tone was not accusatory and the sharp lines of her face mirrored that expression.

"What is it about?" Rhaenyra repeated, sneering now.

"I haven't the slightest," Otto said after a momentary hesitation as if he were weighing the danger of his words.

"And now is hardly the time for this," Rhaenys said with a chuckle. "If I may, as the 'Heir Who Never Was'." She pointedly looked to Rhaenyra when she spoke the title that must have bothered her, despite her disinterest. "Perhaps conduct this business outside of enemy lines."

"There are neither enemies nor anything to discuss," Viserys said, now slamming his fist into the table, silencing them and turning heads in their direction. He had a way of parrying her words with his maddening brush off. It made her understand why her uncle had been so irritated by his brother. She could imagine the fights they must have had, letters exchanged and filled with more empty sentences and callous words that feinted and amounted to nothing.

She wanted to say just the right words, pick them with perfect ease and put everything right. It was not a talent she could ever excel in, even if she had a million years to think on the right sentences to strew together. She would never hold Laena's ease or grace. Laena, who could flow through life as a sea breeze, gliding over the ocean like a graceful wave.

"We don't discuss our enemies I suppose," Rhaenyra finally snapped, slamming her champagne against the table. "We just marry their daughters."

"Rhaenyra," Alicent finally cut in, her tone in warning, but Rhaenyra did not care.

Rhaenys placed her palm against Rhaenyra's bare arm, squeezing it. "Ah, I do see Laenor now and he is quite drunk. Help me get him, Rhaenyra."

She paused, wanting to stay, wanting to fight, but exhaled out her violent resentment and nodded. She followed her older cousin away from the table, but instead of to Laenor, Rhaenys led her towards the second story of the ballroom. When they made it to the quiet balcony, she finally stopped, her hands braced against the stones that overlooked the night sky.

Rhaenyra stepped next to her, leaning forward and bracing her weight against it. "Have you come here to cast me off?" She smiled over to Rhaenys from through the strands of silver hair. Her older cousin only turned her way, leaning her hip against the stones.

"Shouting and whining won't achieve results, Rhaenyra," Rhaenys warned her, head tilted.

"I know," Rhaenyra concurred, her cousin's gaze locking onto her with lilac intensity, reminiscent of an amethyst washed ashore by the advancing tide."But they don't listen when I whisper."

"Your words are worth less than Otto's. There's a difference," Rhaenys replied. "You beg for opportunities to prove your worth while he is given them."

"I donot beg," Rhaenyra's voice lowered, her back straightening. "You do not know what you're talking about."

Rhaenys' lips curled up in mocking amusem*nt. "Right. What would I know? I've only lived in this city my whole life. I've only been in your exact position."

"We are not the same. You were unjustly passed over. I was not," Rhaenyra retorted, hoping her words might sting and yet Rhaenys' smile did not dissipate.

"The world has not changed, Rhaenyra. The Targaryens are the backbone of oil distribution as they have been since old Valyria. I had trained my entire life, married who I was told to, and worked for years just to be passed over by a boy four years my junior who hadn't even wanted it." Rhaenys took a step forward, brushing the back of her hand over Rhaenyra's cheekbones. "I was born in New York and into this game. You arrived late and were coddled and swaddled and protected. It's not your fault but that's what happened. You may have been chosen as heir, but there are livelihoods that depend on the head of House Targaryen. They would sooner burn you in your home than take orders from you."

"So what am I to do? Give you the reigns?" Rhaenyra asked, her brows furrowed together.

Rhaenys brushed her fingers through her cousin's hair, not so unlike a mother. "Stop giving them ammunition to use against you. Once you learn how to play the game, perhaps then you will realize you can't win it. Just as I could not."

Rhaenyra had gotten home with a crushing wave of exhaustion, slumping her back against the door of her loft with a groan. Her feet were throbbing and only offered relief when she pried one heel off as if she were taking a crowbar to a locked door. She lowered further to the ground, her height lessened when she tossed both shoes off and sat upon her couch to massage her sore feet. "Hey Siri," she commented lazily, barely looking away from the ceiling. "Turn on TV."

Her smart TV flicked on and she ordered Siri to open Netflix, playing a random show as white noise. She lazily reached for her purse that she had dropped just to her right and removed Daemon's phone.

There were no new text messages, but it felt warm in her touch as her acrylics tapped against the screen. She lowered it to her chest, feeling at peace just holding something of his. Yet, those uncorked emotions were debilitating so she tossed the phone to the side and rolled off the couch, padding her bare feet across the hardwood floor. She lit the fireplace with a button, watching it bathe her feet in golden light.

She reached behind her, clumsily unzipping her dress and letting it fall to her feet where she proceeded to walk out of it.

She made it past the partition and began to rummage through her closet in search of her nightgown when she heard the first knocking against her door. She lazily slipped on a robe, tying her hair back into a loose ponytail as she walked across the cold wood. She should have looked through the peephole. She should have been careful and safe, but it wasn't necessary, unsurprised when she opened the door to reveal Daemon.

His eyes scanned down her state of half dress, her makeup yet to be removed, and her bare legs mostly exposed. He looked behind her, as if he'd find Harwin Strong buttoning his shirt in the background, yet there was nothing but the white noise of her TV. Her legs were cold from the December chill, so she silently stepped aside to let him in. His hair held flakes of snow and she wanted to brush her fingers through every strand. She wanted to devour him, possess him, or love him.

She closed the door from behind him.

"You didn't come back to the party."

"I'm here now." He had taken off his tux jacket and undone his golden cuff links. It was nowhere to be seen on his person, telling her that he had stopped somewhere to remove it. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing some of his skin with his bowtie undone, hanging on either side of his neck.

"If I had known you were coming, I would have put the kettle on," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I might have let you help me out of my dress."

"You seem to have had no trouble getting out of it," he replied smoothly, still looking around the loft before watching her pad across the room to light her jade candle. Her hand was shaking when she pressed the flame of the long lighter to the wooden wick. She saw him lifting her dress off the ground from across the room, draping it over the couch.

"It's not about trouble," she said carefully, trying to think. Every time he was in the room, she had lost access to her own bones. All her limbs moved on autopilot towards his never-awaiting arms. "It's about seduction."

Daemon let out a deep chuckle that slithered down her spine. "Do you mean to seduce me, niece?"

It should have thrown her off. He used the word so casually, a reminder of what they were. Yet instead of being disgusted with herself, she only felt slick heat. "I don't think you could handle what I mean to do to you." She met his gaze from across the room, where he leaned against the wall with crossed arms.

He let out an 'ah' sound, but he wasn't looking at her now. Instead, his long legs had led him across the room where he lifted his phone from the couch cushions. It was still locked from her many attempts at getting into it, which he noticed with an amused chuckle. "It's a shame. You used to respect privacy."

"I used to respect you," she answered back, crossing her arms and allowing the swells of her breasts to peek out from through the V of her robes. His nostrils flared, pointedly meeting her eyes. "I liked your speech."

"I said I'd handle them," he said casually, stalking forward and his fingers traced the back of the couch as she circled the opposite way. They were separated by the cream couch where she had often touched herself and imagined him.

"How is acerbating them, 'handling' them?" Rhaenyra felt like she was being hunted when he looked at her like that and it was all too easy to fall into his arms. It was easy to want to be captured.

Daemon's lips quirked, his eyes bathed in mirth as he slipped his phone into his back pocket. "Untie your robe," he ordered and she laughed.

"Stimulate me with a bit of communication first," she said, watching him pause.

"Communication? Should I wax poetic nonsense on the fall of Caesar?" he said, circling closer and she let him. She could not deny the desire coursing through her, melding and blending with a confusing love that she could not distinguish. She had the love of an uncle and a niece, a pair of lovers, and that of friends. Half the time, she could not separate one from the other.

"How about the fall of the Baratheons? As you so alluded to," she said, trying not to lean into his touch when he tucked stray strands of hair behind her ear. He only smiled.

"I ordered the burning of the home," he whispered, admitting it like a conspirator. He leaned in closer, brazen in the kiss he placed upon her neck that made her eyes flutter shut.

"I know that," she said, trying to clear a path of thoughts. "But why?"

"Because I am cruel and unkind and not Sir Crispin. Is this such a surprise?" Daemon leaned back, his hands on her shoulders, pushing himself away with a force that shook her brain.

"You talk about Criston more than I even think about him," Rhaenyra said, hearing the pelting snow against the windows of the loft. She could hear the snow in her chimney just before it came down to douse her fireplace. "f*ck me," she muttered, stepping away from his touch to inspect it. She had very few life skills, so she merely closed the shutters and blocked it away. "I don't care about Criston."

"An awfully long time to be with someone you do not care about," Daemon remarked, his words devoid of any hint of amusem*nt, as his blank expression betrayed no emotion. She observed him settling into a seat, snowflakes still clinging to his hair, the chill in the loft freezing them into icy crystals.

"Well, I am cruel and unkind and not at all like the nice girls you met in these three years," she said instead, walking to her thermostat to raise the temperature.

"None of them were very nice," Daemon said, now unlocking his phone as they continued to talk over Netflix and the ambience of the crackling candle. "Perhaps I have a type."

It should not have made her heart swell in her chest, but she didn't have normal reactions to garbage. He could offer her dead birds like a stray cat and she'd be just as feral for him. "Criston made me want to be better." She was pretending to fiddle with the thermostat, nervous at her own words. She was feeling shy, which was foolish since it was only Daemon. "You always made me feel okay as I am."

Daemon only let out a sound, rather like a hum that reminded her of Laena. He didn't bother with a reply—the many words she wanted to hear from him. She witnessed the viscious lack of vulnerability that had his walls raising high as she turned his head away.

She shouldn't have been hurt, but the pang thrummed in her chest like a battering ram. She could offer her entire heart to him and he'd only grunt and say he didn't want it.

"The intention was to maim Tamar Baratheon," Daemon explained, changing the direction of the conversation. He steered it just as he steered her.

What a coward,Rhaenyra thought with a soft sigh.

"He spilled secrets into the world so he could gain power. My grandfather was near death, and it was his chance to redirect our family's influence away from the Targaryens." Daemon pauses, hesistating before saying, "He used his own two hands to betray our House and I made certain he could never use those hands again."

Rhaenyra's fingers trailed down her arms until they curled around the edges of her palms. She pivoted to face him. "Like always, you choose your words so well, yet poorly. Must I beg for you to tell me the morsels that you toss my way?" Stepping closer, she fought the old habit of restlessly twirling strands of hair around her finger. "Tell all of it or go home."

Daemon released a weary sigh, tossing his phone aside and loosening his tie before flinging it carelessly onto the cushions. "You'll need to be more specific," he replied, widening his stance and meeting her gaze as she leaned on one hip.

"I am so tired of your vague half-answers," Rhaenyra finally snapped, striding around the coffee table and kicking his leg with the point of her toe. He merely arched a brow, gazing at her like an owl. "You have a vendetta against them. That's the only way to describe your stunt up there tonight."

"I said I'd handle them for you." Daemon's indigo eyes twinkled, and a warm smile graced his lips as he spoke. She leaned her lithe frame over him and placed her left hand gently on the side of his face. With her pointer and thumb, she lightly grasped his chin for a moment, looking deep into his eyes.

Rhaenyra shook her head, her eyes narrowing in disgust. "Do you truly mean to treat me as a fool?" she seethed. She stepped closer and glared up at him, her slender fingers pressing into the soft skin of his chin like a vice. "None of this is done for my sake. You engage in these actions simply because you revel in drawing attention. You thrive in chaos. If it weren't Tamar, it would have been someone else, and then another, because that's who you are." Her grip on his face slowly loosened, her fingertips grazing over his neck in one fleeting caress before she stepped back and crossed her arms.

"I needed them to be distracted tonight," Daemon finally admitted, smiling. "Distractions breed mistakes, niece. I thought mummy taught you chess?"

Rhaenyra leaned in close, her eyes searching his for an answer. Her heart raced as his gaze travelled down the length of her face, lingering on her lips before returning to meet hers. "And what about me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she held her breath. "Do you still think of me as part of the game? An obstacle that you would remove if given the chance?" She'd asked it before, but this time, she willed him to give her an honest answer instead of one cloaked in flowery platitudes.

"I try not to think of you at all," he admitted, sounding as though he had to pry the words out with great effort.

She scoffed, angry that he was in her corner only when they had a common enemy, be that the Hightowers or the Baratheons or anyone else. She wondered what nefarious actions he might have committed upon her head, had they not been such a bother.

"Otto has been having me followed," she finally pried out the words, her lips pressed together so tightly that they became one. "I think he's been leaking my actions to the press these last few years."

The drugs, the alcohol, her skinny dipping in Florida. She thought she had been careful, but different sources kept exposing them to the public. Knowing who was behind it was only a temporary salve on a bleeding wound.

"And Alicent," Daemon asked, not looking surprised, believing her as her own father refused to do. She was many things, but she tried not to be a liar so his lack of action had deeply hurt.

"She's done nothing," Rhaenyra replied, perhaps too quickly. Daemon only drummed his fingers over the back of the couch, looking towards the frost on the window.

"You've always defended her," he finally said, deep in thought. "She's hardly done nothing."

"What do you want me to do?" Rhaenyra asked, the space between her brows lessening with her frown. "Whether we like it or not, she's a Targaryen now."

"And not at all as you had imagined?" Daemon's barbed remark laid her bare, but it was his nature to make words hurt.

She had never told a soul about the depth of her feelings for Alicent. There was nothing to say since she made her choice and yet Rhaenyra only wished more people chose her. Even her uncle would likely choose himself at the end of the night, but knowing that didn't make her love him any less.

"You couldn't even fathom the depths of my imagination," Rhaenyra retorted, distancing herself from him and moving towards the kitchen. There, she busied herself with the preparation of tea and boiling water, attempting to alleviate the overwhelming restlessness coursing through her veins. As she wiped down the counter, she yearned for some semblance of satisfaction to quell the burning sensation that consumed her.

"Let it go. That girl is a snake just as her father is. One push and she'll cast you away," he said, still on his phone. She always suspected that he did what he thought was right in order to survive, but he had done so for so long that he survived on what was not right. He thrived in the mistrust and the betrayal until he expected them from everyone, even his own family.

"You don't know that. They are not the same." Rhaenyra finally snapped, slapping the washcloth against the countertop. She heard him stand and walk towards her. He didn't bother with gentle touches, instead spinning her so they were chest to chest.

He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her mouth to his. He kissed her, rough and scathing and it had her making sweet little noises into his open mouth. She gasped, the heat erupting between her legs and licking at the sweltering flesh. His hands were tangled in her hair, his jaw tilted, and he was cupping her ears. She clutched his shirt, further unbuttoning it with the force of her grip.

He had backed her into the counter, lifting her so she was sitting atop the surface. He didn't remove the robe, content with the kiss as he came up for air, only to come right back down. His hands were brash and abrasive, tugging until it hurt as her legs wrapped around his waist. Her nipples were tight and hard as they brushed against his chest where the heat spread out and lowered down. When she rubbed herself against him, humming in harmonious pleasure, he groaned low in his throat. When he pulled away, her bottom lip stretched in between his teeth.

"They are exactly the same," he whispered into her lips, in between one kiss and the next. "Once she sees you for who you really are, my perfect little disaster." The backs of his knuckles brushed against her cheek, sizzling her skin like a skillet. "Don't come crying right back to me."

In the heat of his cold words, the other hand softly separated her legs, slipping up the old path of her thighs and heading towards where he usually traversed only in darkness. She felt the cold blast of the winter air, conditioning her bare legs, clothed only in gooseflesh from beneath his wandering fingers as he brushed aside her robe. She gripped his wrist just before he could touch her, feel her, and make her bleed him out.

His heated breath brushed along her face and she wanted nothing more than to press his to her waiting sex. She wanted to ride the length of his fingers and scream until she ran out of air. "You didn't come back to the table," Rhaenyra finally bit out the words, trying to keep out her hurt. "It seems you live to disappoint me, so why would I cry to you?"

"Now you're just being cruel,"he whispered, his fingers delicately caressing up and down her arm, leaving a trail of tingling sensations in their wake.

"You like cruelty," she retorted, a faint smile playing on her lips, "and I find great pleasure in pushing your buttons."

His mischievous gaze gave her all she could take. She was shivering, cold and aroused and desperate for his touch and his hold. One hand was sliding up her bare thigh where she trembled at the feel of his fingers on her skin. "You'd enjoy the night far more if you undid them first."

"I'm sure you'd like that," she murmured, trying not to pant as her nerves thrummed with unadulterated want.

"Right now, I'd like many things," he said, leaning down and kissing her, biting down on her bottom lip and weakening her grasp on his wrist. His hand cupped her sex, pressing and rubbing and making her mouth open wide in surprised pleasure. She had discovered with Criston that two people could be together, in bed, in an entanglement, and yet still be entirely alone. Rhaenyra didn't feel alone and when Daemon looked into her eyes, rotating his fingertips in circles until she was thrashing against them, she felt full. She felt close to him.

"Tell me what you want," Rhaenyra finally ordered, their heads resting against one another. He spent so long denying that he wanted her, even when he kissed her with haphazard disregard and tried to crush her to him. It was as though they were trapped on a boat with a twisted rudder, always trying to leave one another before they inevitably returned back to where they started.

"No idea," he answered, bathed in the moonlight through the frosted windows. He looked like a perfectly proportioned statue and one that she wanted to plant in her open arms. "I want everything," he answered, now kissing down her jaw. "I want everything you have. I want to singe your skin as I rip it from you. I want you to thrive in the world I want to cast you out of."

His fingers entered her abruptly enough to elicit a gasp, but she drew him in with a shameful bucking into that awaiting touch. "You're so indecisive," she bit out, her brows squeezing together as he bit into her neck. He was exploring her hot flesh, stroking the sides of her abdomen from beneath her robe as his other had her quivering. Her voice was raspy with what she hoped was a manner of fiery allure. "Pick one or you'll have none."

He seemed to want her to submit to him and yet constantly showed relief when she fought, satisfied that she could be her own person.

He laughed into her skin, his fingers moving in such a way that she'd happily replace all her vibrators with them. Some are comfortable living in hell and so she had become accustomed to his touch, craving it. She had wanted him for so long, allowing the fire to build in her. He hadn't a single idea how much she had to control herself. For years, it had festered against every barrier of rock she built, rumbling with the passage of time. She was erupting.

"What?" Rhaenyra asked in response to his darkening stare. His fingers had paused, leaving her dripping with need. "It's getting late. Should we rush? I'd hate for stores to close before you can buy another box of Planned B."

His lips twitched up and his thumb brushed along her cl*t, making her eyes nearly roll back as she bucked her hips. "You never shut up, do you?"

"Apologize for it," Rhaenyra ordered, raising her hand to the back of his neck so she could force him closer.

"Why? Did it hurt your feelings?" Daemon's tone was mocking.

"Yes," Rhaenyra snapped, wanting to choke him. "It hurt. It always hurts when you do things like that."

He paused, bits of surprise clouding his eyes. Her long legs wrapped around him, trapping him and revelling in how well their bodies piece together. "Are you searching for a happily ever after, Rhaenyra? You might find it with anyone else, but not me."

Her tongue clicked, "It'd suffice to only know that you actually gave a sh*te about me."

His fingers dug in, interrupting her thoughts as pleasure coursed through her. She let out a gasp, groaning as his fingers grew rough. His other hand squeezed the bare flesh of her thigh, the sound he let out was angry, a groan that nearly felt possessive when he kissed her. His wandering hand slid beneath her robe, grabbing a handful of her arse and crushing her into him.

Her skin prickled with gooseflesh when he finally released her from the near-org*smic bliss to remove her robe. It fell off her shoulders and she heard the soft fabric glide down, draping the counter with the urgency of his frenzied kiss. She was left in just her matching thong and lacy red bra when he separated to stare at her.

"Still trying not to think about me?" Rhaenyra taunted, her voice dripping with mockery. Without waiting for his response, she seized his head, pulling him into a fierce kiss fueled by her suppressed aggression. The force of their connection compelled him to steady himself, his hands firmly gripping her hips as they slid upward. Though she yearned for his touch between her legs, this intimate embrace would satiate her to some extent. His grip left bruises on her waist before gradually easing with a mixture of fervour and restraint. The strain of his self-control was evident in the prominent veins adorning his arms. "You feel it too."

"Shut up," he hissed out, biting her bottom lip when she let out a light laugh that infuriated him.

His lips trailed down her neck to the tops of her breasts, his hands fisting the back of the lace before he undid it with a single flip of his fingers. It fell off her shoulders and he tossed it behind them where it fell atop the sink faucet. He had only just gotten the peaked nipple in his mouth when the electric kettle beeped its completion. She slapped her hand behind her with a groan, attempting to turn it off as his tongue lapped around her nipple.

She missed the button with a scowl as his hands spread and squeezed her arse. "f*ck me," she muttered, reaching to press the button once more over his dark chuckle.

"That's the idea," he told her, pulling up the fabric of her thong so the friction made her wither.

She mewled out a moan, her head dropping back as she trailed her hand into his hair, fisting it with a rough tug that had him shuddering. She ground against his erection with embarrassingly desperate noises that had him staring up at her from his patient lick of her breasts.

"Perhaps we should have Alicent on speaker this time," he said with a chuckle, releasing her nipple with the light grazing of his teeth. He moved the tip of his tongue up her neck at an ambling pace, stopping at her ear. "Would you like that?"

She felt his fingers sweep between the flesh of her arse and she let out another choked sound. "I'll kill you."

He laughed, biting her ear. "What do you want then, my violent little dragon?" His fingers were against her cl*t, pressing and swirling. "This?"

"You've given me years of fourplay," Rhaenyra begged, kissing his cheek and moving to his lips. "f*ck me until I am sick of it." He stepped back, pulling her thong off in one fell swoop that singed her flesh with his callous touch. She heard it drop to the ground.

"Did you beg your past lovers like this?" Daemon asked, pressing his hands against her naked thighs as he leaned closer.

"No," she replied. "But maybe I will. Harwin said to call him anytime," she said, reaching for her phone next to the kettle. She had barely touched it when he smacked the flesh of her arse in a spank that nearly made her groan.

She laughed, reaching for his belt and undoing it with shaking hands. She kissed up his neck, biting it as she reached into his pants and pulled out his erection with a tight tug that made him groan. She kissed his neck with soft peppered oscillations. "And now you're sweet," he whispered, kissing the side of her head in such a way that her heart swelled.

He pushed into her with one hard thrust that tore a cry from her throat. She gripped his forearm, arching her back with the pressure. His grip on her hips tightened with a rough breath, easing out and thrusting right back in. She felt his hand grasp at her arched back when he pulled out just a little once more. He watched himself f*ck her an inch at a time, his touch on her hip bruising her. She didn't mind it, one hand sliding up his arm to his neck while her other braced her weight against the counter.

She watched his eyes close for a second, every cell in her aching for more, but he was going too slow. She rocked back against him, groaning and his eyes were open once more, f*cking her just a bit harder. His arm muscles tensed as he braced himself against the countertop, thrusting deep into her and sending waves of pleasure through her body. She gripped his shoulders, holding him close andkissing his neck, allowing each flush to expand through her as his motion morphed her clear mind into a compliant haze.

"I knew you felt it too," Rhaenyra whispered into his ear, biting it and making him remove himself only to slide all the way back inside with an angled thrust.

"Shut up," he hissed gripping her hips and lifting her. The loft was small and it wasn't long before he had her back up against her table, her hair forming a halo from all around her. He slapped her arse hard, causing her to yelp and arch her back as he pulled out again. He found her G-spot this time and a low moan interrupted her taunting.

"I'll tell you what I want," she told him with panting breaths as he kissed down her chest. He let out a hum, indicating that he was listening. "I want more romance. Candles and carnations and breakfast in bed and you actually in bed."

He laughed into her skin, sucking her nipple as he slid in and out of her. She went to speak more nonsense, but his fingers were on her cl*t and she gasped out hot air. Her muscles shook, tensing as he licked back up to her chin, kissing her jaw.

"Don't stop," she begged, her nails digging into the flesh of his waist. "Don't-" She broke off when he rocked his fingers against her cl*t.

Her hands were in his hair, gripping them by the roots as his face contorted in an expression she wanted to eat. Her throat was tight, but not so much that she couldn't make noise. He sucked her bottom lip and once more his teeth ground into her flesh as the haze clouded her vision. His other hand was meandering about her body, but it settled in her hair, forcing her away so he could pepper sweet kisses over her lips.

"I want to see you come," he said, as if he was giving her permission to finish. Her body released a shudder that trailed over her nerves in such pleasure that she lost her vision.

"Where are my candles?" Rhaenyra breathed out, eyes closed as she felt him finish her, felt him finish in her.

He laughed into the crook of her neck, kissing it. "I'm not that sort of guy, niece."

She laughed in return, her exhaustion settling over her shoulders, lulled with his sweet kisses. "Right, of course not," she murmured right back as she felt his weight settle on her. She could barely remember him taking her back to her bed, kissing her neck where they continued the tired banter.

As she awakened, solitude greeted her and was accompanied only by a solitary candle nestled in a miniature cupcake. The sound of her own eyelids fluttering echoed in the room as she lay beneath her blanket, still groggy from sleep. Shifting onto her side, she rubbed the remnants of slumber from her eyes and found herself smiling at the thoughtful gesture. Reaching out, she retrieved the lighter he had left beside it, suspecting it to be the very same one he had used to playfully taunt the Baratheons during the party. A thought crossed her mind, pondering whether this was the very instrument that had set Storm's End ablaze.

She examined the silver little torch from through the dim candlelight and the window to her left. She opened and closed it, basking in the heat before she saw the little note resting just next to the cupcake. She opened it with a lazy blink as she noted the High Valyrian script.

𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒾𝓇𝓉𝒽𝒹𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝐼 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹

Chapter 23: It's Who You Are

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ－Ｔｈｒｅｅ
𝒾𝓉'𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒
╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

BARATHEONS IN RUIN

by Eustace;

March 8, 2004

In a devastating turn of events, the illustrious Storm's End, a landmark mansion worth a staggering $160 million, has fallen victim to a ferocious fire just days before the decisive vote that would determine the future of House Targaryen.

Law enforcement agencies are currently conducting a thorough investigation into the tragic incident, which unfolded on Sunday night when an act of arson reduced this magnificent symbol of American aristocracy to ruins. Standing proudly atop the highest point of Long Island, the Golden Coast Mansion now stands as a charred testament to the unforgiving forces that can unravel even the grandest of legacies.

Authorities have disclosed that they were alerted to the catastrophic blaze at approximately 12:30 a.m. on Sunday, following a report from a witness who observed two trespassers on the sprawling Huntington property. By the time law enforcement arrived at the scene, the flames had consumed the residence and rapidly spread throughout its opulent halls, leaving behind a scene of devastation and despair.

Tamar and Luciara Baratheon are in critical condition, and the whereabouts of the perpetrators remain unknown.

•

Spots still outlined the edges of his vision from when he was propelled backwards by the force of a punch that had his mouth filling with copper. It was a decent hit, just enough to cause the rat of Fleabottom to step back, just enough for him to lift his hand to wipe away the specks of blood that had begun to trail down the dark skin. His stubble swiped along the calloused and rough flesh of his wrist, all the signs of a man who never got a chance to rest.

Under the fading light of the approaching sunset, a gaze traced the elegant façade of the Baratheon estate, noting the absence of any glowing windows. After meticulously surveilling the residence for eight weeks, he knew the power had been deliberately cut, shrouding the once lively mansion in darkness. Stepping through the deactivated security system without encountering any hindrance, he ventured inside, met by the sombre air that awaited him within.

"Tensions are high," he said carefully, holding the gun to Tamar Baratheon's temple, his finger resting upon the trigger with his other hand tangled into the black mane of hair, pulling back until he could feel the taut roots tug upon the flesh of the man's scalp.

"Who are you?" Tamar's question only made the former rat catcher's gun dig once more into the other man's flesh. He doubted the girl had gotten far with Hector on her tail like a bloodhound, which was an apt description considering Hector's nickname.

Garrat had meant for this to be as quick and efficient as possible—a cold-blooded mission of precision that would assuage Daemon's sought after revenge, while also allowing them to make it back in time for last call at the pub. Then, Hector lost his grip on Tamar's wife, who proceeded to let out a piercing scream and launch her fist right into his face with such force that he was left reeling in pain, likely with a broken nose.

"Get up," he ordered, but Tamar didn't move, his fists tightening with bits of Garrat's blood coating the tan skin of his knuckles. It was tempting to break them, tempting to use the butt of his gun to crush the bones in the man's hand, but the rat catcher refrained the urge.

"I'll kill you," Tamar's voice was deep and heavy with the weight of his threat, but Garrat was not daunted by it. He was once called Cheese in the fighting pits, a name used to previously mock him, but now became his moniker. He had been threatened with far worse than a simple death sentence and all by far more terrifying men than the Baratheon with the swelling eye, still waking from his sleep.

"And I'll kill your wife. Your brother. Your dog." Garrat tugged on the hair and his grip had now tightened until he could feel the strands fall with the buoyancy of a graceful feather. "Or you can get the f*ck up and save us both the trouble of multiple funerals, eh?"

Tamar refused to move.

Hector let out a whistle, catching Tamar Baratheon off guard when he strolled in, dragging the woman by her hair. It wasn't how Garrat would have handled the pregnant wife, but he didn't see the need to correct his associate's hold since it elicited the reaction he had wanted from the man whose life he desired to end. The Baratheon bucked from his hold like a wild boar, and had Garrat not such experience in the muck of a fight, he might have escaped long enough to see Hector butcher his lovely pregnant wife.

Instead, Garrat shoved the man into the bedpost, banging is head against the exquisitely carved chestnut with a tisk. "This just isn't gonna work, Mr Baratheon, if we don't have some sort of understanding."

"I'll f*cking kill you!" Tamar was shouting, thrashing like a fish attempting to escape the sharp hook, never mind that the fight only caused more senseless suffering. Garrat did not mind it, but there was a way this haad to be done, and they were the men ordered to do it. "If she does not live through this," his threats cut off, retched from his own lungs as the young pregnant wife, Luciara Baratheon, let out a choked sound.

"Blood," Garrat said, digging his knee into Tamar's back, contemplating the words that he knew must be said. Hector had the girl by her roots, his knuckles and forearms trickling with a mix of her blood and his own, protruding from scratches that broke the surface of his skin. "It seems we must make Mr Baratheon understand." Garrat did not waste time wondering if Hector was cognizant of his situation, bashing Tamar's head once more against the wood and forcing him to look at his wife when Hector began to rip open her shift.

The scream she let out, the pained cry, was cemented in fear that might have once made him baulk. Were he a better man, he would have found a better way, a more difficult way. Yet Garrat was neither a good man nor a tactical learnt one, so mindless fear was all he could do. It soothed him to know that just because it was his skillset, did not mean he enjoyed it. It was how he set himself apart from the bloodhound in the room.

"Stop! Stop please! I'll do anything!" Tamar's screams might have awoken the neighbourhood if only there was one to awaken. The Baratheon estate was a grand spectacle of infrastructure and vast land, so nobody was going to hear a thing.

Blood was trailing his hands over Luciara's bare shoulders, the bits of her shift still hanging over her breasts which she tried to cover as she thrashed against him. The room was dim from only the antique lamp that she had turned on only moments before Garrat had awoken her to a hand clamped securely around her throat. She looked better in the dim light, her face obstructed by the damp hair at her neck, overhanging around her shoulders as her tears mixed in with her sweat. Garrat was ashamed to enjoy the sight, but comforted to know that such pleasure was not extracted from any perverse satisfaction.

"Hear that Cheese," Hector’s voice broke the thickening silence, his gruff words accompanied by a tightening grip around her neck. His other hand moved downwards, slowly caressing over her belly where her pregnancy had taken a toll on her body. The fight that had been ebbing out of her suddenly returned and she clamped her jaw around his wrist, making him wince in pain. A sickening slap of flesh was heard as he struck the underside of her jaw with a backhand, sending her head crashing against the door hard enough to leave behind a slimy trail of blood. Tamar’s thrashing continued, an errant jab from his fist striking Garrat’s eye, an accidental jab no doubt, but it left behind an indent of anger that coiled tightly around his insides.

"It seems you still don't understand," Garrat said with a sigh, sending a hard kick to Tamar's gut and he pressed his heavy boot to the man's face. It sunk into the flesh, a garish sight that he wanted to mar. He wanted to see the bones break. He wanted to hear the scream.

Yet it wasn't Tamar that he aimed the gun towards, and instead that heavy barrel pointed straight at Luciara Baratheon. The man went still, silent, all protest dying in his throat when the realization of what was to happen finally dawned on him. She was cradling her stomach, trying to cover herself with the shreds of her nightgown, not looking to mind her own split lip and swelling cheek.

"Blood. How about you teach Mr Baratheon how serious this matter is?" Garrat ordered, watching Luciara scream and try to scramble away from the other man's touch to no avail. She froze when he pointed his own gun at her cheek.

A tinge of empathy tried to pry its way into Garrat's heart, but it had no business interfering with business. "Don't suppose we can get to the fun parts?" Hector commented an offhand remark that illuminated his own dissatisfaction. Even Daemon—in all that he would allow—drew his own moral line. It was a scabrous, rotten slash in the sand—so easily displaced, yet always redrawn when it suited him.

Garrat did not bother to assure Tamar that rape wasn't out of the picture, even if he would never allow it. After all, the idea that it could happen was more than enough a threat.

Hector, disappointed by the lack of approval, only took his frustration out of Luciara herself. "I suppose I should first see how much she can swallow." Tamar was shaking at his violent words, his eyes now shining with hopeless tears when he watched Hector finally trail the gun to Luciara's lips. "Come on, bitch, don't be difficult," he ordered, forcing open her mouth by her jaw, slipping the gun into it so hard that Garrat could hear the metal scrape against her teeth.

"Please! What do you want? Money? I'll give you anything!"

Garrat smiled now, shaking his head back and forth as he kicked his steel-toed boot into the Baratheon's gut once more. "I told you already, Mr Baratheon," Garrat said in a low tone, never once raising his voice as he now squatted down next to the man's bruised and bloody face. His gun dangled between his legs, lightly tapping with threatening intent against the solid muscle of his calf. "I want you to listen and thank us for our mercy." His tone was jovial, the sick satisfaction now rooted in place, unable to go away once the flowery stems began to grow from his sick little heart. "If only you knew the patience I have shown."

Daemon would say, as he often did, that a threat was very much a show of intentions and that those were best kept hidden. "Either show restraint or take a decisive action. Threats will only make him think he stands a chance," Daemon had reminded the both of them only hours prior.

"Blood, do you think he understands?" Garrat asked the silent bloodhound who was enjoying the sight of Luciara choking on his gun. Yet another garish sight to add to the night.

"I think he could stand a few more lessons. Look at how much this mouth can take. Lucky, lucky man you are. Well, lucky man you were,"Hector said with a laugh, filling the room with threat and intention that went against what Daemon had wanted—quick and efficient action.

Then he should have done it himself, Garrat thought with a shake of his head.

"Please," Tamar's last plea was that of a broken man.

"What a pathetic sight you are. How do youplan to lead any family into prosperity when you can't protect your own wife and unborn child?" Garrat finally whispered, his voice flooding with sympathy that his eyes severely lacked.

Understanding finally dawned on Tamar as he looked away from Luciara, his throat bobbing with emotion like a frightened chicken. "Daemondid this?"

"No, Mr Baratheon. You still don't get it," Garrat said, letting out an exasperated sigh, resting the length of his gun against his forehead with a dramatic breath, a pause, and then lingering silence. He could smell the coat of gasoline on his hands, his clothes stained with the evaporated liquid that had sloshed against him only forty minutes prior. "Blood, how can I make him understand?"

"My way then?" Hector asked, and Tamar's eyes were as wide as little moons when he watched Hector slide his hand across the length of Luciara's shaking body where he ripped the rest of her gown from her skin with a forceful tear. It left a reddened mark of fabric, as if the cotton itself had singed her skin.

"If he makes a sound, squeeze the trigger in Ms Baratheon's throat. Try to aim for the fetus. Let's save bullets," Garrat said, letting the touching continue, already knowing that he had no plans to tell Daemon of this particular detail. Tamar was finally silent, his breath trapped in his throat, close to hyperventilation.

"Now, I'll repeat myself just this once. How do you plan to lead your family into prosperity?" Garrat asked, tapping his gun against Tamar's temple, and despite the direct question, he got silence in return. Garrat grinned, licking away the blood from his own teeth. "Very good, Mr Baratheon. I commend the silence. You can teach an old stag new tricks after all, but I am quite gracious, and this is actually a question I allow you to answer."

"I won't," Tamar said in a shaking breath that made the room go still. Garrat raised his hand and tightened it into a fist from over his shoulder in signal, forcing Hector to cease his palming at Luciara's flesh.

"You won't what?" Garrat urged, voice harsh.

"I won't let Daemon take the family," Tamar snapped, and his anger, both righteous and ferocious, was a bitingly cold statement. "You can kill me, but he'll have nothing."

This comment was accompanied with silence as Garrat's expression became unreadable. "Kill you? I am sorry to say that I do not lack imagination as you do," Garrat's calm voice greeted Tamar's simmering rage.

Tamar's wavering ambition broke when he looked again to his wife, but it shattered when they heard the sound of the floorboards outside the room finally let out a painfully loud squeak. "Get out of here! Leave!" Tamar shouted to the closed door that Hector tore open, shoving Luciara's naked body to the ground. The little boy who stood outside was small in the face of Hector's towering silhouette that nearly obstructed the kid from view.

The boy's frantic attempts to flee were futile, hampered by his short legs. He was soon snatched up by Hector, who held him aloft like a rag doll. A thunderous slam of the door echoed throughout the room as the child was thrown inside. Luciara scuttled to the sobbing kid, her eyes comforting and tear-filled. Soft whispers of comfort filled the air as she covered his face in tender caresses. Garrat felt the familiar tugging of empathy in his chest, clawing its way up his throat again, but he shut it out when he finally looked towards Tamar.

"What now, Cheese?" Hector asked with a sigh, the disappointment clear. Even he hardly wanted to rape a woman in front of a child. Garrat never thought he'd find Hector's moral line.

"What now indeed," Garrat said with a disappointed sigh, directing the next question towards his associate. "I thought you said the little brother was out with his father and sisters."

"Mistakes were made," Hector replied with a grin, showing off that chipped tooth.

"Please, don't." Tamar was reduced once again to scrounging. "I'm begging you."

Garrat stood, not bothering to point the gun at the man, keeping it instead trained down at the floorboards. "It doesn't look like begging, Mr Baratheon. It lookslike you still have that stubborn pride and that just won't do."

Tamar was shaking when he got up, wincing at the pain of his own bruised body. The room filled with the tension of his every move, his hands shaking as he palmed the ground, and his head finally bowed, his back bent, and the stag sunk. His voice came out unsteady, filled with the lifetime of emotions, of him knowing he was above everyone around him, and Garrat watched it start to shatter, to shiver. "Please."

Garrat's nose wrinkled and he took long strides to rip the child from Luciara's arms, hearing her protest, beg with none of the pride that her husband still had. Tamar looked as if he wanted to stand, to fight the two attackers off like some hero from a comic book. A knight of an old fairytale. There was some sick satisfaction to be had when Garrat saw him remain unmoved, chained in position as Garrat tapped the barrel of the gun lightly against the child's head.

"Please, we don't want the titles or anything to do with the Targaryens!" Luciara cried out, beseeching and pathetic as she lowered to the ground. "I understand. We understand."

"I am sure you do," Hector said with a laugh. "But your husband does not."

"Is he right, Mr Baratheon?" Garrat said, now turning his steady gaze to the child trying to control his quickened breaths, his eyes wet, his nose leaking, and a spot of urine growing on his trousers. "What's your name kid?"

Garrat watched the child try to answer, his voice cracking and unsteady as he got out the name "Borros" in a nearly unintelligible stammer. Garrat was reminded of himself at that age, as just a lone orphan on the streets of New York. Nobody had ever shown him an ounce of mercy at this age, so he had no inclination to give it to this boy.

"I want you to know this is the cost of your brother's ambition," Garrat told him, urging him to understand that all this could have been avoided—that none of this was Garrat's fault. The gun co*cked against the kid's head, and Garrat was more than ready to pull the trigger when Tamar's shout interrupted.

"Please, I understand," Tamar insisted, grovelling to the ground, his pride shattered. "I understand. I can't protect my family. I am nothing. I understand now!"

"It's too late, Mr Baratheon," Garrat said with a lingering breath of disappointment. "You say this now, but someone has to die tonight. Otherwise, you'll go on to cast your own claim, andthat sh*t won't fly here."

"I won't," Tamar insisted, nearly allowing his own sobbing to interrupt. Borros, seeing his own brother break, began to cry with untethered restraint. "Please. I'm casting my vote for Daemon. He's head of House Targaryen."

Garrat clicked his tongue in disapproval, causing Tamar to panic, his fingers now digging so hard into the wood that his nails cracked. "This isn't about the Targaryens, Mr Baratheon. This is about trust and I'm afraid I still don't trust your flippant word. Just the other day you boasted, after all, how you'd—what was it he said Blood?"

"Restore the House to its proper glory or some sh*t," Hector said with a bored shrug.

"Right," Garrat agreed, eyes narrow. "House Targaryen is nothing more than inbred hellspawn, was it?"

"I—I didn't—I mean," Tamar could barely get out the stammering words, his restraint breaking as he watched his little brother whimper in Garrat's arms.

"In writing no less. On every paper from coast to coast." His next hush of quiet was elastic, leisurely coiling a rope around the Baratheon's bruised neck. "Words have little power, I'm afraid, and your word less than most. I need more. I need it in writing."

"Anything," Tamar breathed out the words, his utterance now leaving him breathless.

"I left the case by the door. Get it for me," Garrat ordered, watching the man scramble and attempt to race for the leather briefcase that Daemon had given them. He went to grab it, but Hector kicked it further away, laughing when Tamar crawled to retrieve it. "Open it." Every order, Tamar obeyed, every command washing over him with all the force of hellfire.

"What is it?" Tamar's panicked eyes were scanning over the documents with unsteady hands, his palpable fear now clouding his own ability to think.

"It's a lifeline from my gracious patron," Garrat said, his arm tightening around the boy's neck, which made the breath cut off in both Borros and his older brother. "The lifeboat for you and your family. I suggest you take a minute to sign it, unless you'd rather drown."

"Relinquish all titles," Tamar read the words aloud, his ramblings now scattered and scrambled with his growing fear. "All stocks in Targaryen holdings....what is—?"

"And here I thought you were finally starting to understand," Hector complained, now dragging Luciara up to her feet, bending her over the bed. Garrat openly flinched when he watched Hector reach to unbutton his trousers.

"Pen! Please don't! I need a pen," Tamar shouted, and Garrat shook his head in Hector's direction, watching the brute shrug, allowing Luciara to drown her own sobs in the blankets of her bed.

"It's all there, Mr Baratheon," Garrat whispered, and Tamar pulled the pen from underneath the stacks of papers, scribbling his name across the pages with a shaking hand. "If it doesn't look like your signature, I will kill them both."

Daemon was clear about this much at least. Garrat did remember his words only an hour ago. "I'd rather avoid any attesting to the documents. If it must be done, kill the bitch. She's not of family blood after all."

Tamar's crying worsened, forcing his hand to steady when Garrat snapped, "The ink pad as well, Baratheon." Tamar dipped his thumb into the black ink, leaving it parallel with each signature.

Once he signed it all, Garrat watched Tamar collapse, all strength in his legs leaving him. Hector was already moving, hauling him to the bed when he finally grabbed the rope they brought. Tamar had become a corpse when the rope looped around him—all fight, all pride, now dissipated and burned to ash.

"Please,"Tamar whimpered, but Garrat didn't know what the grovelling was for. The night was yet to be finished. Garrat tossed the little boy at their feet, nodding to Hector.

"Your life is in your brother's hands now. Let's hope he can untie a knot," Hector said, tapping Garrat's shoulder as they left the room. Garrat paused, surveying the room, the little child who struggled with the rope, and the whispers of apologies from a brother who failed his family. He grabbed the suitcase, closing it with a solidifying click.

The man with the moniker 'Cheese' did not feel satisfaction at the sight, so he turned away, following after his associate. They walked in silence, with purpose, down the many halls, down the stairs with the carpet sloshing at their steps. The scent of gasoline had metastasized throughout the room, now so potent that it filled his nostrils.

"It's unnecessary," Cheese said with a sigh, to which Blood snorted. They had reached the double doors, towering far above their heads.

"Daemon was clear," Blood said with a frown. They weren't arsonists by trade, but it wasn't so hard to set a fire. He watched Blood lift the silver lighter that their boss had loaned them, watched him bend down, igniting the torch.

They did not stick around to see if the boy's frantic hands had managed to undo the bindings. Garrat found he cared more than he wanted to, and that just would not do.

She stood rooted next to the door, uncomfortably leaning from hip to hip as if one step closer would be in line of a camera, snapping a picture of her crimes. His penthouse had once made her slip into a state of comfort, but she could no longer feel so at ease in his space. She watched him pour himself a glass, take a sip, and lean back against his little minibar just near the piano.

Rhaenyra was absolutely certain that if she moved, it would be towards him, and if she was moving towards him, she'd attack him. He had pressed a single button and the curtains had closed, leaving them in dim light. "You're so antsy over a letter of confirmation," he said with a scoff, taking a sip of the honeyed liquor. "You worry over nothing. We both know you passed."

"I didn't come here to talk," Rhaenyra took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to push the looming thought of her bar exam results from her mind. She opened them again to see him standing before her in an all-black outfit. She could make out the slightest hint of red fabric peeking out at the hem of his undone button-up, a tease of what lay beneath.

He's seducing me. I'm seduced,Rhaenyra thought, feeling the heat of his gaze wash over her.

His low, deep laughter tingled down her spine and she found herself lost in a dreamy trance. His silken words seemed to melt away any conviction she held onto, leaving her powerless against his charm. She finally moved, almost mechanically, slipping off her shoes as if in a daze.

"Come here."

She already was. His eyes were molten and she was suffering from an erratic heartbeat that might be a medical condition at this point. It was moving at the rhythm of his beckoning call.

'Stupid girl,' it said. f*cking idiot, she agreed, standing just in front of him.

"You dressed up for me," he whispered, now reaching across to brush along the hem of her silk skirt. She had plans later, but none of that mattered now. She had spent all night flicking on and off the lighter he had given her, nearly burning her own hand in the process. The more she thought of him, the more she wanted him, the more she became him.

She wanted sweet words of romance, but settled for his apparent lust since it was getting easier to obtain. She nodded to the Bärenjäger with an arched brow. "It's 7 in the morning. Are you an alcoholic?" He chuckled and she nearly attacked him, her entire being gravitating closer.

"Maybe you make me nervous," he answered back, and her smile sweetened until she was glowing. It was growing harder to contain her feelings, spilling out of her, but he seemed to like what he saw in her expression. He grabbed her by the nape, threading into her hair so he could grip her scalp and bury his face into her naked neck. She felt the tug of his movement on every nerve ending down to the tips of the hairs on her head.

He let out a soft groan, overflowing her with its sensual hint that she could feel in her gut, weighing her down, merging her into his touch. She had few thoughts on how her father would feel if he knew, yet wondered if he'd ever understand. He said he loved her mother fiercely, so he should know what it was to love someone so unequivocally that it became all right to do things that were wrong.

"f*ck," he muttered against her skin. "You smell good."

Thank you, Tom Ford,she thought with a pleasured sigh that became a squeak when he wrapped an arm around her waist to splay her over the piano.

"Couldn't we try this in a bed this time?" Rhaenyra asked with a laugh which made him bite her neck.

"However would I make it?" Daemon asked instead, kissing up the length of her throat that she tilted, allowing him to devour her. His large hands were at her sides, cupping her waist with slow brushes that untucked her blouse from her skirt. This new access gave room for his fingers to trail up her stomach, reaching to brush his thumbs along the bare skin just below her bra.

"Daemon Targaryen, the prince of foreplay," Rhaenyra whispered with a laugh that made him lick the length of her neck until he reached her ear.

"Why not king? Have I been slacking?" Daemon asked, hauling her body closer so her legs tightly wrapped around his waist.

"I'll plan your coronation then," she said with a giggle that settled into a moan with the next nip of his teeth. His hips were in line with her own, hands settling into the curve of her shoulder blades as she felt his hard-on pressing into her. She was fading in the over-indulgence of his sultry kisses, flooding her. Even water can intoxicate after a night of debauching on it.

He pulled her dress up around her waist, sending her senses into overdrive as he gently moved aside her silk thong. The warmth of his fingers on her cl*t had her panting. She wanted more, so much more—even if it meant losing control completely. A pleasured moan escaped her lips when he firmly cupped her clothed mound, igniting a wave of pleasure that had her reaching out to grip the piano for balance.

The fallboard was not closed, forcing her to hear the pitch of the keys from the terrible screech of her hit. "This is the worst," Rhaenyra muttered as he drew another line of kisses down her neck and throat. With his hands distracting her, his mouth wetly caressing every inch of skin within reach, she couldn't remember which keys were out of tune anymore, but she swears she heard all sorts of wrong noises mixing in with the rhythmic pounding of her heart. The heat pooling between her hips had nothing to do with accuracy or pitch and everything to do with Daemon and his talented tongue.

What an amazingly talented and forked tongue it is, she thought.

She looked to her right, playing another. "Dude, tune your instruments."

He pulled his face out from her neck, looking down at her with heavy, dilated eyes. "You're serious?"

"Listen to this," she played a note with her left hand, hearing its awful sound shout back at her. "This is terrible."

He let out a loud, snorting laugh that reverberated across her neck and shoulders. His forehead was slick with sweat, beads shimmering in the light as his tousled hair fell gently around his face like a pop star’s mane. His lips curved in a slow smile as he said in a low voice, "You're unbelievable."

"Has it been like this for the last three years?" Rhaenyra was leaning forward, bracing her weight on her elbows to stare at him. He caged her in, leaning forward in return until he could trace kisses down her cheek, leaving behind flushed skin in its wake.

"How about—" He leaned over her, inhaling the citrusy fragrance of the shampoo in her hair. His hands tickled her inner thighs before coming to rest on her hipbones. A chill ran through her body as she looked up into his smouldering gaze, and he spoke softly, "You strip down and tune it for me?"

"How does it not bother you?" Rhaenyra's words escaped her lips, leaving a hint of dryness as they hung in the air. She watched as his gaze locked onto her mouth, his scrutiny resembling an intricate puzzle waiting to be solved. With each word she uttered, he seemed drawn deeper into contemplation, his focus gravitating towards her. Whatever thoughts occupied his mind, he kept them to himself, choosing instead to trace a gentle path with his thumb across her lower lip before placing a soft kiss at the corner of her mouth.

He froze and her own pulse skidded with the same tune of the piano. It was so effortless and raw, but soon she was craving the lulling glide of his lips against hers. Her mouth was tingling and he hadn't even kissed her yet. She could hear the heartbeats pulsating in her ears, dancing and warm and alive. She leaned forward, close enough that their breaths intermingled and her lips could meet his.

They parted beneath her own, and this thing between them was still so new and uncertain in moments when she was overflowing. She pressed her hand up to cup his cheek, remembering her vivid dreams of doing exactly this when she was 19—and every day since. She still wanted him inside her, but there was something more intimate with the act of a kiss and nothing more.

She kissed again and again, taking control of his body, her hand in his hair and his resting against her hips. She caught his bottom lip in her own, consuming it and everything he had until she was gliding her tongue between his teeth, searching for more. There were the sensations of him deep inside her—even if he wasn't inside her.

She traced circles along his spine, feeling the muscles tense beneath her fingertips as he released another faint moan against her lips. “Those f*cking noises,” he whispered, drawing her closer to him. “Make me f*cking crazy."

"You don't know crazy," she said, her voice staggering and breathless as she kissed his jaw, his neck, holding him close to her. A tight sensation had coiled around her lungs—fear or love she could no longer tell the difference.

He ripped off her thong and she watched it slide down her legs, wondering if she could find the words to say she wanted to hold him a bit longer. She wanted to—

But once he was inside her, she couldn't think. He was a selfish kisser, kissing only as much as he wanted, only letting her when he wanted it, and he had to control every last lick and bite and tilt of his head. She tried to seize back control, but when he thrust at every angle that he knew silenced her, she could only sink her teeth into his shoulder.

She cleared her head, speared with the force of him, each pleasured thrust that she could feel in her lungs. She gripped his face, forcing him to look her in the eyes, forcing the small kiss, barely a brush of their lips but they were close enough that she could hear his inhale. It was a raspy little noise that made her pause.

"Are you scared?" Rhaenyra whispered, and his hands gripped the flesh of her hips, squeezing until they left little red marks on her skin.

He kissed her, softly and slowly, over and over again.

There were nine horses, galloping past the finish line. Three were staggering, two lagging behind, and one travelling with such impressive speed that it swiped the dust up into the air and created a torrent of dirt that blanketed the stadium. Rhaenyra was reminded of the many times she had traversed the large tracks, her father always dwindling his coin on the failure to identify the winner.

Rhaenyra dared not take a bet since her tendency to lean into addiction melded with the need to triumph. She had often told herself that she was being competitive, with her need to win overpowering the fact that the competition of horses circling an endless track was boring.

"What a lovely little outfit," a voice interrupted Rhaenyra's walk towards the private box. The heiress turned to see a woman with a cat-like smile and dark hair pulled into a tight bun. Rhaenyra had to pull out the face from the confines of her own memory to recognize her as Alys Rivers. She was the supposed bastard to Lyonel Strong, even if he had never admitted it aloud in any social gathering. "Aren't you afraid of getting it dirty?"

Rhaenyra tugged on her white skirt before adjusting her sun hat to hide her face from the breeze. "If I'm going to ruin something, it might as well be silk," Rhaenyra finally said, noting that Alys' purse was half open where she could see the distinct hotel room key just adjacent to a crisp hundred dollar bill that had been folded into an origami—all objects in disarray, visible for a moment before Alys had closed the bag from sight.

Alys let out a sound, half laugh, half hum, just as she trailed her golden acrylics over her bottom lip in thought. The sounds of shouts continued from all around them and Rhaenyra glanced over Alys' shoulder and towards the private box. The cursory glance was in the passage, quickly moving on and straying.

"And who did you come with?" Alys looked around, her amusem*nt insulting when she saw no one at Rhaenyra's side. "Surely not on your lonesome?"

"I find it comforting," Rhaenyra said with a wry smile on par with her shrug. "A chance to think as I shamelessly gamble a fortune away." Rhaenyra dared to step around the girl with the green eyes and a twisted smile.

"Not a lover in sight. Truly you do like to throw off the tabloids," Alys said with a charmingly flirtatious smile. If the rumours held any merit at all, Rhaenyra had f*cked this woman's half-brother.

"Enjoy the race," Rhaenyra said, dismissively, attempting to move past her.

"Are you entering the Hightower box then?" Alys asked, causing the heiress to halt in her steps.

"Why are you so curious?" Rhaenyra finally questioned, thankful that the private boxes were so sequestered, allowing her to feel every tremor of the stadium, yet suffer none of the shoving bodies.

"Am I not allowed to inquire?" Alys' question was paired with a simper and a step forward. "He's in a meeting."

"He's at a race," Rhaenyra said, both brows raising.

"And yet, that's what he's doing," she responded carefully. "Seemed important. Very private and illicit. Did you place your bets?"

"I try not to gamble," Rhaenyra said, attempting to move past her, only to be blocked by her graceful side step where she promptly rested her hand upon Rhaenyra's bare arm.

"And yet, I seem to have seen you down below, flirting with one of the jockeys," Alys said with a dazzling smile as she admitted to her light stalking. Rhaenyra adjusted her hat, the cold December wind at odds with the sunlight.

"Can you see much from all the way up here?" Rhaenyra questioned, eyes narrowing at the trail of heat Alys had left when she skimmed down her arm.

"I saw enough to gossip." There was a sound of whistling, followed by a loud bang that resonated through the crowd as the next lap commenced. "I seem to recall the planning is initiating on the new Targaryen tower." Alys's mercurial tone was littered with whimsy, but Rhaenyra did not much care about the woman, even as she held her hostage.

"And your point?" Rhaenyra's patience was running thin, her smile becoming tight and forced upon the edges of her lips. Alys, as if noticing this increasing irritation, only grew more jovial in tone.

Alys worked directly under the Hightowers and Rhaenyra had no doubt that every word both uttered or unvoiced would make it right back to him. All of it made no sense to Rhaenyra and neither did Otto's animosity. She had been a good friend to his daughter—and it wasn't Rhaenyra who betrayed that. Rhaenyra made many mistakes, but she took friendship with some manner of gravity. Rhaenyra may have taken life with a manner of frivolity and levity, but love was no game to her.

"No point, just thought it odd is all," Alys said, now opening up her little rice paper fan, the little baby hairs brushing back with every flick of her wrist. "Such a nice, cosy project for you to score when you're fresh off of college."

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed, lips tightly pressed together as she made a motion to once again attempt to move past the woman. She tried to step to the left, but Alys had mirrored each move with her sweet little smile. She didn't bother to say that her father hadn't given her the project.

"Some might say you were f*cking your boss for that little set-up," Alys said, and now hid her expression behind her fan. "But of course, that can't be right. Father and all that."

Rhaenyra's nose wrinkled, and she tried to move to the right, but once again, Alys mirrored this with a step in that direction.

"But you f*cked someone right?" Alys said, those bright and piercing eyes gleaming with a manner of sad*stic amusem*nt. "Perhaps Tamar Baratheon was not so unwarranted for his statement."

"What statement?" Rhaenyra was exhausted and infuriated and she only had so much a grip on her temper that was battling with common sense. She was trying to be better and doing her damnest to live up to the child her mum had wanted her to become, but she was about to punch this bitch in the throat.

Alys' eyes widened in feigned sympathy, reminding Rhaenyra how nasty the socialites could become when they put their mind to it. "You don't know a thing, do you?"

I am getting so tired of people telling me that,Rhaenyra thought, glancing over to the young racehorse, turning the corner of the racetrack. He was about 200 yards away, the jockey Rhaenyra had been chatting with was walking down the pathway toward the paddock, entering the towering canopy of trees that rested just above the saddling area. Rhaenyra had seen thousands of horses in her life, had grown around the races, the country clubs, the tours around France—all things the rich and selfish coveted. The colt was a 100-carat diamond and perhaps the one everyone bet on, but Rhaenyra did not care about everyone.

"I know some things," Rhaenyra answered, digging into herself to pull out the nasty girl she was trying not to be. "But I'm already running late and I don't have time for bastards."

If there was a hint of wounded pride from the comment, Rhaenyra had no intention of lingering to witness its effect. Determined to make her exit, she forcefully pushed past Alys, her footsteps resounding with purpose as she made her way towards the Hightower box. However, her progress was abruptly halted as Alys's fingers closed around her upper arm, gripping tightly like a coiled fist. Rhaenyra's narrowed eyes burned with unspoken insults, brimming with a restrained fury that she fought to suppress, unwilling to ignite a confrontation in such an inappropriate setting.

"And yet, you choose to dedicate your days to the most infamous bastard of them all," Alys remarked, a playful smile gracing her lips. The sight of it caused Rhaenyra to pause, her gaze scrutinizing Alys with curiosity. Draped in opulent shades of purple and scarlet, adorned with a string of precious gems and pearls, Alys exuded an air of decadence. The tattoo of a golden cup on the back of her hand caught Rhaenyra's attention, reminiscent of Babylon, the renowned haven of debauchery. Associating Alys with the world's oldest profession, envisioning her as a symbol of deceit and impurity, allowed Rhaenyra to distance herself and dismiss her as ignorant and unworthy of understanding.

"I don't know to what you are referring," Rhaenyra attempted to brush it off, even as her eyes burned and her legs begged her to shove Alys aside.

"The Baratheons were once nearly burned alive in their home for referring to your family's tendency to keep it in the family. But I'm not at all scared of you, little girl," Alys told her, batting her eyes like a flirt.

"Your beliefs are fallacious at best. You talk of keeping it in the family and yet your own father won't allow you in his." Rhaenyra's heart was drumming in her chest, pounding at the same damning rhythm of the galloping horses, turning the next corner.

Alys's laughter filled the air, a melodic sound that echoed with confidence. "Is that the best you can do?" she taunted, her voice laced with amusem*nt. "Do you truly believe that such words hold any power over me? It's practically a greeting these days."

"Move aside," Rhaenyra ordered, and Alys finally stepped left, turning as if to graciously let her pass. Her heels clicked against the cement, the dirt sweeping again with the gust. Despite the opening to go Rhaenyra remained motionless.

"Worried? Don't be. I can keep your filthy little secret," Alys said, waving her hand for Rhaenyra to go, but Rhaenyra was close to seizing, doubling over and vomiting. She expanded so much effort in not showing the panic, that she had none to spare for her legs to move.

"And who spread these malicious rumours to begin with?" Rhaenyra was all but admitting it, agreeing with it, even as she tried to choose the words carefully. Her legs were lead and her eyes heavy. "Otto Hightower perhaps?"

Alys' lips finally curled up, that shine telling Rhaenyra that she wasn't being smart enough. The words hadn't been enough. "Why? Did you think you were being careful? What an illicit affair, Ms Targaryen. It would surely ruin you."

"You're disgusting. That'sdisgusting."

I'm disgusting, Rhaenyra thought, but that self-hatred was too much to bare, so she tried to shrug it off and cast it away.

"And yet," Alys said with a tilt of her head, "He didn't seem to mind much when he told me of it."

Rhaenyra could no longer hide it, the panic, the crack in her mask that nearly split her down the middle. "When who told you what?"

Alys' expression became absent, indifferent, which contrasted the frantic edge in Rhaenyra's voice. "Who do you think?" Alys' voice was gentle now, the mocking tone now replaced with patronizing sympathies that had Rhaenyra's heart sinking to the bottom. "I told you, Rhaenyra, he's a bastard, but like I said. I'll keep the secret between the three of us."

"Why would Daemon tell you that?" Rhaenyra broke all pretence, flooded with anger and betrayal.

"We like to discuss our other lovers sometimes," Alys said, her voice returning with that mocking sincerity, or perhaps it was sincerity and Rhaenyra could no longer differentiate between the two.

Her shoulders were shaking, her hand slapping against her mouth as a laugh escaped her. She wanted to cry, but she was in public and she was too scared and furious to bother. She wanted to kill this woman, but once more, they were in public and she didn't have a way to do it. Then, she started thinking of ways to silence her, which grew darker and darker in the precipice of her mind.

So she stood there with her shoulders heaving with each sound, the heaping of calamities leaving her with turbulent and nervous laughter as though the entire thing was a joke that she could brush off and watch it glide away. Alys clicked her tongue, her voice dropping like Rhaenyra was a rabid dog that she was trying to tame.

"But what would your father say if he knew?" Alys now took a step closer, watching the laughter falter as Rhaenyra peaked up at her from through her fingers. "Perhaps we will have more in common than just f*cking the same man."

"Those are vile accusations," Rhaenyra retorted harshly. As the horses navigated yet another bend in the road, her thoughts were in disarray, consumed by a tumult of emotions. Her mind fixated on the hotel key nestled within Alys' bag, the alluring sunglasses adorned with the exact hue of green that held Daemon's fascination, the enchanting dimples adorning her cheeks, and the captivating length of her legs. Alys possessed a magnetic allure that seemed to align perfectly with Daemon's preferences, making her a potential object of desire for anyone with discerning tastes. "And he wouldn't believe you."

Alys's lips twitched up, shaking her head. "I think many people would believe it." She looked behind her as the door to the Hightower box opened and a skinny, stick of a man walked out, clutching a cane as he limped their way. Rhaenyra vaguely recognized him as Larys Strong from Harwin's lock screen, but other than that, she had no idea much else of him since they had never spoken. Alys sent him a forced smile, turning to him, yet her eyes were on Rhaenyra. "Enjoy the race, Ms Targaryen. My business has just concluded and the horse I bet on has won."

"You have an eye for it then," Rhaenyra said, watching Larys stagger closer, scrutinizing them both.

"I'm just very lucky," Alys replied, gesturing to Larys to follow her. They looked nothing alike, but Rhaenyra found that all the Strongs had a disjointed resemblance to one another so it meant little.

Rhaenyra found the will to kick her feet, to move and continue, even if she was fighting off the urge to mutilate Alys Rivers. Once more, life had another lesson to teach her. The life she had built up over years, the amount of trust she had in him, but it all took moments to destroy.

Rhaenyra opened the Hightower box, the little room flooded with an intimacy that she hated. She was hardly ever alone with Otto Hightower, always given little barriers of large gatherings or flooded parties. She preferred that over this lack of privacy, but Otto had managed to take her privacy away without even being in the room, so this didn't much matter.

"I didn't know you liked gambling, Rhaenyra," Otto said, just as the fifth race was about to commence. He tipped his head in greeting, not bothering to remove his elbows from his inclined position against the glass railing that overlooked the giant stadium. Rhaenyra closed the door behind her, hoping to leave behind her worries with the clicking of the metal latch. Yet, she couldn't help but wonder if Otto told Alys somehow—if somehow he knew.

She'd be ruined either way, but one might hurt less.

"I know you like it a bit too much," Rhaenyra said, walking closer until they were side by side. Alicent never liked to insult her family, even if they continuously hurt her. Rhaenyra knew Alicent was strained by the coldness of her brother and of the addictions that her father often displayed. When she was still Alicent's confidant, there was little she did not know, but now, she was stumbling along old information and hoping it still held value.

Otto only chuckled, a deep and raspy noise to which she greeted with a slight smile.

"But of course, you can afford to lose now," she continued, scanning the lineup and finding her 100-carat horse. He was a majestic thing and she immediately followed Otto's line of sight, trained on him. "One bad investment will no longer lead to Hightower destitution."

"Are you trying to offend me?" Otto asked, not looking at her when he spoke.

Why would he? I am not an equal to him,Rhaenyra thought with a trembling smile.

"You are technically my grandfather now. That would be unbecoming of a Targaryen," Rhaenyra said, and he shook his head, an indication that he did catch her lack of denial to his statement. She was, after all, an unbecoming daughter, both ill-suited and unseemly as they would likely both agree. As far as she knew, there was little her father and Otto disagreed on.

"Your outburst at the party the other night was beneath you and unfounded." He finally looked at her from beneath his nose. "Have you come to apologize for it?"

Rhaenyra shouldn't have been surprised by his audacity, but the Hightower family continued to consistently bothstupefyher and force her to hide any stagger at their words and actions. She wasn't a child any longer and there was no mercy for appearing weak with naïveté. She got no mercy from Alicent or Otto or Daemonor even her own father.

"Have you?" Rhaenyra mirrored his callous tone, speaking to him like a child as he continuously did to her.

"Come to apologize?" His brown brows furrowed and she watched every movement of his clicking jaw from beneath his bushy beard.

"Have you ever apologized?" She clarified.

"For what? More baseless accusations, Rhaenyra." Otto scoffed, turning his head away from her and back out at the next race that had been signalled to a start by the stampede of horses. He was obstinate in his denial.

"Perhaps for causing strife in my House," Rhaenyra gripped onto the railing, her voice calm, yet her hands gave away her anger as they always did. "For being the one my father leaned on for all his advice and youthe obeisant servant, prying on a time of mourning to push your own daughter into his bed."

"That was their own individual ideas of which I had nothing to do with," Otto snapped, finally meeting her unwavering gaze. "I am sure Alicent would say the same."

"Like a parrot," Rhaenyra agreed, something foul and maybe churlish building in her as it always did when she imagined Alicent as a snake. "Mimicking her master."

Otto's frame twisted, now facing her fully with his hip resting against the glass rail. His stance was one of an unbothered man, a diplomat that Rhaenyra thought slothful. Daemon might have been full of absolute sh*te sometimes, but he was right about Otto and Rhaenyra couldn't help but listen even when she didn't want to. She was conditioned to listen to him after all—whether by her own doing or his, she did not know.

"Watch your tone, Rhaenyra," his warning was soft, but she had never heard that voice raise. It was respectable and a contrast to her own father, who often screamed when he thought it suited him. "While I am still in an agreeable mood."

"When did it not become enough for you?" Rhaenyra continued, practically holding her breath in between comments. "You like racing. You like the thrill of the bet so I shouldn't be surprised that you show such urge for a gamble on every aspect, including gambling on my ruin."

Otto's face gave nothing away. Rhaenyra had thought him a deeply malicious, rotten bastard, but by his stoical little eyes, she wondered if perhaps he wasn't doing this out of hatred for her. Perhaps he thought she was just unsuitable and this needed to be done. Maybe he justified himself often, thought himself a righteous man of the Faith. It was the only explanation she could come to by howimpenitent he was.

"Perhaps you should take a breath and cool your head," he suggested, his voice even kind despite the supercilious words themselves. "You are talking nonsense."

"I am giving you a warning," Rhaenyra said, having come to this decision because she loved his daughter. "I know you have been having me followed, I know about your ties with the Baratheons who wish me harm. You know that telling my father directly will not be in your benefit, so you instead push this image and these lies into the papers. Enough of them will force his hand, is that right?"

Otto's jaw clenched, and she was pleased to see his hands gave him away too. They were toiling with the hem of his suit, but she stared at the little pin on his lapel, a gift from her father when Viserys had first come to power as head of the family. It was a circuit of heavy metal in aged gold with a strong hand, reaching out to maintain its grasp on the sword. Her father had once said that what he dreams, a good right hand should build, but Otto was not a good right hand.

"I think you need to lay down," he finally announced, but he was now distracted by the laps of the horses and she, by the need to tear the pin from his lapel and stab him with it. She shoved back the violence.

"I'd say the same, but you've been sleeping too long in the comforting beds that you got from the blood of my family." Rhaenyra watched her little colt, a great brown monstrosity, finally lose his commendable speed, staggering and faltering and swaying. Each horse that passed him made his value go down, and when all but him had reached the finish line, those 100 carats had dwindled to 10, then to nothing at all.

Otto was distraught, and she wondered if, in watching the colt win in the last few rounds, he had done as she predicted and bet it all on him. She hoped so.

"You are betting on a losing horse," Rhaenyra whispered, knowing he could barely hear her from the commotion of shouts from the stands, all from gamblers who had grown as arrogant as her grandfather-in-law. "To which you should be familiar."

His eyes were furious, but still, his voice was soft. "We shall see."

NOTICE OF CERTIFICATION

December 20, 2022

RHAENYRA TARGARYEN

UNITED STATES

Dear Candidate: The New York State Board of Law Examiners congratulates you on passing the New York State bar examination held on October 8-9, 2022. This letter also confirms that vou successfully completed the New York Law Course, the New York Law Exam and the Multistate Professional Responsibility Exam. Pursuant to § 520.7 of the Rules of the Court of Appeals, the Board hereby certifies you to the following department-

Rhaenyra vowed to no longer cry over boys. However, she still cried over emails, over letters, and over this. Her hands were shaking, her eyes spilling with a laugh erupting out from her throat. She sat in her love seat, clutching the letter and rereading it once, twice, thrice; all until she could practically memorize it verbatim.

She reached for her phone, and without thinking, her thumb clicked Daymon’s contact, but the moment she saw his name appear on her screen, ice drenched over her instead. The dial tone abruptly vanished, replaced by the sound of Daymon’s voice, piercing through the hushed quiet. Yet, even in the midst of his distracted conversation with another, his voice pierced the silence, seeping into her consciousness.

"Rhaenyra?"

The juxtaposition of his casual demeanor and her own seething anger was jarring.

"f*ck you," she said, hanging up.

What the f*ck was that? Rhaenyra was mortified, and she let out a squeak when his name appeared on her phone, calling her back. She rejected the call, and for extra measure, blocked him just to stop herself from answering and falling back into the comforting lull of his voice that lessened her own justifiable anger with him.

Rhaenyra hid her face into her knees, into the paper that smelled of her own success, and immediately wished that some force of hell would swallow her right up. She had never hung up on him before, but she had never hated him more than she did right now and he managed so easily to ruin something that should have been hers. She managed to so easily give him the power to do that.

"What did I do?" Rhaenyra groaned into the silence of her crackling fire. A flicker of longing tugged at her, a desire to share her grievances, to hear his voice once more, even though reason dictated otherwise. She wanted to tell him, she wanted to hear his voice even if she shouldn't want such things.

Instead, she peaked at her phone, spotting a text message from a number she did not recognize.

(212) 438-3942: blocking numbers again? Really?

(212) 438-3942: the hell is wrong with you?

read: 2:56 pm

She blocked the random number with a scowl and a rapidly beating heart. He was so easily ravaging everything, but she was determined to bring back the excitement she had when she first read the letter. She trailed through her contacts, pausing at her dad's name and the tears came back with a vengeance.

She clicked it, waiting with bated silence as her eyes burned hot at his voice. "Hey kid," his greeting had those tears falling down.

"Dad," her stupid voice cracked, and his own tone grew concerned.

"Did something happen? Where are you?" Viserys sounded ready to stand from his seat, to race to her. She slapped away the tears.

"I got it," she said slowly, trying to speak through the crying, through her timid smile.

"Got what?" Viserys was panicked, and she laughed with a sniff.

"Dad, I got the letter," she clarified, wiping her nose and feeling like a mess. There was silence from the other end, then a relieved sigh and the sound of his weight on the desk chair, sinking into it.

"Rhaenyra, I almost had a heart attack," he told her, but laughed along with her. "I knew you'd pass. You have your mother's brain."

Otto hadn't had her crimes published, the articles on standstill, and none of the images Harwin had procured from Otto's hard drive had her face visible. She didn't want to get her hopes up that he was about to leave her alone since having hope would make her complacent and lazy and blindsided by an attack.

"I'm just so happy," Rhaenyra told him, leaving out how she often thought herself unworthy and stupid. She often felt like an imposter and not nearly as smart as her mother had thought her. Her relationship with her father was tenuous, sometimes only held together by a last name and brittle memories, but she loved him and at times, missed what they used to have.

"What do you want? Anything at all and I'll get it for you," he said, quick to want to shower her with gifts.

But Rhaenyra didn't want gifts. She wanted to work. She wanted power. "The tower."

There was silence on the other end, a hesitation that rang with hurtful mistrust. "The Targaryen tower?"

"The new one. I want it. I want to direct its build," Rhaenyra said, wiping away her tears.

"Ah," Viserys was hesitating, considering, and Rhaenyra knew she hadn't earned anything yet, but she also knew that he gave her no opportunities to earn her place. He gave her nothing but offers of material gifts and empty words with no prospects to show she could be the heiress that he made her.

"You don't trust me?" Rhaenyra's voice was small on the other end, and she quickly changed the tone so she didn't sound like the girl from Dragonstone who screamed to get her way.

"It's a huge responsibility and one that has already gone through complications," Viserys finally told her.

"Of what sort?" Rhaenyra's voice was colder now, disappointed that she wasn't getting her way but not so disappointed as to give up.

"Your uncle. I'll spare you the details and just say-"

"I don't want to be sparedthe details." She was going to kill Daemon.

"I see," Viserys whispered, before letting out a laugh. "Truly your mother's daughter. Alright. I want the Targaryens to take a stand on clean energy and Daemon very clearly does not, instead suing the private international tribunals on the idea that their climate change policies are illegally cutting into his profits and that he requires compensation."

"And?" Rhaenyra wasn't surprised since Daemon was awful and greedy and didn't give a damn about the world burning so long as their family stayed rich and powerful.

"So the green energy companies I have attempted to acquire into this partnership of our tower have refused to sell their assets to us. And we need that sale, you understand. Otherwise, there is no renewable energy skyscraper."

"They think you plan to buy them out just to shut them down?" Rhaenyra let out a scoff.

"It is a justifiable concern, Rhaenyra," Viserys told her. "And above what I'd expect you to handle, new as you are."

"I can handleDaemon," Rhaenyra's hand clenched around her phone, practically holding her breath. "We can tackle this bit by bit. Brick by brick. You and me, right?"

Viserys sighed on the other end. "I did say you could have anything."

Rhaenyra's heart warmed, clutching her phone to her face. "You did. And I want Lyonel Strong at my side here."

"Otto-"

"Is no longer required," Rhaenyra cut her father off, her voice hardening. "Lyonel Strong is more than capable, and what's more, I trust Mr Strong. I don't trust Otto."

"Otto has been with our family for years. He is family."

"He's been feeding the press against me," she said quickly, greeted by silence.

"Preposterous." Her father was as stubborn as his brother, but even Daemon had trusted her word.

"Look into it at least," she said, wishing she had proof, which the photos were not. She couldn't prove where they came from, only that she had them now. "And give me Mr Strong."

"As you wish," Viserys agreed with a half-hearted sigh. "And what do you plan to do about Daemon?"

"Take him to court," Rhaenyra said, now toying with the buttons of her sweater and feeling like a traitor. "Show the public that we don't stand with him. Let me look at his contracts and find grounds for a subpoena."

Viserys let out a shocked laugh from the other end. "That's foul."

Rhaenyra felt vile. She felt like she was betraying him, but he cast the first stone directly at her feet. "That's business. Hetaught me that."

"We have our differences, but he's my brother and your uncle," Viserys said softly, as if she ever needed such a reminder. "I'll call a meeting instead and Otto will find a way through these differences without the need for such a play."

Rhaenyra bit her tongue, not bothering to tell him that Daemon Targaryen was a fighter in a way that Viserys was not. She didn't bother to say that Viserys' plan of sending Otto Hightowerwas an awful one.Daemon didn't respond well to words of affirmation or weak requests or any Hightower. Rhaenyra knew that Daemon only responded to fire and blood. In that at least, she and him were one in the same.

She wasn't invited to the meeting, but Rhaenyra arrived forty minutes early, her stomach in tangled knots as she poured over legal litigations and every contract that her uncle so much as stained with a drop of ink. She quickly focused on his handwriting in the margins, his intelligent scribbles of correction and legal jargon that reminded her of his brilliance. She was stroking up the length of his signature, the calligraphy of his name, and had to flip the page so forcefully that she nearly drew blood.

"I hate this," she muttered, taking a deep breath just to focus. When she heard the commotion from the next room, she finally began to gather the contracts into a pile, knowing she ran out of time to find the answer she wanted. All she really figured out was that she was hopelessly in love with a brilliant c*nt.

"Where's Viserys?" Daemon's words cut straight through her when she opened the door to the main conference room.

"He saw no need to concern himself with this..." Otto's voice answered right back, using words that were meant to strike straight at Daemon, "obvious sham. Another pointless debacle and cry for attention."

"I am simply upkeeping with the old traditions of my House," Daemon said with a chuckle that did not falter, even when Rhaenyra entered the room. His expression was unreadable, but surely he must have seen that she wasn't on his side when she gestured for the seated suit to Otto's right to vacant his chair. When he did not move, Harrold Westerling—one of the only members of her father's council that she liked— cleared his throat in warning. Immediately, the suited man stood, moving five chairs so Rhaenyra could take her seat to Otto's right.

Otto leaned over, his voice in a low whisper, "what are you doing here, Ms Targaryen?"

Rhaenyra removed her eyes from her uncle to address her father's right hand. "Ensuring this meeting ends with a manner of success and avoided bloodshed."

"You little traitor," Daemon's words were spoken in Valyrian, a language that none of the council could speak nor tried to learn.

"Traitor? Funny. I was thinking the same about you,"Rhaenyra shot back, and besides the slight lift of his brows, she could not read his expression.

"Let's get on with this," Otto said, and the rest of the council remained in silence, likely instructed to be just witnesses to Otto's show of diplomacy that was geared at the wrong man. "In English." He glanced at her when he spoke, a tone of reprimand that he intended to use to belittle her. "You are to drop the lawsuit. Sign a contract of agreement that you will not interfere with governmental laws on climate change. You will give up 2% of your shares and ensure your goal for shareholder majority remains unattainable. You will step down from the small council. All by order of Mr Targaryen of course."

"And he couldn't ordain to say it himself," Daemon asked softly, now scanning over the stack of documents that Otto slid across the table. He leaned forward, elbows sliding against the surface as he interlaced his fingers. "Since he is not here, I will address the only other Targaryen in the room and you can slither right back out from whatever hole you crawled. Or simply go back to sucking the marrow from my brother's bones, you miserable parasite."

Otto did not baulk at the callous words, even if Rhaenyra nearly did. Instead, the two men couldn't look away from one another and she was able to recognize the tense figure of Otto, who scrutinised his opponent as if he were waiting for Daemon to leap across the table just to slit his throat. Daemon, on the other hand, looked as though he considered doing just that many times at night solely to fall asleep. Rhaenyra wondered if fantasies of killing Otto were like counting sheep to him.

I shouldn't be attracted to that,Rhaenyra thought with a frown.

Then that murderous gaze slid to her, but it didn't lessen in intensity enough to bring her comfort. Instead, he was furious and it was directed at her. "The Targaryen family made their name from oil. If we turn from our roots, what of the shareholders who have strong ties with other fossil fuels companies? Viserys has big dreams, niece, but what is his plan when our allies realize that we don't stand by them?" Rhaenyra opened her mouth to interject, but Daemon raised a hand up and silenced her. "He has no plan. Only dreams." His voice softened, lowering to Valyrian. "And that's not you, is it?"

"I'm not here to succumb to your tender tone, Daemon," Rhaenyra answered him in Valyrian. "Sign the documents. The Targaryens hold enough commerce and revenue in other areas of business. We don't need oil anymore and you are destroying the new allies we have made. Because that is what you do."

"I marked the margins with red x's so you can't miss where to brush your pen," Otto interjected, which in turn made Daemon's top lip curl. Her uncle might have done something rash in the past, might have stabbed the fountain pen through Otto's jugular. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, tossing the pen into the middle of the table.

"Corlys would be ruined. His revenue would be cut by nearly a third should his ships no longer have the ability to transport oil," Daemon reminded the council, noting the absence of a key member. "Is that why he wasn't invited? Missing Lyman Beesbury as well." Unimpressed, he taps his fingers against the table. "Still surrounding yourself with 'yes men', Otto?"

The tension and silence grew simultaneously. Rhaenyra felt like an imposter, sitting on the wrong side of the table. She was fighting off the ridiculous urges that made her want to leap into his warm pocket, to burrow beneath his skin so she could rest her eyes. He was ruining her world and still the only thing that mattered to her was his f*cking approval and she couldn't seem to get her soul back from him. He wouldn't let it go and her flesh was shrivelling without it.

"Two votes to your defence are not in any way a majority," Rhaenyra reminded him, but he chuckled.

"Luckily this was never a democracy," Daemon told her, he reached over the table to grab the contracts.

"This is a foolish move, uncle," Rhaenyra urged, but he didn't mind. "And doing as you wish now on a whim would be a declaration on its own."

"Splendid," Daemon said with a flippant scoff.

"So you won't mind that all the Targaryens are hurt in the crossfire?" Rhaenyra asked with insistent Valyrian. "You said that nobody but us matters. Why divide us now over something as inconsequential as a petty squabble?"

It got him to pause from ripping the contract in half, but it wasn't enough to make him sign it. "Unblock my number."

"What?" Rhaenyra had to do a double take, confusion settling over her like a cloak.

Daymon reclined in his seat, his voice switching to English, and a sly grin tugged at the corners of his lips. "But none of the other terms. In the spirit of compromise," Daymon suggested, watching Otto's jaw clench and unclench. "Seems generous enough, do you not think as much?"

The change in language caused Rhaenyra's eyes to narrow, sensing another one of his manipulative tactics. It was a calculated move, making it clear to everyone that if things didn't go his way, he would effortlessly place the blame squarely on her shoulders.

"Fine."

"Is that all or do you have more planned for this mummer's farce?" Otto's harsh voice when directed at Daemon was unlike his condescending one that was usually directed at her, proving that even now, he did not take her seriously.

"Just one last thing," Daemon agreed, lips twitching up even as violence spilt over his smooth face. "Everyone out while I take my time to overlook each of your little x's."

"If that-"

"Everyone but my traitorous niece," he commented, making certain to call her a traitor in Valyrian. It was surprisingly sweet, yet cuttingly painful to hear.

Otto looked reluctant, but Rhaenyra only shrugged. "It is a family matter, Otto," Rhaenyra agreed, drumming her fingers against the table. Harrold Westerling had already stood, tipping his head in her direction as a sign of good faith.

"Twenty minutes," Otto agreed, eager to have his lawyers finalize the documents and prep them for filing.

Daemon flicked his wrist in a shooing motion, treating Otto as one would a bug they could swat away. Otto placed a gentle hand against Rhaenyra's shoulder, yet there was no tenderness in the touch and he quickly filed out of the room along with Daemon's lawyer and the other members of the council.

Only when the door closed with a resounding click, did he grab the first page from the stack. "I'm disappointed," he told her, tapping the back of the pen against the desk while Rhaenyra's chair squeaked with her weight as she leaned back. There was a cacophony of white noise, the tenuous breaths, building and building between them. It was as easy to hate him as it was to love him and half the time, she couldn't make any sense of it.

"So am I," she shot back, barely a heartbeat later.

"Yes, you've made that clear," Daemon bit out, eyes narrow. He flipped another page, multitasking the process so easily—reading legal jargon and breaking her heart over and over again. "What did I do now?"

She thought of Alys' coy little smile and how easy it was for him to throw them away as if they never mattered in the first place. "Why do I have to keep spelling things out for you?" Rhaenyra retorted, grabbing her phone to unblock his number. "Sign the documents so I can go home."

Daemon's breath cut off, the only sign of his rising fury before he slid the paper over to her. It would have hit the ground had she not caught it with her index finger. "Section 8.2. Read it."

She slid it back to him. "Are you illiterate and a dick now?"

"Are you two-faced and a lap dog now?" Daemon asked, sliding the paper back at her.

She was infuriated and unbelievably turned on since she had not a single normal reaction when it came to him. Rhaenyra lifted the paper, her eyes scanning down the giant blocks of text until she reached the bottom half—right at the segment on the standard passage of an NDA. From there, the passage continued for six pages. Rhaenyra had no doubt that Otto would be thrilled for the legal ability to finally lock Daemon's tongue behind his teeth.

"We can amend it," Rhaenyra finally suggested, the voice reluctant and her anger making it hard to compromise. "Or you can lie in the bed you made and shut up."

Daemon finally let out a half laugh that filled her with hot air, and made her feel like a balloon, just about to blow away from the passing breeze—only there was no breeze and she was hot instead. She wanted to take off her coat, but then he'd see the gooseflesh beneath and she'd be left without a barrier or shield. The layers made her feel like a child with a blanket, hiding underneath in the dark.

"That's very good," he said, but then the laughter was gone. "What are you angry about now? I haven't done a thing."

"Haven't you?" Rhaenyra asked, lips parting at the gull of his words. She could list half a dozen right now, and the twenty minutes they had would never be enough to tell him of his offences.

He pauses, considering before saying, "Not lately. Not today or yesterday when you blew up at me and blocked my number. Very hurtful indeed." She couldn't tell what hurt him or didn't, and she no longer trusted him at word value.

"Why don't you guess what I'm angry about? Why do I always have to back you into a corner and spell out what I want to know? Why can't you just be honest with me instead of more bullsh*t excuses?" Rhaenyra grabbed the pen, crossing out a part of the NDA that she did not like, writing a notation in the margins for amendment.

"Like you have been so honest with me?" Daemon's tone shifted, defensive and ferocious. "We all have secrets. Why can't you just respect mine?"

"What exactly have I kept from you?" Rhaenyra hissed, looking up at him from through the blanket of her lashes. "I have always—you can't gaslight me anymore Daemon. I'm not a moron."

"I know you're not." He leaned forward, resting his face against the crook of his closed fist, hiding his mouth from view. "I've told you enough."

"Are you scared I'd shun you? Turn from you? Be disgusted by you if I knew everything?" Rhaenyra crossed another section of the contract, cursive in the margins once more.

"Seems like you already are," Daemon said softly into the oncoming silence and she watched his Adam's Apple bob when he swallowed.

"I told Laena about us," Rhaenyra whispered in Valyrian, hoping he'd say who he told, praying that he'd take the lifeline she was handing him. Yet, his impenetrable gaze and that enigmatic countenance gave nothing away. "I needed to. I feel like sometimes I'm drowning and I needed to talk about it. You don't ever want to talk about anything so I'm drowning alone."

"Always with the sentiments," was all he said, and she was reminded of all the adults who often called her a stupid, sentimental girl. She had been belittled by so many people throughout her life, but never by him.

And he still would not admit it.

"Do whatever you want then," she said, slapping the paper across the table and standing from it, turning to leave.

"We're not done, don't you walk out that door." The room fell into an abrupt stillness, the silence punctuated only by the resounding thud of his hand striking the table.

She whipped around, her braid slapping against her cheek with the motion. "I should have left a million times. I'm done."

"Rhaenyra," he began, his expression opening in surprise.

"No Daemon, I'm done. I-I f*cking hate you half the time." She didn't know what she was saying, but none of it felt right—yet nothing felt right anymore, nothing but him and that wasn'tright either. He had straightened, circling the table before she could rip open the door to go.

"You don't. You can't," he said, turning her back around. His touch wasn't that of a seducer, not an uncle, not anyone she could recognize. His hands dipped to her cheek, one upon her neck, and she might have closed her eyes to bask in the feeling before, but if she did that now, she'd forget that he had betrayed her first.

She'd forget it and let him walk over her life again.

"I can. I do. Iwant to," Rhaenyra replied with a deep sigh.

That was a mistake, the inhale of breath made her suck in his cologne, the sensual scent of his skin that called to her. He wasn't smiling, "Because we're mirrors and I don't. I can't."

"That's not good enough," Rhaenyra said, trembling and she ripped from his grasp, stepping back. "I just don't understand."

"And I don't know what you're talking about," he hissed. "But you're driving me crazy."

"Good. We're mirrors after all," she snapped, gripping his lapel to bring him closer. The motion allowed the scent to fill her brain, making it smooth with him inside her mind. She tried to shove it aside, holding her breath until she grew dizzy, until she wanted him some degree less. "You are a man with a wife who hates you, baggage that you won't share,lovers," she spits out the word, nearly holding her breath for him to deny it. His expression shuttered to a close that mimicked her own. "Am I not enough for you?"

Daemon stepped back, his flesh leaving her own cold when he pulled away. "You've had your lovers," he answered carefully. "Why am I punished for the same?"

"Because I love you and I've done little to hide it," Rhaenyra bit out without her own consent, her own tongue a traitor. Her hands instinctively flew to cover her mouth, as if attempting to recapture the reckless confession that had slipped out. Yet, if he ever looked at her once—just once—the way she craved from him or if he'd only gaze down at her with that unrestrained emotion she often watched him with, she'd be his slave.

He was silent when she wanted some paroxysm of mutinous passion.

"You'd keep me as your little pet to warm your bed," she said, her voice laced with a mix of bitterness and longing. His eyes flickered, a fleeting distance settling upon his gaze. He took a step back, trying to create space between them, but she pursued him, closing the distance until their chests were pressed together."Not your equal. Not someone who you confide in. Why would you? It must be exhausting to confide in all your lovers at once. You must even forget our names sometimes."

"Our twenty minutes is up," he said carefully, acting as though she did not speak at all.

"Oh, you're so right," she continued, her voice laced with sarcasm. "Thank you for dismissing me, sir. Anything else, sir? Punish my insubordination, sir?" She grabbed his hand and placed it against her chest, just between her breasts when she watched his nostrils flare with the frustration he could not hide. "Or is this all we will ever be?"

"Stop it," Daemon snapped, shoving her back until her head lightly tapped the wall while her back lay flat against it. His hand was shaking, his head resting against her own. "So what? You want to be free of me, yet also to possess me?"

"I can say the same of you," she whispered right back.

He let out a shaking breath, his lips so close, yet his heart had never been farther away. She could kiss him, hold onto a temporary truce, and things would be okay. They could meet in parking lots, he could f*ck her when he wanted to and ignore her when it suited him. He could continue to seek out others to satisfy what she could not—

She promised never to let him make her cry again, yet her eyes were burning.

And that he told someone like Alys Rivers was the final stone. He just continued to do as he wanted, never mind how it hurt her or how he spurred other people to hurt her.

"Our twenty minutes is up then," Rhaenyra agreed, resting her head against the back of the door, and staring up at the ceiling.

She wanted him to hold her closer, but instead, he let her go and took his many steps back.

"Always so easy for you to do that," she said with a broken laugh.

"I can say the same of you," he said, repeating her own words right back at her.

"It's not," she snapped, but he was calm.

"So we are in agreement," he whispered, cutting her off when she motioned to speak. "I spared you once before—years ago. Perhaps it's your turn to spare me, before your 'feelings' turn into more of a burden for the both of us to handle."

She had to hold her breath to keep the tears at bay, so knew she needed to leave, lest she wanted him to watch her suffocate. She couldn't speak, only vaguely nod her head and turn to leave. She thought he might stop her, tell her that she was enough for him, tell her that he feels for her as she often times imagined he did, tell her that he wanted more than just her flesh.

Silence once again, and they return to the same melody they had played many times before. She walked out.

Rhaenyra had sat on her desk chair for an hour of interrupted silence, staring at the wall of her Connecticut loft as it closed in around her. It had already grown dark outside by the time she practically leapt off the seat, feeling like Bella Swan when her stalker paedophile boyfriend dumped her in the woods. She refused to sit and strew with a broken heart, yet the temporary strength from her own self-disgust quickly melted away once she passed her phone and checked it to see if he called.

The sleeping pills were overturned on her counter, next to a half-empty glass of water, a box of tissues, and her tossed phone. Rhaenyra was still waiting for them to kick in, waiting for her body to shut down and allow her to dream of different words. She wanted to dream of something other than 'our twenty minutes is up'. She just wanted one night to imagine a better man.

And she got close, paralyzed by a drug-induced sleep—in between dreams and the terrible life she was attempting to take a break from. In that state of unrest, she thought she had stumbled into a nightmare. Her eyes dragged into slow, heavy and dry blinks, watering with the stinging pain. If she hadn't been consciously blinking, she might have thought her eyes closed when she realized she couldn't see anything.

Smoke licked the edges of the windows where the glass met the solid oak, trapping it inside. Soiled edges of golden wallpaper burned away as the last bits of it crumbled into ash, obscured by the smoke. It was in her lungs as she crawled out of bed, her fingers digging into the wood as she attempted to crawl, low to the ground with her blanket fisted against her face.

"Boss, she's awake," the voice all scattered about as she coughed, her eyes watering as little droplets hit the backs of her hands.

Her throat was burning, barely able to make out the two figures in the distance. She tried to get lower to the ground and find oxygen, but her limbs were lagging and she was falling further and further down.

Chapter 24: When In Ruin

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ－Ｆｏｕｒ

𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝓇𝓊𝒾𝓃

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

There was a Socotra Dragon tree just behind the Red Keep back in South Hampton. When I cut it, the sap bled red. When I burned it, it had the dark and robust scent of amber and ash—of the roasted hazelnuts back in Dragonstone. It was called the Godswood, revered if anyone still worshipped the old gods from northern Valyria. When it resisted the flames, I was told the Gods protected it from being burned.

But Rhaenyra didn't believe in any god, so did not pray to one when the steps came closer and closer. She was in and out of consciousness, the smoke so thick that she could only feel her way around, trying to stay awake. The drugs made it nearly impossible, her eyes now so heavy that she thought they might just pop out from her skull and roll into the approaching, pounding steps.Then a soft hiss roused her into a state of awareness, followed by a ripping noise.

"sh*t, can't see a f*ckin' thing," one voice commented with a cough, and she heard the crashing of her espresso machine, the smashing of the pottery, the sound of crackling flames, and lastly, the crunching of glass beneath heavy boots. Rhaenyra continued to crawl, outstretching her hands to the wall just to feel the smooth paper beneath her shaking touch. "The f*ck you doin' lighting that sh*t up already."

"Shut the f*ck up and set the last fuse. She dies either way. Get the f*cking phone." The voice of the other person gave an order, and Rhaenyra strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of him. She saw his arm reaching out, extending toward the nightstand where she had slept before.

"Nah, I'll make it quick," the other replied, their voices now thick through the smoke. She blinked rapidly, spotting the door, her exit, blocked by two people she did not know. It was all obstructed by the shadowed light of the fire and the moon. There were no rooms in her loft—no barricades of cement and wood. The minimal furniture she had was a testament to her negligible little home.

She tried to move, knocking over her lamp as she skidded to the ground. She heard it roll to the side, loud and rattling from the bits of porcelain that had broken and remained stuck at the heart of the hollow crevice. Rhaenyra was crawling back when she felt a hand wrap into an iron lock around her ankle, dragging her back. She let out a scream, a shout that she had allowed to escape from the sunken crevice of her throat, rattling like that lamp.

"Stop movin' you stupid bitch," the man snapped, his harsh tone piercing through her as she flailed, scratching his face when he attempted to wrestle her down. His hiss of pain was paired with a smack across her jaw that made her vision grow dark, her head throbbing with cloying panic. He was holding her down, his legs caging her, paralyzing her from underneath him.

"Thought you were gonna make it quick?" The other voice said, and she could vaguely hear the sound of items being dumped to the ground, rummaging through drawers and spilling their contents across a gasoline-soaked floor. She could see bits of the second stranger through the haze—enough to notice he was middle-aged with a finely trimmed beard and a tattoo on the side of his neck. He was a giant but obscured once more by the smoke and her own watering vision.

"This f*cking bitch-" There were hands around her throat, squeezing in a lock as she attempted to claw at his wrists, his spit drenching her cheeks with his remark. His thumbs were pressed down against her jugular, and she was reaching around her, searching as her vision grew grey, her throat burning with its lack of air.

"Come on, f*ck the bitch. Let's go!" The other man snapped, but Rhaenyra could barely hear anything, her vision now outlined with red spots and her hand burning as she reached for anything she could get. She was staring straight into the stranger's eyes, two dark as coals and a third—a tattoo of an eye hidden in a triangle.

Her tears were lining down her cheeks, her other hand scratching at his face, trying to fight as her legs lost the ability to move. He was saying something, perhaps curses, perhaps more vitriolic words, but the pounding in her ears had grown in intensity with her fingers stretching over something cool—sharp. She squeezed her hand into a fist around the edge, feeling it snap apart as the throbbing, stinging pain worsened.

She didn't know if she had the strength to pierce flesh, her arms feeling weak and boneless. She stabbed the chipped piece of porcelain into his wrist, and if he let out a scream or sound, she could hear nothing. She stabbed again, aimless and panicked, feeling him fall off of her as she rolled to the side, coughing and trying to breathe. She couldn't think.

He was saying something again, and his hand went into her hair, pulling her with such force that she choked on her own cough. He shoved her into the ground by the roots that tugged at her scalp. There was more than just the physical assault of his forceful motion and her face was burning hot, scathing her and making her cry out with a scream so loud that she hardly realized it was her own. It was a disassociated sound—a wail that had a will of its own. She twisted her hand still clenching the porcelain when she pierced it straight ahead. He had fallen, but she was burning.

Something was rising from the ashes of her terror, something illogical and born of an anger that was morphing. She felt like a creature of pain and horror and doubt, coming from somewhere dark and terrifying and violent.

His hand was still tangled in her hair, but it loosened when she stabbed again, straddling him as her grip tightened so hard that she thought her fingers might sever from her hand. She was disassociating from them too. She couldn't breathe.

She stabbed again, straight down. And again and again and again.

There were indistinct sounds, sirens and shouts, but she couldn't stop until she was sure there was no movement from underneath her. She couldn't stop until her arms had begun to stiffen, growing heavy, becoming lead. She couldn't stop until her body contained her. She tried to squint through the haze, falling to her side, her chest heaving up and down as she stared into nothing, her body losing its ability to function. She was greeted with appalling silence, the cold indifference of her own life that was draining out of her, her eyes closing—opening—closing again.

Rhaenyra tries to look down, through her unsteady vision, her mouth filling with warm fluid and her breath slowing. She had the sensation of being lifted off her feet, her mind now drifting up—up—up—

She was brought back to childhood memories, times she was high up on her dad's shoulders, whisked into the air, soaring through it as though she were a dragon. "Dad," she'd say, and her hoarse voice repeated it back now, "Dad." Her voice was broken and cracking with the urge to get herself up. The voice that spoke belonged to a child—a victim, the voice of a little girl who had never stood on her own, disassociated and filled with vulnerability.

"And that's not you, is it?" Daemon would say and Rhaenyra rolled to her side, trying to rouse herself. She tried to swallow, yet her throat was tight and restricted by the ghost of hands wrapped around her windpipe, cutting her air off. She had thought she'd known pain, but there was an agony here that set aside all her previous encounters with such a word. The blood would not stop, soaking her skin, her knees scraping against the ground as she crawled.

Rhaenyra was blind—whether temporarily or forever, she could not know. She couldn't distinguish between the terrified sobs or tears from her own lack of oxygen, puncturing her sternum and causing her ribcage to quake with force. The fire's reflection led along the barrel of a gun, dropped upon the carpet. Even with her blurring vision, she could just barely make out an insignia she had never seen before, just on the hilt. She crawled over the gun, lost and disoriented.

She didn't know how she made it further across the ground. She didn't know how she managed to breathe life into her arms and legs when she couldn't breathe. She was a child again, trying to maintain sense and clarity through the haze of horror that made her call for her dad or her mum or Daemon or anyone else who would listen.

But she would not wait for any of them—unreliable or dead as they were.

Rhaenyra whimpered as she used the walls to help herself back to her feet, the scent of smoke proliferating as if it were a living being, growing and fighting back. It was trying to outlast her and survive where she would not. Now she was clutching at the walls, leaving trails of her own blood as imprints upon the zigzagging patterns of the paper, upon the portraits, upon the life that was seeping out of her.

One step at a time—

Rhaenyra heard an indistinct crashing, shouts that she could not comprehend, and when gentle, yet frantic hands gripped her shoulders, she fell back into a state of frenzy that had been just barely breaking the surface. She tried to fight the grip, kicking and screaming, yet the strength was weak and drained and she was haggard and worn.

She could barely make out the words, "It's okay, it's okay—" Rhaenyra didn't believe that and nothing felt okay.

"Someone help me with her," another shout echoed and she was being lifted, yet not without a fight, but her power had seeped out of her, her head too heavy for her own neck. She couldn't move her arms, and they fell lifelessly at her sides.

Lifted high up, once more she was reminded of her father, of aeroplanes and of dragons who flew above the sea. A dragon could have withstood the flames when they came.

But Rhaenyra was extinguished.

She awoke only to vomit, but as her mouth opened, nothing came out but a dry heaving that awakened her nerves that had been numb—replacing all sensations with a quaking burn that spread over her entire body. Rhaenyra slapped away any oncoming hand, though she had yet to be able to open her eyes as her limbs all flailed without her control. This motion was greeted with oncoming discomfort that was encasing her, as though she had met a thorn bush and allowed it to intertwine with her limbs.

"Rhaenyra, it's okay, it's okay," the voice cooed, accompanied by persistent hands attempting to reach her. But in her current state of dry heaving and pain, she couldn't make sense of the sounds around her. Something felt off.

Something was obstructing her face.

She became aware of restraints securing her arms, and unfamiliar hands grazing her skin. The confusion and distress engulfed her, making her feel as if she were losing her grip on reality.

"Rhaenyra," the voice tried again, but Rhaenyra's eyes were squeezed shut, yet her hands were in motion, trying to remove the cords from her, remove the item restricting her face. Yet, her hands were not her own, covered in something that felt like gloves.

"Remove the mask, back up, let her breathe," another voice commanded, the urgency evident in their tone. A flurry of hands surrounded her, their purpose now focused on removing the mask that concealed her face. She reluctantly cracked her eyes open, greeted by a blinding light that pierced through her senses. As the mask was lifted away, she felt a surge of confusion wash over her, leaving her heart deflated and her mind in disarray.

Nobody spoke as she untangled her legs from her blanket, yet she noticed the flinching of these faceless blobs when she let out a strangled cry from the ache and burn of her movements. Her vision was clearing, just enough to recognize her father, Alicent, and Laenor. Finally, in her search for the reason for the pain in her body, she saw the many bandages that covered her thighs. Her arms. Her hands. Her neck. She saw little of herself.

The terror that had ravaged her from the moments she closed her eyes and to the seconds she opened them had vanished. As she saw her own hands tremble, without her own accord, she was aware of the burning pain, the ache, and finally, the memories came back too. Her terror had finished, shock instead consuming her until she was shivering—cold.

Rhaenyra felt helpless in the face of them. There was movement, but still, no one came to her. She wished they were stronger than that. She wanted to be held, yet was not so certain that she'd be able to withstand their touch.

"Hey kid," the voice was that of her father, but Rhaenyra couldn't look up, flooded with memories that couldn't be real. They couldn't.

She vaguely felt the hospital bed sink at his weight, but she was now in so much pain that she couldn't form words.

"I called the nurse," Laenor whispered, his nervous voice so palpable that she winced. His voice lowered, "Your pain meds must be wearing off."

"Do you want us to leave?" Alicent was the first one to ask, but Rhaenyra couldn't look away from the shaking hands in her lap. She saw her father's hands hover over them, approaching like a wounded animal, hesitant and uncertain. Slowly, his hands lowered, cradling the flesh not restricted by the bandages.

"I-I," Rhaenyra tried to form words, thoughts now so distorted that she couldn't utter them. Her tongue was twisted, wrong somehow, but Alicent stood anyway, circling the bed until she was on the other side.

"It's okay," Alicent whispered, and something in her voice cracked and broke, but Rhaenyra couldn't handle anyone's emotion. She couldn't handle anyone's feelings—not their pity, not their sympathy, not their love.

"Please," she said instead, her eyes squeezing shut as she laid back against the pillow and heard the bed make a noise with the movement. "Please no talking."

She didn't want them to go. She wanted drugs. She wanted silence. She wanted—

She heard squelching flesh and the sound of a groan and the fire and—

It was dark when Rhaenyra opened her eyes again. It was dark and she was alone.

She was alone and numb and perhaps high from drugs so long in name that she'd be unlikely to utter them. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to remember her own name.

Her breath hitched. She closed her eyes. She opened them and it was bright again and there were people in her room—just talking.

Her eyes closed and they were gone. This process seemed endless and disorienting and it left her numb to all feelings besides the ones of her burning limbs. So, she took solace in the drug-induced sleep that tore away time as effortlessly as one might turn the crown on a watch. And the hands kept moving in circles, the crown on infinite rotation, yet the bezel was broken, the case shattered, and it wouldn't stop.

Then nothing moved at all, the crown now broken and time wouldn't go on, leaving her staring at a ceiling that she wanted to spin. Her breaths came out like tenuous little gasps. "You are Rhaenyra Targaryen. You are a dragon," a voice echoed in her mind, a loop on repeat—it might have been her own, or perhaps not, perhaps another voice that had merged and conjoined with hers long ago. Maybe she had no voice anymore. But she had her eyes and they worked just fine.

She managed to move her arms, yet they fought against her. Bandaged hands had dusted along her face, but she had little feeling left to call them her own. She tried to sit up, yet her back protested the movement.

Something was wrong.

"Hey," a voice—groggy with sleep—came from near her. It came closer now, and a hand carefully rested against her back. "You're up, good," the voice did not crack and was soft instead, filling Rhaenyra's heart with its murmur. Little bits of silver hair was against her shoulder, but it was not her hair. It was too curly with little ringlets that seemed luminous in the moonlight.

"How long?" Rhaenyra wasn't certain her voice was audible, cracked and broken as it was. She felt like an egg that had fallen and shattered from a great height. Humpty f*cking dumpty, she thought with a sense of dread at the ache in her neck, in her face, in her arms—and it would take far less time to list what did not hurt.

Laena understood her just fine and was quick to answer. "You've been out for three days." The voice was soft, yet not without worry or affection since even Laena was human to those.

Rhaenyra would not cry, even if her nose was burning, even if she didn't understand anything that was happening. "Where's Daemon?"

Laena's voice did not answer her pathetic question, but the answer was one she needed to hear. Throughout the turning of the crown, she had waited for his voice as though it could halt the passage of time that had been stolen from her. She was certain that, should his voice be uttered in her vicinity, she would have awoken from a nightmare. Yet, this misery was ongoing so perhaps that was the response to her inquiry. Perhaps she didn't need to hear Laena's reply.

"I don't know," Laena answered carefully, bits of hesitation now escaping along with the soft lull of her voice. "Nyra—I—"

"Mirror," Rhaenyra said instead, refusing to call out his name again. He would not come anyway.

"I don't think—" Laena began, but Rhaenyra would not allow her request refused.

"Mirror," Rhaenyra said again, but her voice was no longer one of a broken-hearted girl. This was a voice of a woman who would not be denied nor disobeyed, and Laena's jaw clenched, yet her hand on her cousin's back tightened.

"Alright, Nyra. Alright," Laena answered back, bits of sorrow now as clear as the throbbing in Rhaenyra's body. She let her cousin help her from the bed and was silently grateful that there were no words of concern when her bare feet touched the cold ground and her legs gave out from beneath her. Laena merely helped her back up, carrying all the weight as they made their unsteady trip to the bathroom with only the dim moonlight flooding her way.

Laena looked to her cousin for confirmation before turning on the light. There was a moment of silence as the bulbs flickered on like that of a terrible horror movie. Rhaenyra had those milliseconds to steel herself, to grip the counter in order to keep upright. Her throat was dry and parched, but she did not mind that low ache.

Laena stood at the door entrance like a silent statue, but there were no words to be had. If such a string of words existed, Laena of all people would have found them. Some of the numbness in Rhaenyra's hands had faded with her movement, her eyes had adjusted, but nothing in the mirror was familiar to her. A ghost was staring back at her, and this ghost was missing chunks of hair. This ghost was wrapped like a mummy, yet anthropomorphic in disguise, and logically, Rhaenyra knew that those white wrappings were aiding her, keeping away germs—dirt and debris. Logically, Rhaenyra knew that this ghost was quite alive, breathing andsentientand her.

But she wasn't logical right now and these bandages were a cover, meant to hide something from her and she wanted to see. Laena made a soft noise, a squeak, but such a sound was quelled into resignation when Rhaenyra began to unwrap each one. It was difficult, with her hand wrapped, and she ended up exasperating her own pain in response.

"Please," Laena was begging, reaching forward, unable to reign in her own voice. "Let me help you?" It was voiced as a question, and Rhaenyra's hands gripped back onto the counter to hold herself up, her body hunched over as the numbness had fully departed from her face.

Rhaenyra couldn't nod her acquiescence and by now her eyes were burning so badly that she wasn't certain she could even open them back up to see. "What's behind them?"

Rhaenyra hated gift boxes. She hated when presents were wrapped. She hated the unknown. She didn't like surprises and she didn't know why, but she knew that she had to ask before she saw it. If she knew beforehand, maybe it could prepare her and she could be ready.

Laena stepped closer. Rhaenyra could hear the squeaking of her cousin's shoes against the ground and could hear each diminutive escaping breath. "They did what they could but the burns are—" The emotions were escaping now, but the knowledge did not ready Rhaenyra nor did they allow her any sense of preparation. "Rhaenyra, they have grafts and—"

"Remove them," Rhaenyra ordered instead, watching Laena's steely nod as she brought trembling hands up, and those trembles exposed Laena's concern that she was attempting to mask.

The ghost in the mirror only watched its disguise fall away, revealing red-marred flesh, scabrous and hideous and—

The ghost blinked in time with Rhaenyra's own movement, reminding her that this thing was her. The red, sweltered, and broken skin was all her own. It reached just below her chin, but down as far as her neck and further perhaps. She lifted one hand from the counter so she could attempt to move aside the fabric of her hospital gown. Yet stripping was not easy with one hand, and she nearly collapsed if not for Laena's insistent hands on her waist.

"Shh," Laena whispered, and Rhaenyra became aware that she was wailing, letting out sounds she didn't know she could make. The sounds were cracking, broken, and the noise was burning her throat. "Please, don't talk," Laena was begging, her head buried in Rhaenyra's shoulder. "Please, the tissue and muscle were damaged, you can hit me. You can cry, but please," Laena begged, and Rhaenyra became aware that she was trying to hit her, slapping away her arms that only tried to help her up. When the awareness reached her, she stopped, hands falling boneless to her sides.

"Where is he?" Rhaenyra's voice broke again, her head now falling to rest on her cousin's chest. "I-I need him."

Laena shook her head, her hands resting carefully on Rhaenyra's shoulders. "You don't." The strength in her cousin's voice was returning, filling her eardrums with each sound of assistance. "You don't need anyone. You are my little fighter, a survivor, and you don't need anyone," Laena insisted, her tone now filled to the brink with certainty.

"I do," Rhaenyra said, scanning the ground from below her bandaged feet. She did not know where the burns began or where they ended or if there was anything left of her own flesh. A morphing creature, both hideous and furious. What was left once the shock and terror were suctioned out of her? "Because I will destroy everyone who had a hand in this."

Laena's voice did not offer any more words because they did not exist. Rhaenyra lifted her head from her cousin's chest, and whatever her cousin saw in the marred flesh staring back at her, Rhaenyra did not want to know. "They are looking into the culpr—"

"I know who did it," Rhaenyra whispered, though she wondered how anyone could understand her tangled and cracking words. "A fire for a fire. A deformity for a deformity. A child for a child. It's almost poetic."

"You don't kn-" Laena began, but Rhaenyra pulled away, forcing herself to stare back out into her own sinking reflection.

Her back straightened and the sadness suctioned out next. Rhaenyra reached out, carefully as though the mirror would shatter at her touch. She stroked up the length of her own reflection's jaw, along the intricate redness of her own skin. She had no more words.

This was war.

"Tilapia skin has non-infectious microbiota," In the hushed confines of the sterile hospital room, Rhaenyra found herself barely listening to the old doctor's words, the weight of his medical knowledge hanging in the air like a fog. His voice carried a sense of authority that did little to assuage her mounting questions. The room felt suffocating, the antiseptic scent mingling with the remnants of her earlier bout of inconsolable weeping in the bathroom. Laena had come to her aid, guiding her back to the sanctuary of her bed, while a disgruntled nurse had been summoned to tend to her burns.

"How could you just let her take them off?" The nurse had snapped, not at Rhaenyra of course, but at Laena instead.

"You don't let her do anything," Laena had shot back, her words laced with a subtle venom. Her feigned politeness, once capable of sparking a flicker of warmth in Rhaenyra's heart, now seemed hollow and distant. Something had burned away within Rhaenyra three nights ago, leaving her hollow, empty, and burdened by an unnameable loss. "She does as she wants, and you get out of her way, just as you should get out of mine," Laena continued, her voice carrying an undercurrent of restrained frustration. Yet, amidst the confrontation, she managed to offer a semblance of gratitude. "But thank you for your service, truly," Laena added, her words tinged with strained civility.

Rhaenyra did not envy the nurse, but she wasn't capable of offering much sympathy for anyone.

She was covered in scales that smelled like antiseptic and fish. "Can I get you anything?" Viserys asked, holding her hand carefully, as though Rhaenyra might break in half if he put more effort into it. Rhaenyra, in consequence, squeezed his hand until she saw him wince, only to wonder why she was looking to inflict pain on others.

"Drugs," Rhaenyra offered, but there was no humour in her jest, only dry resignation. She might have tried more glib words, but her throat was in physical torment, yet the pain she could handle. It was the soothing sensation of the fish skin that was true horror, washing away the pestering ache and leaving behind nothing but the cusp of a girl who was about to blow up. She was filling and filling with hot air, yet there was nowhere for it to go.

So, yes, perhaps Rhaenyra wanted the inevitable, drug-induced relapse. Nobody in her circle ever used the words drug addict. No, that was saved for the Mushroom and his naff articles of defamation—Rhaenyra seen high in the Pines, Rhaenyra organizes orgies and topless escapades on Apolla beach, drug addict Ms Targaryen checks into rehab. Rhaenyra had heard it all, seen the headlines that were meant to destroy her reputation.

Of course, the Mushroom had some elements of truth in his excessive gossip. She had been high in the Pines, but orgies at some Florida beach? She was no animal and she hardly liked the sand. No, the orgies had been in the Pines sometime between her first argument with Daemon and that first kiss with Criston. And Rhaenyra would never check into rehab—admitting a problem was not something a Targaryen readily did. Her father would never allow it.

"I can speak to the nurse if you're in pain." Viserys was so ready to give her whatever she asked for, but his concern did not touch her heart. She wasn't certain anything could. She was scarred and deformed and uglyand any match her father would try to make was unlikely to go through.

She might have once been glad for it, but now the idea that even Jason Lannister would not spare a glance—Rhaenyra could not bare that.

In the solitude of the room, with only the two of them present, the atmosphere had turned as cold as her unyielding mood. Every buzzing sound, every subtle noise, each breath she took, and the flickering of the fluorescent lights seemed amplified, assaulting her senses. She yearned for the cacophony to cease, for a moment of stillness.

Viserys had gone silent in the face of her lacking answer, his eyes hooded with deep bags of concern that she might have once begged from him. When her mother died, he had turned as boneless as an anemone and as powerless as a dandelion. He had blown away with the same wind that had enveloped his wife and child's ashes. Rhaenyra had wanted him to face her afterwards, but he had not, so he didn't get to face her now on his terms.

And if he must, then by right, he should face even her unpleasant mood, just as she had faced his.

"I took down her tapestry," Viserys whispered, and his eyes squeezed shut. "I took down all her artwork for the same reason I could not bare to confront you."

He let go of her hand, only to draw his face into his own, hiding it from view.

"What are you talking about?" Rhaenyra asked, not meaning for her voice to sound so harsh and gravelly, yet she had nothing she could say to take it back. Words couldn't be retracted once uttered. One could apologize for them, could beg forgiveness for them, but those words couldn't be unheard. For example, she could never escape his vows to Alicent Hightower.

"It's my fault, you see," Viserys said, his broken voice uttered out with soft reticence, approaching resignation. "I knew that each pregnancy took something from her, but I was obsessed—" He refused to meet her eyes, his face obstructed by his own calloused hands. She took notice of the wrinkles that had already begun to mar his flesh, the little bruises that must have been new, but she didn't know from where they came. He looked so brittle, and seeing this made her throat tighten with a new sensation. "I was obsessed."

"How disappointing it must have been to be saddled with a daughter instead," Rhaenyra said, her voice so far away that she felt as inanimate as a ventriloquist's doll. Her words had some effect, causing her father to look up at her, his eyes glossy and perhaps confused, though she knew not why. "And a ruined one at that."

She knew, gender aside, that she was a disappointment. She was neither humble nor obedient nor pious nor respectful. She was a degenerate drug-addicted little monster—now a murderer. She had done so many taboos that it had become rather easy to commit more. She was in love with another monster. She was in love with her father's brother.

"You think my opinion of you so low?" Viserys said carefully, his voice breaking before his eyes narrowed. "Losing Aemma was my fault, and I had to find a way to live with thatrealization. I had to find a way to live so I could see you grow old, so I could see you married, so I could see you. But I did that wrong too." His words quavered as he looked like an exhausted old man. Her dad's fragilities added yet another layer of fear to her already heavy heart."You are all that matters to me, and I would die before allowing you to think I was disappointedin you. You are your mother's daughter. You are not ruined."

Rhaenyra's demeanour cracked like broken porcelain, bits of ugliness and sorrow leaking out. She was a gas can with a hole. It would only take a single spark to light her, leaving her instead on the edge of that oncoming ignition. "You should have left up the tapestry," Rhaenyra said, looking away, her voice wet with emotion.

It had been a stunning mix of colours, of golden dragons and woven wings that stretched from edge to edge. It had been a depiction of the old Valyrian gods—of the fourteen flames, noble dragons that even Targaryens were not so deluded to pray to or worship. Her mother always liked to honour them. Caraxes, god of the sea, Vermithor, god of artisans, or noble Vhagar, goddess of war. Rhaenyra could recite them all. Her mother had studied them with immense vigour, painting them and creating their likeness.

But the tapestry had been something Rhaenyra and her mother had made together, and her father had no right to remove it.

"I had no right to do many things," Viserys agreed, and she spotted the lines of wetness on the sides of his cheeks. "I did consider, Rhaenyra, that perhaps naming you heir was spoken in haste. That perhaps I had let my anger at Daemon get the better of me, and naming you in his stead would slight him. Perhaps once, I might have let my decision sway away from you." Viserys's hands were trembling when he gripped onto her own, where bits of the scales coated her. He was gingerly touching her hand, making certain not to ruin the treatment. "But you are my heir, my only daughter, and the one who will succeed me. That will not change, of this I swear."

Rhaenyra looked back up at the ceiling, her eyes burning. "I miss her. Every time I think the pain fades, I awaken and remember. It's like a scab that keeps peeling off and regrowing over and over again. And my hair." Rhaenyra would not cry. "She would braid it every morning and now my hair is gone."

As the early morning light filtered through the window, Laena took the shears to her hair, trimming it to a length that barely grazed her ears. Each piece that fell had gutted her. Then it had just been swept into a pile and all the accompanying memories of her mum's careful and loving touch—thrown away.

Viserys moved first, his hands in her hair and his lips pressed to the crown of her head in a wet kiss that was filled with unspoken words. "Shh," his murmur was said in the impeaching darkness as her eyes squeezed shut. "I should not have left you to bare it alone. I am sorry. I am sorry." His whisper was spoken in Valyrian, the language he oft refused to use with her. "But I am here and I will find out who did this. I will have their heads."She had heard her father make such threats—mostly to Daemon—but never on her own behalf. There hadn't been the need.

She couldn't embrace him with her arms stiff and numb as they were, but she felt the warmth, the first bit she had in days. She nodded, uncertain and frightened. She gripped onto the bed sheets, feeling it crinkle in her hands. Softly and callously, Rhaenyra felt herself drift away, still awake, yet not entirely there.

Rhaenyra did not call Daemon—she had no f*cking phone. However, she did go to sleep thinking of all the words she'd say if only he'd walk through the doors. She thought she'd come up with stunningly effective remarks, inciting all the reactions she wanted from him. None of it mattered and Daemon never showed. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to feel or what appropriate emotion was expected of her. She might have once felt deeply wounded, and perhaps she was, but it was growing harder to differentiate any of her thoughts. Instead, it was like there was an empty cavity in her chest and one that was just filling with his cold absence.

So she wanted to be alone with it. After subtly hinting that she wanted Indian food, her father had immediately gotten up to fetch her some, leaving her in the solitude she desperately needed.

She thought it was strange that not a single officer had come to ask her statement, but the moment she thought herself free of it, she saw a man strut through in uniform with an inscrutable countenance and a jagged scar above his brow. Rhaenyra knew then that her last night in the hospital was going to be a long one.

"Ms Targaryen," he greeted, and maybe he thought himself polite, even charming, but Rhaenyra thought he looked like an egg that she wanted to crack along the side of the road.

"Nice scar," Rhaenyra greeted back, in no mood for questioning nor pleasantries nor company. That is unless that company came with her Indian food in hand.

"I'm Detective Garrat Blacktyde," he continued, now pulling a chair next to her bed. He didn't bother to lift it, and they both heard the harsh scrape of solid metal legs against white tiles. "I'm here to get your story on the night of the 23rd."

"I missed Christmas?" Rhaenyra's voice cracked out with a scoff. She had drunk fourteen glasses of water this morning, but none of it had made the scratchy sound of her voice morph back into one she could recognize. "f*ck."

"Can you tell me what you remember of that night?" Garrat asked, his eyes narrow and the fluorescents shining against the gloss of his bare head.

Rhaenyra reached for her water, feeling his eyes on her as she attempted to grab it off the nightstand with clumsy and weak fingers. She gripped it, nearly dropping the glass to the ground with its weight and this forced her to use two hands to bring the rim to her lips so she could take a large gulp. "Fire," she said once she made the effort to swallow.

"...yes. Yes, I gathered that, thank you, Ms Targaryen," Garrat said with careful enunciation to each syllable.

"Did you guys save the place?" Rhaenyra asked, her nails clicking against the cup in little notes that resembled a melody of a song she couldn't recall. "I had a Versace dress," she said, her throat aching. "It was my lucky dress."

"Right." Garrat leaned back against the chair. "Though, it wasn't very lucky, Ms Targaryen. Tell me more about the fire. Witnesses saw two men, did you see differently."

"Don't remember. I want my lawyer," Rhaenyra said instead, watching a smile curve into the man's lips. It was certainly not an expression she trusted, but she was reluctant to trust anyone, let alone Detective Egghead.

"Yes, this is in regard to the unrecognizable, burned body we pulled from the premises?" Garrat said, putting aside his pen and notebook to lean forward, his elbows resting against his knees.

"I never said that. I said I want my lawyer." Rhaenyra raised her hand to shoo him away. "Two men. Caucasian with guns who apparently burned my favourite not-so-lucky dress," her voice broke apart in raspy speech, so it was a wonder he could understand her at all. "The rest of my statement can be taken with my lawyer."

"I am trying to help you, Ms Targaryen," Garrat said softly. "Do you not want to be helped?"

"I want to go back to sleep," Rhaenyra answered back, closing her eyes and hearing him stand and draw closer to her hospital bed. "Come back with a hotter partner."

"I would have thought you quite done with the heat, Ms Targaryen," Garrat's voice was smooth, his words cutting, but Rhaenyra couldn't feel a damn thing.

And she didn't need their help. This was a Targaryen matter and would be solved in the same manner that her family had approached the calamities that befell them for the last five centuries. With deception, betrayal, fire, and—of course—blood.

"Goodbye, Mr Blacktyde," she said with a tone that indicated the end of a conversation, yet Garrat only laughed. The sound was as raspy as her own and it released a shiver that trailed the length of her spine. It was a warning, she supposed, that this was a person to be afraid of, though she didn't know why. Slowly, he dug into his back pocket, grabbing a card that he gently placed on her nightstand.

"If anything comes to mind," he said, watching her grab his card, the ivory prickling her skin. His name was in a soft Garamond font, nothing fancy or memorable about such a name. Yet, she paused at the number, hearing his footsteps against the ground as he walked closer and closer to the door.

"Hold on," she whispered, hearing him pause as she scanned the numerals over and over. It took her moments to recognize each serif and character.

"I wasn't expecting something to come to mind so quickly," Garrat said with a wry smile.

He was a tall and commanding man, steady on his feet, and eyes dark and unreadable. She noticed his lean muscle from beneath his uniform. He had a blunt approach, harsh and quick wit with all the qualities she imagined her uncle appreciated from his underlings. Rhaenyra's lips spread into a soft smile.

She always had a fantastic memory, able to recall even the most minute details. She could remember strings of numbers, the contents of a page that she had spent only a few seconds scanning, or the faces she passed on the streets. Rhaenyra remembered every number that popped up on Daemon's phone in the hours she had access to it.

"Did you pull a gun from the fire?" Rhaenyra asked carefully, still scrutinising the man with the moniker she assumed was 'Cheese'.

Garrat's voice cut through the listless hum of hospital equipment as he delivered his statement. "There are no records of a gun being found," he said, punctuating his words with a half-shrug. Behind him, nurses hurried past, their footsteps blending with the shuffle of patients on walkers, creating a bluster of movement. Determined to create a private space, Garrat closed the door, shutting out the commotion and focusing his attention on the matter at hand.

"That didn't exactly answer my question," Rhaenyra said, now attempting to sit up despite the protest of her own aching limbs. "But then again, your master taught you well."

"Ah," Garrat walked closer, his hands trailing the frame of the hospital bed. He had callouses, protruding veins, and she got the impression that his hands had wrapped around many throats in his day. It was as easy to assume the worst in Daemon's men, just as it was easy to assume the worst him Daemon himself. "What gave me away?"

She flung the card, watching it land at the foot of her bed. "The number. Where is he?"

"Daemon?" Garrat shrugged. "He sends his regards."

"Does he?" Rhaenyra doubted it. She wanted them, but she would not beg for the scraps of his attention anymore. "The gun. Was it registered?"

"Hypothetically speaking," Garrat added with a wry grin, grabbing his card from the surface of her blankets. "They were certainly not complete amateurs."

"Are you even a real cop?" Rhaenyra shot back, wincing and closing her eyes. Garrat snorted, but elected not to answer. "Tell Daemon that I won't answer to his lackeys and if he's too much of a coward to ask these questions himself, then he is certainly not who I thought he was."

"Coward?" Garrat laughed now, tossing the card back onto her lap. "Well, you've certainly got a sharp tongue. Call me if you remember anything useful."

She grabbed it with a deep sigh. "Forgive me, but I actually didn't get a chance to grab my cell from my flat on account of being battered and assaulted."

"I'm sure a billionaire such as yourself can figure that out," he retorted dryly.

"Why would I call you? I'm a billionaire with resources," she said instead. "Why not leave it to the actual police instead of some bald douchebag with fake Timbers."

"Sorry, I was under the impression that you were seeking vengeance, not the slim chance of justice," he commented, watching her expression too carefully for her liking.

"And where is Daemon?" Rhaenyra snapped, her fists clenching at her sides.

"I told you, he sends his regards," Garrat answered.

"I don't want his regards nor vague promises of vengeance." Rhaenyra winced again as she lifted her arm up. "Pen."

He raised both brows, but shrugged, handing her the pen he had been using earlier. She slowly and carefully turned over the business card, attempting to keep her hand from trembling as she gripped the ballpoint pen, touching the tip to the paper. From there, she drew a triangle and even as she began to draw, her hand was shaking, her mind conjuring the stranger forward as if she had just awoken with his hands around her throat. Rhaenyra drew the eye.

"He had this tattoo just under his left eye," Rhaenyra said softly. "They both did. One under the eye. The other on the neck."

She handed it to him, watching his inscrutable gaze scan her little drawing. She had none of her mother's talent, but she didn't need to be an artist to recreate the image that she saw every time she closed her eyes.

"How can you tell they're fake," Garrat said, not looking up from the card. The question was so abrupt that she let out a pained and startled laugh.

"The threads are slightly uneven and too light," Rhaenyra's voice was breathy and incredulous.

"Right." Garrat finally looked up, into her eyes. "I'll pass it to Daemon," Garrat said carefully, to which Rhaenyra responded with a hitch of her breath. She had many things she would tell her elusive and absent uncle, but she hardly wanted to show emotions to a stranger. She wanted Daemon, but he had made it clear by now that he did not want her. It should have hurt more, but she was tired,her muscles were worn, her life was destroyed, and she wanted to shatter every surface that showed her reflection. She didn't know how to feel the weight of all she had lost.

"Pass one last message."

Chapter 25: House of Ruination

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ－Ｆｉｖｅ

𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓇𝓊𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

February 13, 1995

Old Westbury, NY

Grief turned a family home, wrought with laughter and life, into a ghost house. Fog covered the windows, hiding the disastrous scene of heartbreak and mourning. Baelon Targaryen was a poltergeist, haunting the steps of the Westbury estate. Daemon—a mere observer—stood in the periphery, in between breaths as the maids came back with uneaten plates of food, discarded liquor bottles, and toppled containers of pills. It was only later that he discovered the departing men were suppliers—purveyors of narcotics.

"Just give him time and space. He'll get through on his own," Natalyia Targaryen had told him one afternoon, in between their piano lessons. She had said so for almost two months as she stalked about the estate, answering various calls in hushed whispers, hiding any newspapers from entering the household. Daemon watched the maids burn articles, but soon enough, the various staff had dwindled to a mere two. He caught some headlines in between bits of black ash, tiny lines in the margins with words out of context. 'Illegitimate' he'd read and when he'd brought it up, 'play', his mother would order.

Daemon hated playing, but it was worth it just to see some level of light echo back at him in his mother's eyes. She never touched the keys, content only to direct his hands.

"No, that was awful. Again," she'd say, and again, he'd play. Again. And again. And again.

Daemon would follow her instructions while Viserys would attempt to get them both at Baelon's bedside, but Daemon did not know what to say. He didn't know grief, after all and even the new loss of his Aunt was met with his indifference. He didn't know Alyssa Targaryen, but he saw the cracks in his father's armour on the day she died.

"Let me see you," In a desperate plea uttered in the melodic tones of Valyrian, Alyssa beseeched, her delicate palms upturned towards the ceiling, too feeble to rise any higher."Let me hold your hands," she whispered to Daemon and Viserys. They approached hesitantly, like frightened animals making their way towards a ferocious lioness. Her hair, once magnificent, had been taken away by her illness, and even though her sight was impaired, she focused her gaze onto her nephews. Baelon, consumed by grief, hid his despairing face behind the shelter of his trembling hands.

Daemon's recollections conjured images of Alyssa's fragile fingers grasping his brother's tiny wrist, a touch that both comforted and restrained. Yet, he chose not to venture closer, his gaze seeking solace in the absence of his mother, who had deserted the doorframe. "Daemon," Viserys hissed, his voice infused with gentle insistence, urging his younger sibling to offer his hand.

Daemon's face displayed a stoic determination, his features chiselled like a marble sculpture, every line and curve exuding an air of quiet resolve. He exhaled a measured breath, and his voice—a hushed whisper that hung in the air like a wisp of smoke—carried an undertone of nonchalance, masking the depth of his true emotions. With practised finesse, he concealed his hands, clasped together in a covert embrace, hidden from prying eyes behind his back. "I'm good," he'd uttered, his words a subtle barricade, shielding the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface.

"Now," Baelon's voice shattered the air, an infrequent occurrence that jolted Viserys into a startled flinch, and prompted Alyssa to release a tear-laden cry. Meanwhile, Daemon, unaffected by the commotion, merely observed his bald-headed Aunt with an air of detachment, stealing a final glance behind him.

Daemon wanted to ask his mother now—but he shut up the question behind his teeth as his mother persisted in absentmindedly issuing instructions that overlapped with the cacophony of a crash emanating from the uppermost section of the staircase. "Ignore it," she dismissed, her voice distant, as if adrift in a faraway realm. "Did I say stop? Play." Natalyia's Valyrian speech bore the telltale traces of an outsider, her accent betraying her origins. No matter how diligently she practised, her mastery of the consonants eluded her grasp, and on occasion, Daemon found himself unwittingly emulating his mother's linguistic quirks.

We're both outsiders,Daemon ruminated, his thoughts interwoven with a sense of solidarity. It was in that moment that the reverberating slam of doors resounded from high above. His father, a spectral figure devoid of hunger or thirst, traversed the sprawling estate like a wrathful apparition, leaving destruction in his wake.

Daemon's gaze lingered on his mother, her countenance etched with a perpetual frown. The lines of weariness resembled a dark and exquisite intaglio velvet. As she rose from her seat, she appeared distant already, her footsteps muffled against the wooden floorboards as she forged ahead. "Play until it's right. I'll be back," her command echoed, and he complied half-heartedly, his fingers tracing the familiar melody, his eyes tracking her diminishing figure as she receded into the distance.

The crashing crescendoed and dissipated, suspended in the space between Rachmaninov's melancholic melody in C minor and the haunting composition of Liszt in B minor. Daemon halted, his senses attuned to detect even the faintest sound, yet the Targaryen abode remained devoid of screams. Screams, too brazen for their clandestine existence, were carefully suppressed within the family's confines, shielded by hushed whispers and furtive gossip.

With a heavy sigh, Daemon relinquished his grip on the piano keys, reclining back with a distant expression—anger simmering within, a tempest without a discernible cause. He had no desire to hear either the strains of Bach and Beethoven or the usual drivel regurgitated by Viserys. Instead, an urge gnawed at him, a primal desire to wield a bat against the piano or perhaps his own father's visage.

Breaking free from the clutches of the grand monstrosity, he strode past the opulent parlour and ascended the stairs, his footsteps measured, knowing precisely which step would betray him with its telltale creak. Each portrait of long-departed ancestors, showcasing Aegon Targaryen alongside his sisters, loomed like silent witnesses. Whispers of scandalous unions between siblings echoed, though public scrutiny had failed to substantiate such claims. 'The Targaryens have done away with old traditions,' his father would claim with nonchalance.

"-think maybe you can try a bit harder," Natalyia Targaryen's voice bounced about from behind the locked door, reaching Daemon's ear as he pressed against its cool surface.

"I am," Baelon retaliated, his voice lashing out with a rawness that mirrored the vulnerability of a newly turned fourteen-year-old. It was a connection Daemon yearned not to share with his father, a shared fragility in their voices that set them apart.

"Look what you did," Natalyia snapped back, her words laced with a venomous sting that struck like a whip cracking against flesh. Daemon winced, instinctively recoiling as the echo of something colliding with the wall slamming through the air, followed by the shattering of fragile fragments. His urge to burst into the room and intervene was tempered by her relentless tirade. "You call this trying? Grieve as you will, but do so quietly at least."

"Have I not sacrificed enough? Now I must amend how I should mourn?" Baelon retorted, his voice escalating to a volume that negated the need for Daemon to strain his ears.

Seldom did Daemon witness his mother's lips curve into a smile, her demeanour eternally marred by a perpetual frown. Thus, when the sound of her laughter filled the room, it felt alien and foreign, almost unrecognizable. There was no mirth to be found within its depths, resembling instead the strained chuckle that escaped Viserys when consumed by an overwhelming anger. "Sacrifice?" Her voice soared, its pitch rising like a crescendo. "Sacrifice? What the hell do you know of sacrifice?"

"Natalyia," Baelon's voice quivered, the burden of his emotions causing a restless upheaval in Daemon's stomach—a sensation too complex for his young mind to fully comprehend.

"I have allowed you to mourn, undisturbed mind you, for nearly two months," Natalyia's voice now slid to a mere whisper, like a soft breeze rustling through the cracks of a closed door. Daemon pressed his face against the aged wood, straining to catch every word. "I have watched you drink the finest wines, shatter our antiques, dismiss our staff, and to what end? They talk Baelon and I can only say so much to dissuade them. It is Viserys' night and instead you'd-"

"Who talks?" Baelon's voice broke, and it had been so long since Daemon had done it that he could hardly recognize the sound of crying. "Go away, Nat."

"I would love do that," she snapped, having no sympathy for any of his father's grief. "But I am trapped, just as you. At least you have been allowed to mourn and you have taken every opportunity to ruin what we built. I need you to try."

"I am," Baelon hissed back, his voice laced with frustration and desolation.

"You shouldn't be spying," Viserys admonished, pressing his hand against the wall, causing Daemon to instinctively shrink away from the door, as if anticipating a sudden assault.

"And you shouldn't be speaking so loudly," Daemon countered in a whispered tone, coupled with a gradual retreat, as if deliberately creating distance to defuse the mounting tension, his gaze darting around the room.

"It's not our business. Besides, I have to speak to you," Viserys commented with an uncomfortable following silence as the sound of their parent's hushed argument continued.

"Not interested," Daemon replied with a grim smile, already knowing exactly what Viserys was likely to say. Dressed in his fancy suit, Viserys Targaryen looked ready for a gala or ball, yet funerals were far more common in the House of the Dragon. He was well managed if not for the strands of silver hair adorning his ear like unruly tendrils.

"I didn't ask if you were interested," Viserys retorted, tucking an unruly strand of silver hair behind his ear as Daemon walked right past him. He could hear the sound of the piano from downstairs, and just the chords made a small smile tug upon Daemon's lips as he descended the steps two at a time. "Daemon, Dad's already not going, you can't—"

"Aunt Saera," Daemon greeted, indirectly interrupting his own brother. His Aunt stood by the piano, playing the same chords over and over again. It was the keys he had first shown her and he suspected they were the only ones she knew.

She was a tempest personified, a tornado wrapped in a cloak of golden locks that cascaded down her back like molten sunlight. Her eyes, a vivid shade of amethyst, sparkled with a impish glint, hinting at the secrets and rebellions hidden within. It was easy to be drawn to his Aunt. She was a force of nature, unyielding in the pursuit of her desires. In her movements, Daemon discerned a feline grace, a litheness that mirrored the unpredictability of her spirit. She moved with an air of confidence, her strides purposeful and assured.

Saera certainly had a lovely voice, but her ability for instruments left much to be desired. Her hair was as vibrant as silk, flowing down her shoulders in cool strands that shimmered when she flicked it from over her shoulder. "Hello Trouble," her words hung in the air, laced with a cool indifference. Her gaze darted towards Viserys, devoid of any hint of the fleeting affection she occasionally reserved for Daemon. "I see you haven't bothered with the elaborate attire like your esteemed brother. Does that mean you'll accompany me tonight instead?"

"He most certainly will not," Viserys interjected hastily, his voice laced with a hint of protectiveness that Daemon found rather amusing. With a derisive snort, he marvelled at his brother's audacity to speak on his behalf. "I won't allow you to whisk my brother away once again, only for him to become an unwitting accomplice to your awful exploits."

"I'm hardly unwitting and neither am I unwilling," Daemon said with a shrug, already putting on his shoes as Viserys continued to gather his words.

Saera's laughter danced through the air like a puckish melody, filling the room with its infectious allure. Her slender fingers rose in a graceful gesture of surrender, as if acknowledging the truth behind Daemon's amusem*nt. The faint twinkle in her eyes matched the playful tilt of her head, accentuating the mischief that lingered in her every word and movement. "Oh please," she chimed, her voice laced with a touch of English charm, "most of the trouble we embark upon is his brainchild. Cross my heart."

"Daemon, you're not going," Viserys now directed the statement towards his brother, who was already stripping his school jacket off his shoulders. Daemon looked towards the stairs, where the crashing of the door rumbled down the halls. It was the same routine and his mother would likely hole up in her room for the rest of the day, despite her promising to attend the charity. "We made promises and they are expecting us to show."

"No, you made promises. Nobody is there for me," Daemon retorted, hearing Saera's little hum from the background. He might have gone to the charity gala had someone directly told him that he should, but his father was a ghost since Aemon and Alyssa's deaths while his mother had never been fully present all his life.

"You promised me," Viserys interjected, his voice level. "I am the elder and-"

"This evening is meant for you, not me. You are the rightful heir, brother," Daemon replied, and even in his periphery, he could sense Saera's presence, leaning against the magnificent piano as if witnessing a melodramatic spectacle. His Aunt had a penchant for grand theatrics, never content until dramatic waves crashed upon the floor.

Daemon simply couldn't endure another night of endless accolades bestowed upon his brother, the constant stream of congratulations, gratitude, and praise. As though Viserys had achieved something truly deserving of such praise. In truth, Viserys had never aspired to be the heir—yet he embraced the recent news with the delight of a child clutching a new toy, gleaming with novelty and captivating everyone's attention.

Except for Aunt Saera, who remained apathetic to the family's political games and Machiavellian manoeuvrings.

"Take it easy," Saera interjected at last, her graceful form rising as her heels resonated with nimble footfalls upon the wooden floor. "Given how fondly Jaehaerys has taken to you, my dear Daemon's absence will scarcely be noticed."

Viserys' eyes flashed with a smouldering intensity, a storm brewing within his gaze, as his attention shifted towards his Aunt. In that moment, a chilly tension seemed to settle upon the room, a palpable disapproval emanating from his very being. The air crackled with an unspoken conflict, like a charged electrical current seeking release. His demeanour stiffened, his jaw clenched, betraying the silent resentment he held towards Saera, a resentment that simmered beneath the surface, unspoken but deeply felt.

It only made her grin widen as she placed her carefully manicured hand upon Daemon's shoulder. "I cannot stop you," Viserys finally conceded, as if realizing that his breath was being wasted on fruitless words. "But I can at least beg you to stay out of trouble this time."

Daemon often wished his cousin Rhaenys had been made heir in his brother's stead, as at least then he wouldn't have to hear Viserys' name mentioned in every conversation.

"Come now," Saera urged, her grip on Daemon's shoulder tightening. "The night is still young, and I can't wait for you to see all I have planned."

Saera had already gone to the door, eager to leave while Viserys only grabbed Daemon's arm, halting him from following. "She is not your friend," Viserys urged, his voice lowering into High Valyrian. Despite her upbringing, Valyrian was Saera's weak point where she knew seldom of the words.

"Never said she was,"Daemon replied, now brushing off his brother's insistent hand. "But I prefer this company over another gala about you."

Daemon joined his Aunt instead, allowing her to whisk him off into the thrills of New York. Usually, they'd head to the clubs down in Fleabottom, but the usual haunting was unreachable with the storm. The mezzanine level of the club which was lined with plush seats and velvet curtains was buried under massive amounts of snow, heavy drifts that covered half of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Along with them was slushy mud mixed in tiny ice pellets that flew through the air and chilled their skin to a crisp blue hue.

"Such a pity," Saera murmured, her grip firm as she whisked him away to new escapades, engaging him in lively conversations about whatever captivated her whims. A gust of cold wind swept through the avenues, cleansing the air and dispersing some of the relentless downpours. Daemon shivered, seeking solace in the shelter of his long coat layered over his suit. "Your brother is dreadfully dull," she declared, their footsteps echoing along the rain-soaked streets, their hoods and umbrellas shielding them from the deluge overhead.

The shining headlights of motorbikes and automobiles guided them through narrow lanes and alleys, around corners, until they reached their destination at the far edge of a dead-end street in Chinatown. Cars honked at each other, traversing from one corner to another, while water accumulated on the roadway, resembling vast oceans engulfed by massive tanker ships sailing across expansive waters.

"He thinks you a poor influence," Daemon remarked with a derisive snort as they strolled past the fire hydrant adorned with graffiti, and proceeded towards the massive door nestled in the concealed corner of New York City. Saera's elegant heels clicked against the rain-drenched pavement as she raised her fist to rap on the imposing metal structure. Daemon discerned her Morse code communication, a secret language of their own. "Again?" He harboured no aversion towards Room 32, an exclusive and opulent club revered among New York's elite, but he had yearned for a more exhilarating adventure that evening.

"Come on, they like you," Saera chimed with soft laughter. "Might as well use that trust fund for something."

Daemon rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips couldn't help but tug upwards at Saera's words. She always had a way of making him feel like he was in on some grand secret, and he couldn't help but feel grateful for her presence in his life. As they made their way inside the club, the sound of music and laughter enveloped them, and Daemon felt his spirits lift. For a moment, he forgot about his brother, his mother, and his obligations. Saera navigated the crowd with ease, as if she knew everyone yet nobody at the same time.

Saera guided him to a secluded booth, its walls adorned with opulent velvet curtains that cascaded in rich hues. She motioned for him to take a seat, her eyes shimmering with anticipation. With a snap of her fingers, she beckoned a passing server as she said, "I have a surprise for you."

Daemon raised an eyebrow, intrigued, allowing Saera to take his father's black card with a soft giggle. "What kind of surprise?"

Saera only smiled enigmatically, and as the waiter returned with two glasses of champagne, she took one and raised it in a toast. "To new experiences," she said, her voice low and sultry.

Daemon clinked his glass against hers, the bubbly liquid tickling his nose as he took a sip. The taste was sweet and crisp, and he felt the warmth spread through him as he savoured the flavour.

"Tell me then," he said, setting his glass down.

Saera leaned closer to him, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered, "You'll just have to wait and see." She pulled back, a twinkle in her eye as she rose from the booth. "Don't go anywhere," she said with a wink, and disappeared into the crowd.

Daemon watched her go, a grin spreading across his face as he sipped his champagne. The music and laughter of the club continued around him, but he couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation building within him. He had always felt like an outsider within his own family, but with Saera, he felt like he belonged. Like he was a part of something special.

As he waited for Saera to return, he people-watched, admiring the elegant and sophisticated crowd that filled the club. The rich and powerful rubbed shoulders with each other, their designer clothing and expensive jewellery glinting in the dim lighting. It was a world that Daemon had always been fascinated by, but one that he had been purposefully protected from. His mother used to have him on a leash, but lately, he had been able to tug at it, waiting for the rope to grow taut, but all it did was extend.

Daemon’s heart leapt at the soft touch of Saera's fingers on his shirt. He turned to see her grinning, wearing an emerald dress that sparkled in the dim light and framed her eyes with a promise of a surprise. “Ready?” she asked, her voice a gentle whisper.

Excitement rushed through Daemon as he followed Saera to the far corner of the room, where he noticed for the first time a hidden staircase tucked away in the shadows. They climbed up the wooden steps into a low-lit hallway lined with ancient doors, and when they stopped in front of one of them, Saera took out a key from her purse and unlocked it. She bestowed upon him one last dazzling smile before pushing open the door and gesturing for him to enter.

The room was warm and inviting, lit with soft candlelight. Daemon stepped inside and swallowed back his awe—it was decorated both elegant and sensual, with plush velvet furniture, erotic paintings hung on the walls, and statues of lustful figures spread throughout. An inviting fire crackled in the hearth, and the heavy scent of sandalwood blended with musk in the air.

Daemon's eyes widened in surprise and delight. He had never seen anything like this before, and a thrill ran through him as he took in the details of the room. "What is this place?" he asked, turning to Saera.

She smiled knowingly, stepping closer until their faces were only centimetres apart. “A secret," she answered softly, trailing her fingers through his hair in a tender caress that sent shivers down his spine. A whispery tease left her lips as she murmured near his ear, “Have you ever been with a woman before?”

"Does it matter?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

His throat tightened as he struggled to find the appropriate words. Saera's smile grew wider, her eyes dancing with excitement. With a breathless and whimsical tone, she whispered in his ear, "Oh, prepare yourself for a delightful surprise." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, allowing her to draw him towards the inviting embrace of the plush couch. "I assure you, the gift will be quite to your liking."

She snapped her fingers, and the doors opened as girls began to arrive. Their jet-black hair was arranged in intricate coils and decorated with glittering jewels, their vibrant skin exposed beneath sheer fabrics that hung on their frames like mist. A floral scent filled the air, almost too sweet for a man's nose to bear. Then again, Daemon didn't feel like a man, but nobody seemed to mind.

Yet amidst this captivating display, it was Saera's touch in his hair that drew him in, her fingers gliding through the strands like warm silk, cocooning his head in a tender embrace.

"He looks rather young," one of the girls playfully teased Saera as she settled beside her.

"Since when did you care?" she replied, bringing the girl closer and in between the lingering kisses, she caught his eyes, urging him to do as he liked. It all felt wrong, but Daemon didn't mind the taboo, so long as he was at the centre of it. "It's his birthday—let's make it one he remembers."

The New York City skyline glimmered beneath a sky dappled with stars, their faint twinkle battling against the city's smoggy veil. As the clouds gathered, pregnant with the promise of rain, Daemon stood resolute on the penthouse terrasse, unwilling to retreat indoors.

A delicate touch traced a tantalizing path along his spine, sending shivers coursing through his body. The touch travelled with deliberate slowness, gliding over the expanse of his back until the elongated nails reached the crown of his head. The air carried the intoxicating aroma of Mysaria's sultry perfume, a heady blend of mystery and allure, as she leaned in to press her lips against his shoulder.

"Seems even more guests have begun to arrive," she announced, her words an invitation for him to enfold her beneath his protective arm. Together, they surveyed the street below, where a procession of cars snaked its way towards the penthouse. Daemon's earlier act of blocking the road had stirred the ire of morning commuters, but he paid little heed to the wrath of a few disgruntled New Yorkers.

"I have spent a lifetime defending you,"Viserys' voice had rolled through the room, a tempest of frustration and anger swirling in his words. Eight months had passed since that explosive proclamation, yet Daemon still felt the lingering heat of indignation embracing him, its fiery tendrils refusing to recede.

A lifetime of casting me off, Daemon could have retorted, but such an admission felt weak even in his own thoughts.

Out of all the potential partners to grace his bed, he had chosen Alicent f*ckingHightower. With each passing day, Daemon's name slid further down the chain of succession, to be displaced by the wretched offspring of his most despised enemy. The thought of her, with each passing day, growing round with the seed of their shared passion, gnawed at him like a festering wound, a prediction he half-expected to be fulfilled within the year.

He would rather claw out his eyes than be in any way related to Otto Hightower.

"Splendid," Daemon finally answered her, though his eyes were drawn to the diaphanous silk that flowed like rainwater from out the limo that had just arrived. Rhaenyra Targaryen laughed as a soft hand outstretched towards her, attached to a man that Daemon neither recognized nor invited. In fact, he hadn't invited his niece either.

From atop the roof, he was able to glimpse every delicate move, yet not her intentions as she conjoined with various distant relatives and friends that had no idea she was crashing. Daemon's lips twitched up, snaking his arm around Mysaria and placing a kiss upon the crown of her perfumed head.

"I believe the performance has begun then," Daemon's soft voice was absent of amusem*nt, even as he sought it out in the chill of the day. He could vaguely picture Aemma in Rhaenyra's light trestles, in the way she carried herself, and perhaps the thought made a bubble of grief fester.

But as always, Viserys' every word toppled it over and replaced it with a petty spite that had Daemon wanting to greet his little crasher at the door. He didn't know if he'd rather turn her away or suck her into the decadent scene—besmirch her.

The luxurious penthouse exuded opulence and grandeur, a sight that would make even Saera Targaryen herself raise an approving eyebrow. Crystal chandeliers cascaded warm, golden light upon the ornate decor, while the air hummed with the mingling scents of expensive perfumes and the subtle whispers.

Guests adorned in elegant attire moved gracefully through the spacious rooms, their laughter and animated conversations blending with the jazzy melodies that floated from a live band tucked in a corner while champagne flutes sparkled in hand.

Daemon revelled in the splendour. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the influential figures, the wealthy elites, and the power brokers who had gathered under his roof.

The night had yet to reach its zenith when finally an unwelcome interruption shattered the illusion of perfection. The doors swung open with a forceful push, and there, standing at the entrance was Rhaenyra—the very embodiment of defiance and audacity.

Her entrance caused a ripple of murmurs to sweep through the room, like a gust of wind disrupting a calm lake. The vultures in the crowd were excited to see any display of discord in the noble House of the Dragon. He himself hadn't seen her since she officially replaced him.Gasps of surprise mixed with hushed whispers as guests turned their attention to the unexpected intruder. Daemon almost doubted she was aware that her very presence was a provocation, a calculated move that aimed to disrupt the carefully constructed façade of Daemon's authority—of which he had so little. The rest of it, she had only recently stolen.

She didn't ask for it, his intrusive thoughts swept through him, but he didn't care what she asked for. She shouldn't exist. But she did—she existed here, where she was most unwelcome.

Daemon's gaze narrowed, his eyes aflame with both anger and amusem*nt. He had little feelings of attachment for Rhaenyra, and most of the time he saw her as a pawn in his larger game—a means to befoul her reputation and strike back at her father's audacious decision to name her as the heir.

As Rhaenyra navigated the sea of guests, her stride exuded confidence and defiance. Her every movement seemed to challenge the very foundation of the elite gathering, daring them to question her presence.

Whispers followed in Rhaenyra's wake, like wildfire spreading through dry grass. Eyes darted between Daemon and Rhaenyra, their gazes heavy with anticipation of the clash to come. And it was insane that she acted as though she didn't know what she had done.

Daemon squared his shoulders, a predatory glint in his eyes, as he prepared to engage the little girl.

Mysaria had kissed his shoulder but left him to his devices as he continued forward.

As Rhaenyra made her way through the crowd, her eyes locked onto Daemon's figure, and try as he might, Daemon could not read her. She was oblivious to the undercurrents of discontent that permeated the party, unaware that the very people surrounding her had once fervently championed Daemon's claim to the heirship. The weight of her newfound position as heir rested heavily upon her, and she carried it with none of the ease he would have, had he only been trusted with it.

"Uncle," she greeted with a bright smile, but her voice betrayed a mix of relief and caution. Whatever for? Daemon might have asked, but he could not. "It's been too long."

The last he saw her, she had been punching a bag until her knuckles were raw. Daemon had meant to prolong that little session, he had meantto turn her against Alicent Hightower and Viserys, but then she had looked up at him and he had forgotten the syllables of the words. "In the way," he'd told her—revealing far more than he meant.

He offered her a guarded smile, trying to mask his inner turmoil. Rhaenyra Targaryen becoming heir had been an implied concept, but perhaps a part of Daemon had never expected his older brother to go through with it and make an entire spectacle fo the event—releasing the news with a show of splendour and vigour. Daemon still had a tinge of hope that it'd finally be his turn.

You're in the f*cking way,he thought, but his venom was weak and silent. "Congratulations."

Rhaenyra's eyes visibly widened. "Oh. That. You read it?" Her words were sparse, not nearly elegant enough to bring pride to all her fancy tutors. He felt the scratching in his gut that wanted to ruinher, yet the memory of her little hands gripping his suit back in Dragonstone had just enough power to halt his path.

Everyone was sneaking their little glances between them, the whispers now moulding with the soft jazz as Daemon offered his arm. She might have been unwelcome, but he was not without his manners as host. "Indeed. My brother had the papers pinned to my door." Or perhaps it was Otto,Daemon neither knew nor cared.

"Thank you," she replied, her voice tinged with a mix of gratitude and hesitation. "This party, it's quite extravagant. I must admit, it's quite overwhelming to be at the centre of such attention."

Daemon finally let out a dry laugh. "Since when have you not been the star in every dark room, niece?"

She released a hesitant chuckle in return. "It's different this time."

"Embrace it while it lasts," he said with sly swiftness, the words escaping before he had the chance to filter them through layers of vague flattery. Their conversation could have remained laced with a delicate dance of words, each carefully avoiding the elephant in the room. They could have exchanged pleasantries and engaged in light banter, their connection shrouded in a veil of unresolved tensions.

But of course, this was Rhaenyra Targaryen, and she had all the delicacy of a wild moose. Oh certainly she played her part for the cameras, refined and poised, but Daemon had seen beneath the veil. He wanted to shred the f*cking veil.

"I imagine, since all the contracts were signed, it will last indefinitely," Rhaenyra smiled down, and he noticed a tiny tinge of bitterness in her speech. "Unfortunately, uncle, I am heir for longer than a day."

He paused from his pace, and she was dragged to an abrupt halt alongside him, her arm still tucked securely in his hold. Daemon's brows drew up in surprise at her tone, but her expression levelled out with a smaller manner of levity. "Whose the date?" Daemon asked instead, hardly wanting to speak again on the drunken comments he made about one more dead Targaryen baby. Rhaenyra was not so strong-willed to force the issue, and just as he predicted, she steered away.

Rhaenyra blinked, surprised as she searched the room for the boy she had ditched at the doors. "Oh right. I shouldknow his name."

A small, genuine smile broke through Daemon's rough facade. "My little heartbreaker," he said, tracing little patterns onto her arm that was still laced with his own. "Come, come. I suppose I should introduce you to some of the invitedguests."

"Reminds me. Why did I not receive an invitation?"

"Did it insult you?" He guided her past the lavish spread of refreshments, unsurprised when she effortlessly snatched a glass mid-stride, her movements graceful and uninterrupted.

"Of course," she admitted, a touch of something he could not read in her voice.

"Apologies," Daemon said, though his words held little feeling. "I just thought it better you stay away." He couldn't exactly admit that he wasangryat something that was not truly her fault.

As Daemon guided Rhaenyra through the bustling crowd of influential guests, the air crackled with an undercurrent of tension. Could you feel it? Daemon silently wondered.The subtle unrest among the attendees was palpable, their gazes shifting from one to another, their whispers veiled with hidden agendas. These were Daemon's staunch supporters, loyal to him and his cause, and they would likely seize any opportunity to drop subtle jabs at Rhaenyra's suitability to lead the House.

A regal-looking man with silver hair and piercing blue eyes extended a hand towards Rhaenyra, a disarming smile gracing his lips. His voice carried a hint of underlying amusem*nt as he spoke, his words carefully chosen. "Ah, Rhaenyra Targaryen, if it isn't our new heiress," he said, his tone dripping with veiled implications. "Your father's announcement surprised the whole lot of us. It was such a twist. You always seemed too busy for the responsibility."

Daemon's keen gaze locked onto the man, his lips curling into a faint smirk. It was a comment disguised as praise, of the sort that Daemon had heard all his life—often by Mr Gunthor Darklyn himself, whose allegiance meant as little as his vows of loyalty. His eyes shifted to Rhaenyra, watching intently, waiting for the flicker of recognition in her unwavering gaze, curious if she would snap at Gunther's obvious jabs.

Yet, her composure remained unyielding, her stare steadfast as she gracefully accepted Gunthor's outstretched hand. He slowly kissed the top of her knuckles, a small nicety for a scumbag. "Never been one to shy away from power," she replied, her voice carrying a touch of condescension. "Forgive me if my memory fails me—how is your wife? I hear she is to inherit the Duskendale estate and all its holdings." Rhaenyra raised the crystal glass of effervescent champagne to her lips, and though its transparency offered no concealment, her smile persisted, a radiant and overt secret adorning her features. "Seems she too seizes power. You must be so proud."

The Darklyn family, custodians of the Dukendale Capital Consortium, had faithfully held the Targaryen's trust for generations. With their careful guidance and financial acumen, they had grown the Targaryen's wealth to unimaginable riches. Gunthor Rykker, married into the Darklyn family, had hoped to inherit his wife's family title once her father passed away. Unfortunately, that wish did not come true and she managed to seize ahold of it before her husband.

"Speaking of power." Daemon saw a woman dressed in a shimmering gown from out of the corner of his eye. Ume Grey, Gunthor’s mistress, smiled slyly as she said, “I heard of Alicent Hightower and your father's lovely honeymoon in Paris. I was so thrilled at their wedding—though, sorry to not see you there.”

Daemon's lips curved with a trace of cynicism, though he found he couldn't stop his eyes from wandering into a steadfast lock on Rhaenyra's enigmatic figure, studying the riddle of her smile.

He observed a faint fracture traverse his niece's face, a subtle yet discernible shift that escaped the notice of most. Lady Grey possessed an innate talent for unravelling the depths of one's emotions and stoking dormant flames of anger. Yet Rhaenyra's beguiling smile remained unyielding, her slender fingers delicately caressing the rim of her champagne glass. Meanwhile, the esteemed gathering revelled in laughter and animated discussions of the recent wedding they had all attended. In a barely noticeable motion, Daemon's grip on Rhaenyra's arm tightened, a silent indication of his struggle for self-restraint.

At long last, Daemon interjected with an air of cool composure, his voice cutting through the surrounding banter. "It was a tedious and dull affair indeed. Was it not?"

Ume Grey furrowed her brow, but reluctantly concurred, "Indeed."

Amidst the ocean of murmurs and sidelong glances, Rhaenyra maintained her regal composure, refusing to yield to their attempts at belittling her. Yet, she clung to Daemon's arm tenaciously, defying his attempts to release her into the midst of the pack that sought to undermine her.

Almost having to pry her away, Daemon sought an elegant means of doing so. When Rhaenyra realized his intention to distance himself from her, she swiftly and unsteadily let go, drawing the attention of the group that already held her in diminished regard. Daemon smiled in their direction, his gaze holding a mischievous edge. "I shall find you later," Daemon whispered in High Valyrian, his voice barely a breath. "Perhaps find that elusive suitor whose name you do not know, little Dragon."

She responded with an uneasy smile, clearly discomfited, but gradually shedding her discomfort like an aged winter coat as she drained her glass. "Do you remember what he looks like? I am literally blanking."

Daemon, caught off guard, released an unexpected laugh that bubbled forth, a fondness unfurling in his core like moss caressing a sea-slick rock. His eyes traced the delicate strands of hair that she purposefully left free from her intricately braided coiffure, fashioned in the semblance of a blooming rose. Almost instinctively, his hand extended, gliding his fingertips along a solitary strand, drawn to its intentional allure.

"He shall come to you," Daemon murmured tenderly, his countenance betraying no emotion."You look like your mother today."

He observed her swallow visibly, her response punctuated by a feeble smile. "It makes me feel closer to her."

"Beautiful," he replied, relinquishing the strand after tucking it gently behind her ear. His smirk shifted toward his guests, those he knew would soon launch an unrelenting assault upon his niece. With narrowed eyes, he fixed his gaze upon Gunthor, a harbinger of subtle provocation. "I shall require a discussion on investment opportunities later."

"I'll put it on schedule," Gunthor began, but Daemon interjected with a steadying gesture.

"Nonsense, just inform your wife," Daemon retorted, the jab now aimed at both Gunthor and his own young mistress. Rhaenyra concealed her delight with a sip from her glass, barely managing to evade their prying eyes. "Lady Ume," Daemon offered a slight bow of farewell, yet his hand couldn't resist a gentle tap against the back of Rhaenyra's, a lingering touch that set his skin ablaze.

Daemon's gaze swept over the servers, their trays adorned with shimmering flutes of champagne, as he singled out one with an air of authority. He beckoned the server aside, mindful of the consequences that awaited him should he succumb to the temptation of an early libation. The last time he got drunk, his brother had stripped him of his rightful inheritance. Daemon didn't even remember saying the words"heir for a day".

Thought them, of course, he thought to himself with a snort.

"Sir," The head server, a paragon of deference, greeted him with a respectful nod, attuned to the weight of his words.

"Ensure that my niece remains attended to throughout the evening," Daemon commanded, his eyes subtly tracing the elegant figure of Rhaenyra. Her attire, a mocha brown dress, embraced her form with a captivating elegance. The fabric draped softly, mirroring the gentle curves of her figure, while a daring slit at the thigh hinted at a touch of alluring intrigue.

"Sir?" There was a question in his next comment, and Daemon sighed.

"I don't want her to go thirsty, do you understand?" Daemon said, lips lifting in an imperious smile. "Inform the staff to fill the glasses with the finest Extra Brut. She won't mind the dry taste." He imagined the guests' mockery and belittlement acting as fuel, stoking her desire for more.

The server inclined his head in acquiescence, a subtle nod conveying his understanding. "Consider it done," he replied, his footsteps blending harmoniously with the faint melody wafting from a distant ensemble.

"Daemon," Mysaria's gentle touch graced his shoulders, her embrace offering a semblance of solace amid the grandeur. Her hands traced a soothing path along his arms, as if seeking to kindle a warmth that lay dormant within him. He leaned into her touch, though a flicker of doubt lingered. He often wondered the validity of her affection or if she merely liked the splendour. "We have some guests who are looking for finerentertainment. Surely the sort you can provide."

"Surely," he agreed, granting her every fleeting caress as she slipped out from under his arm, guiding him towards the grand room's double doors. Together, they traversed the resplendent room, their footsteps a whispered echo against the marble floors, until they reached the double doors of his office. Within awaited a select gathering of familiar faces, distinguished by their confidence and shared vices, their laughter punctuated by the clink of glasses and the rustle of cards.

The raucous voice of an intoxicated man rumbled, momentarily shattering the refined ambience. He draped himself over a companion, whose attempts to support his weight proved futile. "All this alcohol and yet no generosity. No dust. You're withholding from us."

Daemon snorted, closing the doors behind him to preserve the sanctity of their enclave. "I gave all to Jim over there. Not my fault he did not share," he retorted, eliciting laughter that mingled with the strains of distant revelry. All eyes turned towards Jim, who slumped in a chair like a deflated balloon, his gaze fixated upon the ceiling as if seeking solace in the chandelier.

"It's a party," the boisterous man, Elmar Tully, persisted, his voice filled with mirth. "Don't hold out. Give a few gifts."

These were among Daemon's most cherished patrons, and he responded with a gracious smile as Mysaria skillfully removed his jacket, her lips brushing against his shoulder in a fleeting caress. "Gifts?" he inquired, his gaze shifting towards Mysaria, who elegantly draped the jacket upon a gilded coat rack before joining the men upon the circular couches. "Gentlemen, kindly remind me of your outstanding debts to me."

Groans of remembrance echoed through the chamber, intermingled with the symphony of mirth and anticipation. Daemon's smile remained effortlessly poised as he settled beside Mysaria, the plush upholstery embracing them both. "Deal me in. Should fortune favour you, perhaps I can fulfil your requests for a year."

"None of that fancy English talk," remarked Deigo Russo, his Brooklyn accent providing a stark contrast to Daemon's refined manner of speech.

"Hard to drop a habit," Daemon admitted with a laugh. "Years of tutors, you see."

"He's new money. He don't see nothin'," Lance said with a laugh from across the table. "Went to State College and all that."

"Saw that pretty niece of yours," Deigo Russo interjected, his fingers adroitly dealing the cards. "Legs like that, let's hope she's got no brain."

"Careful," Daemon cautioned, his lips upturned. "That sounds suspiciously like slander. I will not have it."

"Not slander," Deigo countered, his laughter resounding a beat after the rest. "If anything, admiration. I simply wish to savour the sight of the heiress who replaced you."

Mysaria's fingers tapped against Daemon's arm, her smile betraying casual amusem*nt. "I recall her rejecting you at the door," she remarked with nonchalant wit. "You barely managed a single greeting before she bid you an uninterested farewell."

Laughter erupted throughout the room, enveloping Deigo in its embrace. The doors swung open, revealing a server bearing a briefcase and a tray of drinks. The server arranged the items on the central table, their presence a testament to the enduring allure of games and fortunes. "Gents," Daemon acknowledged, nodding towards the server, his gaze shifting to his cards as he prepared to engage in the game. "Has anyone heard the news about Luciara?"

"Lost the baby," one of the men declared, a wistful smile adorning his face. "Sad business. Old news. No comeback for the great Tamar Baratheon after that."

Daemon fell into an uneasy silence, his tongue held captive by a swirl of unfamiliar emotions, an enigma yearning to be deciphered. Soft golden lights bathed the spacious chamber, casting a warm glow upon the intricately designed wallpaper adorned with ornate patterns of swirling vines and delicate blossoms. The polished mahogany table, its surface gleaming under the radiant illumination, served as the epicentre of the high-stakes poker game. And in this hotbed, all of them were undoubtedly stains of grey with criminal agendas that bloomed like orchids.

As the game commenced, the clinking of chips filled the air, punctuating the tense silence. Daemon's nimble fingers expertly shuffled the deck, his eyes flickering with calculated focus as he surveyed his opponents.

"As always, the aggressive player returns," Lance, the first to fold, let out a resigned sigh, his hand gracefully descending onto the plush velvet tabletop. Daemon, known for his brash and audacious tactics, found himself growing weary of the meticulous dance of poker. His restless spirit had driven him away from the confines of the Chief Financial Officer position after a year, and he had quickly grown disenchanted with the complexities of the Chief Legal Officer role in a mere six months. The realm of insignificant governance held no allure for him, pale in comparison to Otto's hands-on position as the esteemed Chief Operating Officer. Yet, Viserys would rather send him away than utilise his talents.

His brother, the embodiment of idealism, considered such impulsive dismissals and cruelty as a sign of weakness. However, Daemon revelled in the tangible results he achieved, leaving dreams of peace and harmony to his brother's whims. Daemon at least recognized that their prosperity was built on the sweat and toil of men like himself and the blood spilt by wretches like Tamar Baratheon.

"A game among friends, right?" Daemon said with offhand amusem*nt. As the tension escalated, murmurs of whispered deals and hidden agendas permeated the room. Side conversations mingled with the clinking of chips.

His eyes remained situated on Lance, noting every defensive strategy that had him easily folding. In the midst of the game, a sudden interruption caught their attention. A messenger hurriedly approached Daemon, discreetly passing him a sealed letter. Daemon's expression remained composed as he read its contents, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly.

Mysaria—with her limbs adorned with Targaryen jewels—slithered her hand across Daemon's body in a serpentine caress seeking refuge in a glass of champagne. Her voice, laced with the melodic whispers of accented Valyrian, dipped into the realm of clandestine conversations, "What now?"

"You'd find it all so boring," Daemon's response shifted to English, dismissing her inquiry with a hint of amusem*nt. "So, Mr Cresthood," His attention swiftly turned to Mr Cresthood, a taciturn figure whose losses had accumulated like fallen leaves. A mischievous smile graced Daemon's lips as he addressed him. "I heard that you paid a visit to the squatters on the Gold Coast."

A pregnant pause settled in the room, Cresthood's confidence waning. Laughter, once effervescent, dissipated like smoke, replaced by an air of tense anticipation. "The Baratheons are still in shambles," Cresthood said. "If that is what you are asking."

"It is not," Daemon said with a laugh. "I am asking what your intentions were for lending them money last—what was it?" Daemon discarded two cards from his hand with a steady smile. "Week, right?"

Cresthood was quiet for a second longer, uncertainty now ruining his next play. "I did no such thing."

"Imagining it am I? I must be going crazy," Daemon's laughter shattered the tension, echoing through the room like a cascading melody, inviting a collective release of nervous chuckles from the assembled players.

"We all have our own business to conduct. That does not halt simply at your command, Mr Targaryen," Cresthood said carefully, his words laced with cautious defiance. However, his confidence wavered as Daemon responded with a non-committal hum that hung in the air like a poised predator, ready to pounce upon its prey. The tension in the room grew palpable, each person holding their breath, half-expecting Daemon to unleash a ferocious outburst and resort to violence with his bare hands.

"A bit of money won't get them back to their old ways," Lance interjected, his voice dripping with a dismissive tone. "They are done. Let them continue to toil away on investments that go nowhere."

Daemon harboured a modicum of sympathy for the elder Baratheon, suspecting that he had not supported his son Tamar's treacherous coup. Perhaps, on occasion, he should extend small acts of leniency. "I suppose."

"What of the dust?" Elmar inquired, his eyes locked onto the unopened briefcase, curiosity etched across his face.

With a practised flair, he elevated the case, its weight straining little muscles in his wrist. Placing it delicately upon the surface of the concluded game, he revelled in the theatricality of the act. The case's metallic latches yielded to his touch, releasing a gust of noise and a collection of six meticulously arranged bags, their contents a potent white powder that seemed to shimmer in the ambient light. A mischievous smile danced upon Daymon's lips, his eyes alight with a predatory gleam. "I have always been a generous host. Gifts abound."

"Always the best parties in New York, Mr Targaryen," Deigo, his eyes glimmering with delight, wholeheartedly concurred, observing Daemon's confident stance as he dusted off any imaginary trace of the illicit substance from his impeccable suit.

"If you'll excuse me," Daemon said, now turning his stare to Mysaria and switching languages. "Make sure they don't break anything this time."

Mysaria's features momentarily betrayed her indignation, as if insulted by the task assigned to her, her skills seemingly underestimated. But Daemon paid her wounded pride no mind, gracefully turning away from her fleeting ire.

He made his way out of their enclave, towards the terrasse that looped around the penthouse, the cool breeze whipping through his hair. Daemon leaned against the balustrade, gazing out at the sprawling cityscape before him. The twinkling lights of New York City stretched out as far as the eye could see, a testament to the wealth and power that permeated this metropolis.

His thoughts drifted to Luciara. He had never been particularly fond of her—he barely knew her—a figure he had dismissed as inconsequential, a mere pawn in the treacherous game of power. More and more details of the incidents that led to her suicide kept springing through the vines. Yet news of her fourth miscarriage had struck an unfamiliar chord within him, awakening dormant emotions he had long believed buried.

Daemon had never been one for sentimentality, viewing it as a weakness that could only be exploited by his enemies. But as he stood, gazing out into the endless night, he found himself questioning himself. Blood and Cheese were his tools, and he used them to attack his enemies mercilessly—not just distant cousins, but ruthless and lowly gangs prowling his streets.

His knees sank into the stonework of the parapet, his body leaning forward in a silent plea for solace. With a deep sigh, he sought to purge these troublesome emotions, recognizing their futility and pointlessness—they were of no benefit to anyone. What's done, will always be done, he thought, yet they refused to heed his command, persisting like stubborn ghosts haunting his every thought.

Beyond the terrasse's confines, the sounds of raucous music reverberated. The melody had morphed into a cacophony, shaking the ground beneath his feet. Daemon sighed, retracing his steps, venturing closer to the vast expanse of windows that offered a glimpse into the mirthful revelry unfolding just a distance below. Couples intertwined in blissful ignorance, exchanging amorous murmurs and shallow professions of devotion.

Disgusting, Daemon thought, finally spotting Rhaenyra amongst the crowd.

Though met with resistance by many, Rhaenyra's magnetic allure was undeniable. Leaning against the entrance, he watched as she swayed and danced, a portrait of unadulterated joy and inebriation, her dishevelled curls slipping through her braids and cascading haphazardly. She embodied chaos, a tantalizing mess that Daemon couldn't tear his eyes away from.

In her childhood, Rhaenyra had been an annoyance, a mere shadow mimicking his every move. He would dare say that he enjoyed how she worshipped him, mimicked him, and the more she became like him, the more drawn to her he was. Yet it was their differences that had him watching her laugh and dance, heat rising in his veins. He took a step closer to the glass, his hand reaching out to touch the cool surface. What is this?Daemon's voice was an echo on repeat in his mind.

"You and I are the same. Stones for hearts. Oh, I do understand," Saera had once told him and it certainly felt like a heavy rock, sinking further into his gut now. Daemon often identified with Saera's sentiment, even in his narcissistic fixation on Rhaenyra.

But it had never been so—

Daemon fought against the encroaching thoughts, his gaze transfixed upon Rhaenyra's sensuous movements, a mesmerizing display of curves and audaciousness designed to ensnare his attention. Each word spoken, every scandalous exchange, would undoubtedly reach her father's ears, along with the judgement of those she was meant to stand apart from. A sense of perverted pride gnawed at his rotten heart, applauding the chaos he had orchestrated.

Yet there was also something even worse.

Lust.

Oh god no, Daemon recoiled inwardly, yet the seed had been sown, irreversibly planted. He struggled to shake the tendrils of desire coiling around his consciousness, their grip tightening with each passing moment. Her body in motion, the sway of her hips, the elegant curve of her neck—it all proved overwhelming, testing the limits of his self-control. A sudden urge surged within him, compelling him to close the distance—to touch her. To taste her.

Daemon's eyes fluttered shut, his breaths measured and deliberate, an attempt to quell the raging tempest within. This was not who he was. Emotions were not meant to cloud his discernment, nor should he succumb to base desires. Yet, when his eyes opened once more, there she stood, conversing with her companion, a meek figure who clung to her like a desperate vine as they danced. She clung to him right back, as if her limbs weren't her own, yet her eyes—those were burning holes on him—through him—in him.

But no dye had been cast, and he'd sooner diethan let her slither in him any more than she already had.

From down below, Rhaenyra drew her gaze away from him, back towards the nameless boy who she gripped onto and kissed. It was not a scene an uncle should be watching, but he was fascinated with her disregard for the whispers around her, to her lips that were roughly sliding against a stranger, breathless and without concern.

"Those men are douchebags," Mysaria said from behind him, approaching from one of the many entrances onto the terrasse. "And I hope Deigo overdoses. Truly. I do."

Daemon's lips curled into a deviant smirk, his gaze fixated on her as he wrapped his fingers around her waist, drawing her nearer, seeking solace in the welcome distraction she offered.

Her surprise yielded to a growing sense of pleasure, evidenced by the surrender of her hands on her hips, descending further with each passing moment. Leaning into the delicate curve of her neck, Daemon spoke with deliberate caution, his words laced with desire. "Would that be to your liking?" he inquired, his voice a gentle caress against her skin. "I could arrange it, I suppose. Or perhaps a lovely new dress instead. I'd very much like to rip it off with my teeth."

Her lips remained in a straight line, her expression unchanged as he nipped playfully at her neck. Daemon lifted his head, his gaze fixed upon her, searching for any sign of reaction. "I can do more than watch a few scoundrels on your orders."

"You?" he said derisively. "A common whor*? What else can you do?" He didn't mean it to come out so rashly, but he was tired and he wanted to f*ck someone obsessed with him—as she used to be.

If he had a tail it would have bristled as Mysaria's lips formed an angry line that twisted her face into something grotesque.

"I am not so common," she shot back.

"Not so common whor* then," he agreed with a soft, condescending smile.

As little as three months prior, Mysaria had been head over heels for him. Any little thing he said sent flutters of delight through her, and she was always eager for his company. She had finessed herself quite nicely into the role of his mistress, though Daemon had never actually used the word "mistress."

"Who were you watching down there?" Mysaria asked with careful enunciation that only illuminated the unique accent. She wasn't the jealous sort, and they weren't an exclusive couple—in fact, Daemon preferred when she never opened her mouth unless she did so wide enough to swallow his co*ck.

She leaned forward, paying no mind to the guests from through the glass or the couples whispering little nothings from behind her. Nobody was looking, yet he still felt Rhaenyra's eyes on the back of his neck as Mysaria toyed with his belt. Her hands were on him, tugging at his waistband, even as he spoke. She was trying to get an erection out of him, but it wouldn't come.

"I think I know," Mysaria said with a subtle little smile. "Would it help if I came back in a pretty, silver little wig—oh! There it is," she said, feeling him grow with the caress of her hand. He leaned his head back against the glass as she closed in.

His intense gaze bore into her, his eyes partially concealed by heavy lids, as she positioned her body strategically to conceal their forbidden actions. A low rumble of laughter intertwined with desire and simmering anger which resonated in his voice as he said, "Go on."

"I can do so much more than this," she said carefully.

"But you do thisso well," he reminded her.

"But thisis so common," Mysaria let him go, and he let out a sound in between a groan and a laugh before she gripped him again. He closed his eyes, but it was Rhaenyra that rested behind them when the lights went out. "What awful things are coursing through that head of yours?"

"Certainly not you," Daemon grabbed her and pulled her close, his lips claiming her own as she let out a faint gasp. His hands roamed around her body, exploring her curves as she tried to quieten the whimpering that escaped from her throat. Against her mouth, he muttered, "If you can be quiet for me, I will give you anything you want," in between their rough kisses.

"Oh uncle, I need you to f*ck me," she said in perfect Valyrian, the language sliding off her tongue without a trace of her accent. Daemon felt sick at the words that passed her lips, and she noticed. With a sly smile, Myaria carefully cleared any inappropriate evidence of their actions before adjusting his buckle.

"Fifth floor," he ordered, and she shrugged. "You know where."

"But after tonight, we talk business," Mysaria reminded.

"Only if you don't talk tonight," he ordered, bringing her forward into another kiss. "Except for that."

Mysaria sent him a hateful little smile that also did not deter him, even as he watched her walk away. He lit a cigarette over the sound of her sauntering steps, inhaling the smoke as he twisted back around, but Rhaenyra was no longer in the crowd.

He blew out the smoke, still scanning. He meant to follow Mysaria, but instead, he was rejoining the party, blowing off cousins who attempted to gain his attention. He spotted the boy Rhaenyra had been hanging on, all alone and holding two glasses of champagne.

"She ditch you?" Daemon didn't bother with niceties or elegant language, and he didn't much care for the boy.

"Oh, uh, Rhaenyra right? Of course you're talking about Rhaenyra. Sorry. Drunk. Um yeah, I mean no, I mean she said get more drinks and that she'd be likeover here. Right here actually. In this exact spot."The boy was rambling, repeating himself in his attempt to sound witty and clever but coming across as nervous and annoying instead.

"It's a yes or no question," Daemon said carefully.

"It's not—" The boy pauses in the face of the darkening stare Daemon was giving as the night dragged on with the boy's insistent stuttering. "She's a bit drunk. I think she mentioned something about fresh air before."

Daemon might have checked the roof, though he understood that his niece's request for fresh air often masked her desire for respite from vexing company, such as the young lad before him. "You should probably savour those spirits on your own then," he casually suggested, striding purposefully toward the staircase that descended to the third floor. The halls beckoned him, guiding his steps toward one of his sanctums where solitude and seclusion awaited. As he anticipated, Rhaenyra reclined in his opulent chair, her delicate frame sinking into its plush embrace. With nonchalance befitting a queen, she rested her bare feet upon the polished surface of his desk. A fragrant haze enveloped the room as she savoured the stolen pleasure of one of his cherished cigars.

The doors thundered shut behind him as he barged in, jolting her from her seat and sending her teetering on the edge. Startled, she lashed out with a wild kick, inadvertently toppling his hourglass from the table. It shattered upon impact, fragments of glass teeth littering the ground like a scattered mosaic.

"Ugh," Rhaenyra groaned, putting her feet back up and not bothering to either clean the mess or apologize. Daemon's lips quirked up, watching her attempt to cover her face.

He should avoid her, but instead he was approaching. He should be with Mysaria on the fifth floor, f*cking her senseless as he promised to do, but instead, he was here.

Rhaenyra's voice wavered with each slurring word, nearly absent of her normal diction. Curling smoke from the cigar she'd taken from Daemon's desk swirled around them, and she coughed as she swigged down what remained of whisky in her glass. "I still don't know his f*cking name," she exclaimed, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. "But I know if I ever hear his voice again, I'll jump off the Eiffel Tower."

"You'll go all the way to Paris just to die?" Daemon's eyebrow arched in curiosity as he perched himself on the corner of his desk, the crunching sound of shattered glass beneath his feet accompanying his movements. Meanwhile, she stubbornly clung to his favourite cigars, though her expression betrayed a lack of true enjoyment with each puff.

"Anywhere where he is not," Rhaenyra admitted, and her words were so heavily muffled by alcohol that they barely carried any meaning at all. She took another drag of Daemon's cigars, saying, "This tastes like a crusty sock."

"And yet it's being wasted on you," Daemon replied, watching her toss the stub of the cigar into a nearby ashtray, missing, and not bothering to mind how the half-lit stub had begun to burn the edges of his carpet. Daemon sighed, standing and lifting it.

"The room is literally spinning. I'm not convinced you're actually here," she said as she let out a deep sigh, her words slurring as if she were speaking through syrup.

"Shouldn't have overdrank then," he replied with nonchalance, closing the distance as he moved behind her. With a casual gesture, he placed the stub into the ashtray, his hand grazing against her exposed skin, igniting a subtle electric sensation. As he leaned over, the faint sound of glass crunching beneath his shoes resonated in the room, accompanied by the soft slap of her hand connecting with his cheek as she stretched and yawned.

"Them keep handing me drinks...like they knew I wasn't gonna turn it down," she said, her voice barely understandable as it switched between English and Valyrian mid-sentence. "I literally can't right now."

Daemon rolled his eyes, seizing the hand that had struck him and gently guiding it back to rest against her stomach. She made another attempt to pour more whiskey into her cup—a whiskey he had carefully saved for a decade. Swiftly, he seized the bottle from her grasp, using one hand to secure it while fending off her persistent attempts to reclaim it with the other.

"Hey, that's enough kid," he ordered over her annoying attempts to paw at him.

"Don't call me kid," she commanded, her voice momentarily losing its intoxicated haze as she slumped, her head meeting the hard surface of the desk. The rest of her words dissolved into muffled murmurs, absorbed by the porous wood beneath her face. "Not a kid, you old bastard." Her fists pounded against the desk rhythmically, while he, with meticulous care, sealed his finest bottle and concealed it on the highest shelf of the bookcase, ensuring it was beyond her grasp.

"Forgive me. Hard to differentiate you from a kid when you are throwing a tantrum and breaking my stuff," Daemon admitted and she extracted her head up from the desk, blinking back all the drinks she consumed at his order.

"I don't throw tantrums," she announced, and he raised an eyebrow, watching her as she stretched with a languorous flailing of her limbs. Something about the pull of her dress against her skin sent lightning up his spine.

"Right," he said with slow amusem*nt. "Not a tantrum then."

With a lethargic wave of her arm, she pointed an accusing finger at him, and he found his eyes fixated on the little glistening pearl of sweat running down her throat. "Use the word tantrum again, and I'll start one. A real one, let me tell you. One that involves me yelling at you, screaming, maybe throwing things. A big one. I'll start it here and take it upstairs, don't think I won't."

Daemon smirked. "You think you're tough enough to get me to give you more alcohol?"

"I think I'll stop at nothing." Rhaenyra was drunk, but she was also still so very Rhaenyra. That much was very clear from the way she was staring blankly at the ceiling, attempting to focus. "I'll barricade the door, Daemon. I'll summon my dragon. I'll pull off chunks of your face and feed it to my dragon."

"What are you talking about?" Daemon wasn't sure she even knew. "How would barricading the door help you? And what dragon?"

"I—" she hiccuped, the alcohol taking its toll. "I might be—" Another hiccup interrupted her words. "A little drunk." She appeared utterly exhausted, her head tilting until her chin rested on her neck. "I don't think he's coming back," Rhaenyra murmured, her hands covering her face. Despite the obstruction, her eyes remained fixed on Daemon, and he was certain she could sense his gaze upon her, could see his tongue tracing across his bottom lip.

"Who?" Daemon's voice was soft, his hand moving without his control and consent, gliding over her cheek in a taboo touch nothing like any of his previous ones.

"My dad," she slurred. "I. Think. I'm gonna have. To sleep here."

"No you won't," Daemon replied, and he moved closer to her.

"Yes, I will." Rhaenyra's fingers fumbled with the fabric of her dress, and he watched, mesmerized. He could feel his heart racing in his chest as she lifted the hem of it above her waist, revealing her milky skin and curving hips. At that moment, he was overcome with the desire to touch her—to trace his fingertips up her thigh—but he quickly regained control of himself.

She's your niece and she's drunk, he reminded himself, attempting to force his limbs to move and stop her.

But his body betrayed him, his fingers reaching over, tracing up the skin of her arm and watching the gooseflesh emerge from neath his touch. He quickly grabbed the fabric from her hands and gently pulled it back down over her body, pooling at her waist.

You can sleep here, he could whisper to her, but I won't be sleeping.

His fingers lingered for a moment too long, before he stepped away and cleared his throat. "I'll have you taken home," he said in a tight voice. Rhaenyra's eyes flashed open and she looked around in confusion, before finally understanding what had happened. Her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment as she hastily pulled her dress back down, avoiding eye contact with him. She stood up unsteadily from the chair and waited for his instructions.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, her voice low. "I didn't mean to...to do that."

Daemon didn't know what to say. His heart was racing, and he could feel his body responding to her in ways that he knew he shouldn't. He had always known she was attractive, but never attractive to him. She was his niece, and she was drunk. It was wrong on so many levels. He should have gone to Mysaria. He should have left Rhaenyra to her own devices, drunk and alone—but he couldn't.

"It's fine," Daemon said with mechanical swiftness. "Let's hope you forget all of this, so I can embarrass you about it in the morning."

"Oh god," she said with a wet-sounding laugh that made him realize she was so embarrassed that she began to cry.

"Stop that," he interjected sharply, his frustration getting the best of him.

He felt a spark of attraction, sickening in its intensity—wrong—twist his insides. He tenderly cupped her face, turning it towards him as he smiled down at her. His thumb traced delicate patterns along the contours of her jawline, and he pressed a firm kiss upon her forehead. She smelled of cherries and all sorts of forbiddenthings."Come on kid," he said through gritted teeth, trying to stop himself from inhaling her like a rabid dog. "Stripping is hardly the worst you can do."

She looked into his eyes, her gaze piercing. He had shouted unexpectedly, and the shock of it reverberated between them like an electric current. His stomach churned with guilt as he dropped his hand from her face and mumbled "I'll call Laenor," as an excuse to leave her.

Daemon's fingers moved quickly across the screen, sending a text message to Mysaria that read 'oops. my bad. something came up' before he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the highest shelf and bit off the cork with his teeth. The amber liquid spilt down his throat as he heard Rhaenyra slump over in her chair.

When Laenor arrived, he took one look at the scene—Daemon standing far away from Rhaenyra who had passed out in an office chair—and chuckled. "What did you do to her?"

"My only crime is not discouraging her drinking," Daemon remarked, his tone devoid of any personal responsibility for the events of the evening. A gentle warmth softened his smile as he watched Laenor engage playfully with Rhaenyra. With a light touch, Laenor tapped Rhaenyra's cheek using the back of his hand, drawing a groan from her. In retaliation, she swatted at his hand, but her aim went awry, resulting in an unintended slap across Laenor's cheek.

Daemon wrestled with the turbulent emotions that surged within him, akin to striking a match instead of smothering it. No matter how hard he tried to extinguish them, the feelings persisted, buzzing incessantly around him like a vexing fly in a confined space.

Yet, he knew this was more than a mere crush—if it were, Daemon would have rid himself of it by now. It was an all-encompassing need.

Laenor supported her weight with his arm draped over his shoulders, guiding her as the dress cascaded back down to conceal her legs. Daemon observed every movement from his elevated vantage point, his gaze fixed on the scene. "You gonna lend a hand?" Laenor inquired, prompting Daemon to take a lingering sip of whiskey from the glass that Rhaenyra had been drinking from, still bearing the faint trace of her nude lipstick on the rim.

"Can't," Daemon said. "Drunk."

"Of course," Laenor breathed out. "Gods' Rhaenyra. What have you been eating?"

"Kiss my—" she muttered, attempting to walk. "Arse."

Daemon was concealing his smile.

There wasn't a single moment throughout the night—maybe longer—where she wasn't occupying his thoughts. The fragrance of her presence fills the air as Laenor hauled her over, reaching across the room and rendering him motionless with an overwhelming desire. He wanted to ruin her tonight. He wanted to soil her reputation, destroy her spirit, and yet could not do either without craving her. It was not the urge he should have for his niece.

It's a tumultuous surge within him. Part of his being earns to ignite a fire that engulfs them both, to embrace her while the flames consume everything around them. It's as if he hungered to devour her heart, so that it could belong solely to him.

He despised her for it, and when Daemon nurtured hatred, he did so with every fibre of his being.

Chapter 26: Circuitous Routes

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ－Ｓｉｘ

𝒸𝒾𝓇𝒸𝓊𝒾𝓉𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓉𝑒𝓈

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

There was a jagged scar that marred the flesh just between Laena's ulna and radius bones, lit with discoloured skin and reddened edges. It was only matched with the one that travelled further up her arm, never seen due to the length of her sleeves. She'd make up stories whenever she was asked about them—"It's from a bar fight,"she'd say, as if she ever drank. Or "You should see the other guy," she'd tell her old boyfriend.

Laena Velaryon had become adept at the art of linguistic evasion, honing her skills through years of rigorous instruction from her parents. They had meticulously trained her, envisioning a future where she took over when they were gone. Any variation was vastly superior to the truth.

It was usually when she traced the scar that she glimpsed the life she once rejected—a vivid assortment of choices she had sacrificed herself to fulfil. There were moments when she felt bereft of identity, as though her visage had been wiped clean of distinguishing features, leaving her faceless, devoid of the marks that defined her. Her face, once a canvas for emotion, now appeared vacant and stripped of all expression. She lingered in a state of inertia, as though trapped in an eternal tableau, robbed of the spirit that once coursed through her veins.

Then, she'd again trace the pattern of the scar and linger over every jagged edge, bringing her right back into her body with a jolt of momentum.

"Thank you," she said, her fingers resting against Smith's lab coat in a motion too natural to be uncharacteristic. The benefit of having no face allowed for others to project whatever they wanted in her, at times even against her own wishes.

"I can only give you half an hour," Smith replied with a stiff nod, even as the emotion bobbed securely in her throat. The room accentuated the lines on his face, evidence of years spent in her family's service.

When Laena had stepped into the conjoining space, she had to wait for her eyes to adjust to the low illumination that bathed the area in a ghostly glow. The morgue, with its cold and clinical ambience, stretched out before her. Sterile white walls enclosed the chamber, highlighted by the glimmering stainless steel surfaces that reflected the subdued lighting.

In the centre of the room stood a solitary gurney, its metal frame gleaming under the pale lustre. A white sheet draped over it, cascading down to the floor in a pristine waterfall of fabric. The covering was crisp and smooth, as if untouched by human hands.

Rows of metal drawers lined the walls, standing like sentinels of mortality. Faint beams of light filtered through high windows, casting long, eerie shadows across the polished tiled floor. Each drawer bore a glinting label, but she didn't want to look at any of the passing names, even as she wondered how many her own family had put here.

She approached the gurney with cautious steps, the click of her shoes echoing softly in the otherwise silent room. As she drew nearer, she noticed the delicate folds of the sheet, meticulously draped over the contours of the body. The morgue was a sanctuary of stillness, a space where the fragile transition from life to death should have been marked with solemnity and respect.

Laena's slender fingers trembled as they touched the edge of the sheet. She hesitated at what lay beneath—a body defined by a magnitude of slashes that covered its torso, arms, and face. Laena nearly recoiled at the sight of the wounds, the jagged lines like deep red rivers etched into the once smooth skin. It was a portrait of geometric lacerations that covered the corpse, resembling a stringed instrument held up against the light. This was no clean execution like the ones she had grown accustomed to in her father's parlour—efficient in the way a butcher was to a prized pig.

She traced the delicate crescents, serrated flesh that was cold with the smell of decay and chemicals. "You weren't supposed to see that," Corlys had once told Laena, many years ago. He had stood in front of the doorway, blocking her wandering, childlike eyes from scanning his parlour.

"Did he deserve it?" Laena remembered asking, and she wondered if a better person might have said something else. Her father didn't mind.

"There was no pain. Now leave," Corlys had ordered.

Laena wanted to be a better person, but despite how she fought against it, she was still her father's daughter. She examined each slash with a cold detachment, counting each pointless mark.

"Ninety-eight times," she said in lieu of greeting towards the oncoming footsteps as her fingers dusted over the body, over each intricate little crescent moon. Each one, she noticed, was slightly different. They were marred perhaps, with the very porcelain that inflicted it, deteriorating and wasting away. Yet again, the next gash was slightly smaller.

Perhaps once, Laena might have baulked at a body, yet her hands were steady as she traced them now. She had seen death many times growing up—even if her father tried to steer her away from that particular side of house Velaryon. "We have to make a name for ourselves somehow, and we must get rid of those who mean us harm," her father had once said.

"Unseemly, but no matter," Daemon said, checking his watch as though he had elsewhere to be—which Laena doubted. Her father and her cousin were an unlikely pair in the criminal underworld of New York City, but between their intelligence and shrewd business acumen, they ran a successful crime syndicate. Even if the news broke of a dead body found in an upstate Connecticut loft, they had the means to ensure the story did not reach the papers or even the whispers of old gossip. They had done it many times before.

Laena traced the scar on her wrist, a reminder of what she too had survived. "Does he have any family?" She looked to her cousin, but Daemon merely covered the stabbed man's face with the white cloth, as if the sight was unseemly. At times, Laena caught a glimmer of Corlys in Daemon's actions, but each time he spoke, any resemblance evaporated.

"What does it matter?" Daemon's voice carried a hint of indifference, his words delivered with a practised nonchalance. Laena, however, sensed a purposeful edge to his tone, a calculated facade that made her uneasy.

"They might seek retribution. You're not the sort to leave loose ends," Laena's voice remained composed, yet there was a subtle shift, an accusatory note that tinged her words. "Or maybe this happened because you did."

At last, Daemon's gaze lifted, the facade of detachment unable to shield the truth from her searching eyes. She saw it, that flicker of vulnerability, hidden beneath the well-rehearsed mask. Her eyes softened, silently urging him to abandon the pretence.

"You can ask, you know," she murmured, her eyes scanning the room as if searching for an escape from the suffocating atmosphere. The pale fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting an eerie glow on their faces that had her drawn right back to him. Daemon's gaze veered away from her, shielding his face from her probing stare. Yet, his body betrayed the strain he carried, the tension coiling in his shoulders like a tightly wound spring, while the fatigue etched lines of exhaustion over his face. "About her."

"I cannot," Daemon revealed, keeping his eyes diverted to hide his expression. Yet, she noticed the tension in his shoulders and the weariness that circled his eyes like a shadow of sleeplessness.

"She may have mentioned you," Laena said, disregarding his wishes for her to drop it.

"Laena," he retorted, his anger measured but lacking the power to intimidate her.

"I've had years to make my peace with the thought of you two," Laena said, wondering if she was as f*cked up as the rest of them, capable of talking about feelings over the body of a burned corpse. "I only know what I've seen and what she's told me—which is a viewpoint of you I do not see."

"She doesn't—" Daemon sighed, his exhalation echoing through the sterile space, as if it were a gust of wind disturbing the stillness. He walked purposefully across the room, his steps resonating on the linoleum floor, and retrieved a scalpel from the medical trolley. The gleaming instrument glinted in the pale light, casting a disconcerting shimmer. Turning back towards Laena, a tangle of emotions flickered across his face, causing her gut to churn with a mix of apprehension and uncertainty. With a determined gesture, he lowered the blanket that concealed the lifeless figure, revealing the pallid, burned features beneath. "She doesn't know any better."

"She didn't," Laena acknowledged, her gaze fixed on Daemon as he painstakingly started to incise the chest cavity. The sight was repulsive to her, yet there was disturbing tranquillity in the way he approached the grotesque task. His concentration seemed unbroken, as if he had found solace in this ghoulish act. "You've made sure of that. Yet, for some reason, Rhaenyra-" Laena's voice trailed off as she noticed the sudden stillness in his hand, a pause that lingered at the mere mention of her cousin's name. It was a fleeting vulnerability, quickly concealed as he resumed the motion of sawing through the lifeless body. "Holds such affection for you. Undeserved, most certainly, but true."

"She doesn't even know me," Daemon's voice held a tinge of frustration, his gaze drifting towards the lifeless figure on the table before returning to Laena. His fingers unconsciously tapped against the edge of the scalpel. "She doesn't know better." He repeated.

Laena watched, transfixed, as Daemon's hands moved confidently yet methodically. He held a scalpel in one hand, slicing through flesh with harsh yet expert movements, the sound of it grating against her nerve endings like a dissonant melody. The smell of metal and blood filled the room, making Laena feel dizzy.

"You brought a gift bag?" Daemon's voice was barely louder than a whisper as he worked, and the intense concentration on his face was betrayed by the slight upturn of his lips. His hands moved quickly and methodically, as if he had done this a hundred times before. He paused for a moment, his hands still poised above the tools scattered across the table in front of him, before speaking. There was a furrow on his brow and tension in his jaw, yet Laena noted a hint of amusem*nt in his tone.

Laena had placed the bag just near the sterilized medical supplies where a little brown box rested, waiting to be filled. It was a simple little design, fit with polka dots that were not so unlike the green in Alys's eyes. "Is it not to your liking? You said for it to be festive."

Daemon snorted, forcing her to hear the dull thud of the blade on tough skin and the soft squelch that could only be the removal of the heart. She tried to block out her disgust as she reached for the wooden box and walked it back to him.

Daemon's hands were a patchwork of dried blood, encased in a pair of latex gloves that gave off a faint buzz as he pulled them on. His voice was flat and emotionless as he spoke, the soft click of the box closing resonated, a gentle punctuation to his statement. "You didn't have to come," he said.

Laena rolled her eyes before emitting an unceremonious snort. She spotted the splattered blood on her sleeve, tiny droplets that had managed to evade the violence she so desperately tried to distance herself from. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she spoke with care, "My father is not about to choose any side in this, isn't that why you called me in the first place?"

"I would have found another way. I only prefer the efficiency of your connections," Daemon admitted with a charming smirk.

Corlys and Vaemond had been running funeral parlours in New York for years, to hide the unfortunate bodies of their enemies. The parlour was an old establishment, but its ingenious double-decker coffins were credited to Laena's mother— strategically placed boxes that concealed illegal cargo within the ranks of legitimate funeral arrangements.

Now, amidst the bustling cityscape of New York, countless funeral parlours owned by Velaryon blood money stood in stark contrast to the lively atmosphere. As though it were a beacon of death, the old grim-faced building in Midtown seemed to loom ominously over passersby. Inside, the walls were draped with deep burgundy velvet curtains and thick gold-plated chandeliers that cast a dim orange hue on the bodies that lay in stasis within the glossy mahogany caskets.

Laena's mother had been adamant that she remain impartial between the warring families. If it were anyone but Rhaenyra, the tug of loyalty would have had no power over her and she could remain a dutiful daughter.

Laena shifted her weight, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Laenor has these same connections," she said, though she was relieved he didn't have to see the murky underbelly of their world. She preferred her brother stay in the light, leaving the bogs and shadows to men like Vaemond or Daemon. Perhaps even herself, when there was no alternative.

Daemon wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes, disbelief evident in the curl of his lip. "I fear your brother might be too f*ckless for such endeavours," he scoffed.

"Watch your tone, cousin." Laena shifted her stance, tightening her jaw and fixing her cousin with a fiery glare. "You do not tolerate such words against your own brother so perhaps you will understand how I might feel the same about mine."

She felt like she couldn't take a full breath as her gaze met his, and the air between them seemed to hum with electricity. The seconds dragged on until the tension became too much to bear, and their eyes eventually slid away from each other in a silent accord.

Daemon looked undaunted, examining the blood on the cuff of his sleeve with an expression that suggested he was offended by it. "Apologies. I am merely offering my compliments to you. I think you'd do well as the sole Velaryon sovereign."

Laena scoffed, placing the box into the bag, her gut lurching at the sight. "I've as little interest in ruling as you do, Daemon."

Daemon paused, brows arching in surprise. "I am not sure what you mean."

Laena turned her harsh gaze upon him, scrutinizing the perfect cut of his hair, the attention to detail that left his suit without a single wrinkle. He looked far more put together today than she had ever seen him, which told her that he was a wreck. Each perfect smile and pointed remark had solidified the tired and weary expression he was attempting to hide.

"I'm sure you do," Laena replied, her eyes darting towards the ticking clock, its rhythmic sound echoing in the room. The seconds seemed to slip away faster than she had anticipated, but here she was, prodding to fight. Her fingers trailed lightly along the edge of the table as her mind drifted back to the doctor's hurtful remarks about her brother's lack of commitment. But she knew that beneath those remarks lay a kernel of loyalty that she could exploit. "You don't want to be heir, so why have you led Rhaenyra to believe that was ever more than a childish tantrum of your youth?"

Daemon's mouth formed a grim line, and the muscles in his jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed until Laena could see not only anger but a hint of something darker—violence he kept reigned in until she said Rhaenyra's name. "Careful," he softly warned, but Laena had survived much more fearful things than her cousin.

"Talk to her," she urged instead, now grabbing the bag of the severed heart, not minding the sick business as much as she should have. Maybe there truly was something broken in me after all. "I am not trying to play matchmaker to a couple I do not approve of. This is just no time for any divide between the two of you. We are all stronger together and the Baratheons have shown they have no problem drawing blood."

"Leave the blood to me," Daemon said with a bite in his tone as he closed the distance between them. Her fingers tautted against the metal table behind her hard enough for the edge to nearly cut into her skin. "You have done your part. Now I ask that you keep Rhaenyra as far away from all this as you can."

A loud clink echoed in the room as Laena released the metal table from her vice-like grip. She glared at Daemon, her eyes narrowed with contempt and challenge. "I am not your gatekeeper, Daemon. I do not work for you and I will not stop her from the retribution that she rightfully deserves. Make your threats." She motioned disdainfully towards the wooden box that held a murderer's heart, which he promptly took from her. "This time, make sure you are ending this war instead of igniting another one. Or perhaps you'd prefer to have another Storm's End incident?"

Daemon's lips parted, but instead of shock or anger, his face was an impenetrable mask. He took a step backwards and the only sound in the room was the faint whisper of the equipment around them. His voice was like ice when he said, "Sink your head back into the sea, Laena Velaryon. Your job is over now."

He walked past her before the minute hand even hit ten.

Laena Velaryon wrung out her hands, washed them, before she closed her eyes, and pictured the waves before crossing the room to leave.

She joined the bustling crowds of Midtown, where the subways were crowded and jammed. The smell of hot dogs and pretzels wafted through the air, mixing with the stench of exhaust and garbage. Laena pushed her way through the throngs of people, her mind still reeling. She couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled in her stomach. Her hands still felt filthy, carrying it with her as she tried to shake off the mood, yet it had become gum on the bottom of her shoes and she could feel it sticking with each drag of her feet as she made her way to the car lot.

Even after she allowed herself the comfort of her seclusion, the noise blocked by the engine's purr, Laena still rested her head against her steering wheel. When she returned home and closed the blinds, it seemed silly to draw the grey cloak of guilt over herself as well. She showered in water that burned her skin with heat, yet as silly as it was, the shame refused to melt away.

As the last of the sunlight disappeared behind a distant mountain range, the sky was painted in shades of deep orange and purple. She stared up at the imposing structure of The Dragon Pit casino. Its towers seemed to stretch towards the night sky, where only a few stars were visible through the thick velvet curtain that blanketed the horizon. No light from a crescent moon broke through to illuminate her shimmering teal dress, making her blend into the backdrop of the colossal building. Adorned in the regal attire of her House, her garments swathed in the colours, yet she felt colourless.

Laena was intimately familiar with the seductive grip of gambling, a vice she had struggled to overcome. However, she made a conscious effort to steer clear of Daemon's debauched clubs, where the allure of risk and reward was at its strongest. While she acknowledged that at least his establishments were fair, devoid of any dealer skimming schemes. However, a lingering unease gnawed at her, knowing that her father's watchful gaze could trace her every move within those walls.

The clatter of chips and shuffling of cards echoed in her ears as she made her way to the half-empty table—a rare sight in The Dragon Pit, but patrons by now knew to stay far away from table number 17. There, a dealer with a lazy eye deftly shuffled a deck, his movements accompanied by whispered exchanges between two women. Alys, her lips adorned with a wicked smile, welcomed Laena with a tinge of amusem*nt.

"You're late," Alys greeted, lips curled with decadent delight. The girl to her right barely looked her way, her eyes, alight with wonder, were ensnared by the grandeur above. A colossal dragon chandelier loomed overhead, stretching its formidable wingspan, a testament to the skill of the artisans at Lasvit. The dragon's sinuous form, adorned with 2.5 million Swarovski crystals, shimmered with an otherworldly radiance.

As if bewitched by an ancient spell, the chameleon-like creature transformed beneath the cascading light. Its scales, numbering a staggering 13,000, glimmered with ethereal hues, shifting effortlessly from vibrant green to fiery red. Laena didn't want to know if it was bought with blood money—too exhausted to think more on blood.

The girl stood to Alys' left, a captivating presence wrapped in the veil of youth. Her long black hair was pulled into multiple braids that draped down past her waist like midnight waves. Her eyes shone like two pieces of polished coal, and she had a mischievous glint in them.

"I was expecting Larys," Laena confessed, her voice a delicate thread tinged with a subtle blend of disappointment and relief. Alys River's lips curled into a knowing smile, the edges stretching with an undercurrent of amusem*nt.

"Your note was intercepted," Alys nonchalantly revealed, a careless shrug accentuating her words. Yet, Laena couldn't help but notice the gentle touch of Alys' hand upon the girl's arm. It was a tether, almost imperceptible, as if meant to keep the girl grounded in their midst, ensuring she wouldn't flee on a whimsical impulse.

"You have made a habit of answering people's letters as of late," Laena's voice was icy, but she took a seat and allowed Wölf to deal her in. Her mouth had formed a thin line, fingers tightening around the two cards.

"Wasn't me," Alys said, and Laena wouldn't have believed the denial if not for the dark girl's pointed grin, showing off slightly crooked teeth. "This is Nettles, my little paper thief."

"Have you ever heard of texting?" Nettles leaned forward, her voice daring and unafraid. "What are you? 80? Who uses wax seals anymore?"

Laena couldn't help but laugh, a surprised sound that escaped her slightly parted lips. "Not my idea," she replied. "I suspect Larys enjoys burning them to melodramatic music."

Alys's fingers pattered on the velvet-covered table as her lips curved upwards, the scarlet of her lipstick contrasting with her pale porcelain skin. Laena remembered their conversations, where barbed wit traded like currency, leading to fantasies of ramming Alys with her car.

"It's safer to work with me," Alys interjected, glancing at Laena who let out a deep chuckle. "Nasty little boys running amok in Midtown these days, brandishing co*cks in the same way they do their guns. He is worse than most. What are you thinking getting involved with him?"

Larys Strong also knew everybody and everything, often before things happened. Her mother would say his name with pointed disdain, but Laena had no plans of making friendship bracelets. She was just not fully convinced that the Baratheons were ready for war—so what did they have to gain in starting one?

"I wasn't aware that you cared about anyone's safety," Laena remarked as she picked up the cards dealt to her. Her attention then fell on the dark-haired girl, whose eyes only briefly flickered to her hand of cards.

"I'm an altruistic sort," Alys replied hastily, but the statement had Laena releasing a snort of disbelief. "Helping others in need, getting them out of bad situations," Alys gave a purposeful pause that dripped with sarcasm, "like rescuing this one off the streets of Fleabottom."

Nettles' voice was gruff and worn, like an old leather coat. She grabbed her cards with both hands, her knuckles white as she called over the sound of chattering from the other tables. "I liked my streets," Nettles said, holding her breath as she lifted the cards higher. "So cut and dry in Brownsville. It's you lot that makes things complicated."

"What do you want?" Laena asked, irritated by Alys' smile from across the table, but not as much as she was by Alys' winning hand. Wölf quickly gathered up the cards and reshuffled them into a neat stack.

"I'm going to see a boy about a drink" Nettles announced, pushing away from the poker table. Nettles let out an exaggerated huff and tossed her playing cards onto the table—a three of spades and a six of hearts. Alys groaned as she flipped them over, examining their meagre value before shaking her head in disbelief.

"Does she always skip before she's about to lose?" Laena asked carefully.

Alys gave a dismissive snort and switched to fluent French, her voice laced with biting sarcasm. "Too many witnesses to just knife you and take your money," she said. "Hard to teach an old bitch new tricks."

"I assume you read my letter?" Laena answered back in French, making certain the dealer did not understand. Wölf was always at table 17 because he was discreet, but Laena didn't want to take chances.

"Larys wouldn't have helped you. He's put all his chips," Alys said, raising the anty and tossing chips in the middle of the table,"behind the Hightowers, content to suckle on Alicent's toes."

"And here I thought your half-brother more neutral than that," Laena said, watching her stiffen. "I don't suppose you know more than he."

"I assume you mean the fire? No. I'm afraid I do not know who ordered the hit, but that doesn't sound like it would stop you from finding a few cutthroat assassins more thug than professional." Alys nodded over to Nettles from just over Laena's shoulder. "Fleabottom is where deals of that nature are struck. I brought her as a gift of goodwill for us. My apologies for the many misunderstandings."

Laena bit her own tongue when she saw her hand, her old competitive blood rushing back and thumping in her ears. "Do you think the Baratheons would have—" Laena pauses, thinking of her cousins with a conflicted lurch in her gut.

"I think if they had," Alys replied with a casual shrug. "Their objective would have been met. I think you should look again towards the Hightowers. Alicent in particular is green, fresh and bright-eyed. Prone to mistakes that her father would be unlikely to make."

Laena's narrowed gaze snapped up, hearing the casual notes of sultry ease in Alys's tone. "Don't flirt, Ms Rivers. I am not so green to take you at your word. Alicent Hightower wouldn't kill a wasp even after it's stung her."

Alys finally smiled, two dimples peeking out on her cheeks. "You make it difficult not to," Alys admitted softly, now leaning her chin into the heels of her palms. Laena missed the dimples once they faded back into her skin. "Parents can do cruel things to protect their children," she gave Laena a genuine simper, whistling to catch Nettle's attention, who groaned and rejoined the table.

"Kid, what did I tell you?" Alys's attention was back on Nettles, whose crooked grin faded away like a child being scolded.

"Don't wander into the leftmost rooms," Nettles said reluctantly.

Laena's attention darted towards the far end of the casino, where a burly bouncer stood sentinel in front of a plush velvet rope, barring entry to the deeper levels of The Dragon Pit. Though she had never ventured beyond, rumours whispered in her ears, painting a picture of opulence and moral decay. Decadence and debauchery were not her cup of tea, and the mere thought of them sent a shiver of pressure through her veins.

The knot in her stomach had steadily tightened throughout the day, constricting with each breath she took. An exasperated sigh escaped her lips, as she acknowledged that later in the evening, she would have to up the dosage of her anxiety medication.

"Ms Nettles," Laena began, feeling a touch of rudeness addressing the stranger with only a single name. Even now, she was reluctant to forgo her manners. This elicited a small amused twitch of the girl's plush lips. Laena carefully reached out, pulling a small slip of paper from which Rhaenyra had drawn the tattoo of one of her assailants. "Does this marking mean anything to you?"

Nettles furrowed her brows, her expression etched with concern, but Laena's focus was fixated on the fading scar that traversed Nettles' nose. Though faint, Laena recognized the telltale signs of a once-deep wound. Her fingers brushed along Rhaenyra's intricate linework, tracing them with a forlorn detachment before her skinny arm dropped back to her side.

Nettles glanced towards Alys, uncertainty in her expression which melted away only when Alys nodded. "It's a gang sign back in Fleabottom." Her lips pursed, and now Laena could see the edge of anger in her eyes before it faded away. "They are called the Sheepstealers. Petty thieves. Nothing more." At her clipped tone, Laena paused, now pocketing the paper with a frown.

"Anything else?" Laena prodded.

"They don't like have a group chat, if that's what you mean," Nettles said quickly, her amused grin now replacing the old expression. "Maybe you can send a raven or something."

Laena's lips twitched up, "You're a rude kid."

"I'm trying to be polite since you're loaded or whatever," Nettles said, taking a sip of her cider. "I'm running a GoFundMe. It's for a good cause."

"Yeah?"

Nettles smiled again, "Jordans aren't cheap. And you've got to have a couple grand to spend. It's giving," she waved her hand in Laena's direction. "Generational wealth."

"Kay," Laena turned her attention back to Alys. "What do you want?"

"Thought we were talking, but m'kay. Fine. f*ck me then," Nettles said, taking a seat and raising her phone from her back pocket.

"I just missed you," Alys answered in French."Who are you going to report this back to, I wonder? Impulsive dragon cousin, his naive brother, or perhaps the cooked niece?"

Laena, offended on Rhaenyra's behalf, turned her attention back to Nettles. "It was lovely meeting you. If you remember anything—"

"Then she'll tell me," Alys interrupted, leaning her chin back on the heel of her palm, her dimples returning. She finally stood, circling the table until she stood just in front of Laena, her head now reaching past Laena's chin with the length of her exquisite heels. Her fingers held a little clutch bag to her side, but her other one slithered down the length of Laena's bare arm. "And I mighttell you. Let's keep in touch, Laena Velaryon."

Nettles bestowed Laena with a strangely charming grin, and together with Alys, they sauntered away. Laena's gaze shifted down to the gooseflesh that prickled her dark skin, prompting an involuntary grimace to grace her features.

The Tavern on the Rocks was bound in silence, a hollow and echoing silence that was forged by the lacking crowd. There was no creak of the door, no bellowing laughter of the drinking patrons, no shared conversation or laughter. It had none of the clamouring and clattering that was seen in a bar, hidden in New York at ten in the evening on a Friday. No music to flood the walls or even a whisper from the pair of men that huddled at a corner in the bar.

The Targaryen brothers had never been a hugging people. In regards to emotional comfort, it had become a longstanding belief that there wasn't any sort of physical contact that could equate to the mending ability of a strong co*cktail. Daemon was a flinty and argumentive sort, and when he and Viserys weren't fighting, they were drinking.

It was particularly silent tonight, in between sips of the golden, caramel-tinted liquid, when Daemon broke the unspoken rule and placed a hand upon his brother's shoulder. Viserys tensed at the unexpected touch but didn't pull away.

"You look tired," Daemon said in a low voice, his gaze searching. Viserys didn't argue, but only nodded slowly and took a deep gulp of his drink. He had aged much since the attack on Rhaenyra, and now often wore a distant look as if constantly trying to remember something he couldn't quite recall.

"I trust you have been hard at work," Viserys said carefully, yet nearly dropped his drink when he went to reach for it again. Daemon noticed a tremor in his brother's hand and was nearly tempted to break their unspoken rule again, yet refrained.

Strained as their relationship was, Daemon had no desire to see his brother's deep and panting breaths as though every arbitrary action was a strain on his muscles. Dim light now did little to hide the weary bags under Viserys' eyes, nor the new wrinkles that had begun to settle in his skin.

"I told you that they would always be a threat," Daemon's gaze dropped to the glass before him, watching as the amber liquid swirled in small circles. He shifted nervously on the chair before continuing, his voice low and measured. "You nurture peace with far more diligence than your enemies."

Viserys barked a harsh laugh, slamming his fist down on the wooden bar table. The glassware shook from its force and he used it to mask the tremor that had taken hold of his body, unbidden. He stood tall, nose upturned in disdain as he looked down at Daemon. "I will not hear this from you.You must think me a fool."

Daemon pauses, now settling on his brother's morphing face that shined with bits of resentment. There had been a ball, coiled and tight, that had formed in Daemon's gut, and no matter what he did, how much he drank, it would not unwind. It tightened yet again at the display of his brother's ire, and it became work to keep his own face unmoved.

"I was making peace with Tamar Baratheon, yet your callous sinking of the cargo in the wharf last month destroyed any chance of it," Viserys snapped, and Daemon only paused, the veins in his arm now strained with the tensing of his muscles.

Tamar isn’t in charge.

Borros Baratheon opted to get involved in the narcotics business, supplying cocaine into Daemon's territory, and Daemon jumped at the chance to attack the shipment when he heard about the big fete in Storm's End. Even if Rhaenyra hadn't been threatened, he would have still gone after the cargo.

A fiery intensity blazed in Daemon's eyes, urging him to look away and take a long swig from his glass. The taste was lost on him, overwhelmed by the seething fire that coursed through his veins and settled deep within his belly.

"There was no peace," Daemon said, but it was spoken in an unintentional whisper. "We tried it your way. Mercy is what allowed them to get back on their feet, regain allies and power."

"I am not here to discuss mercy with you." His brother drew a breath and paused, his mouth propped open as though to continue. Viserys tipped back his glass, swallowing the contents of it. "Otto and I will handle the Baratheons. Go back to your bedlam of whor*s, Daemon. Keep away from my daughter. You have done enough."

"Otto," he spat out the name, and the heat of his self-loathing raced through him like the glowing embers of a dying fire. He couldn't thinkabout Rhaenyra right now, so he cast her name away. "Is an inept fool and he cannot protect this family. I can."

"Protect from what?" Viserys snarled, his eyes blazing with fire.

"Yourself. You're weak, brother," Daemon admitted, even as his throat closed up to do so. If it hadn't been for Viserys, Daemon would have obliterated the Baratheon family years ago. It was easier to blame his brother, but Daemon suspected that Viserys thought the same. Thus, both brothers were stuck pointing fingers at each other.

Viserys moved with the speed of livewire, and the barstool he had been sitting on fell backwards, clattering against the ground behind. Had there been patrons in the bar, they would have turned their heads to see Viserys' bony hands wrap themselves around the material of Daemon's collar, forcing him to stand. His own seat tumbled down behind him, but there was something explosive rushing through his gut, begging the violence of his brother's fist against his jaw.

An angry line had formed between his brother's eyebrows, but even with rage filling his cheeks with colour, Viserys himself seemed sickly. Not exactly unhealthy, yet hollow and wan. He had been like this for months, but Daemon had often ignored the signs in a way he had done with most things he wasn't ready to face. Viserys resembled a wilting plant that had been extracted from its soil and forced into a foreign pot. There was missing vitality.

When Daemon searched for rage, he came back with only shame. Slowly, he placed his hand against his brother's knuckles, refusing to strike his brother.

"My daughter seems to think highly of you," Viserys said with barely restrained anger, yet his gestures were absent of extravagance and vigour. His eyes held barely any of the bright lilac that ran through their family's f*cked up genetics, dull instead. His hair looked more grey than silver. "Of that I am aware. But I want no more. She will live with these scars forever, and that is your fault." His hands finally released the material of Daemon's collar, allowing breath to erupt back into his throat—yet each inhale came with a touch of acid. "You will ceasefire immediately."

"I will not," Daemon finally replied. He was forced to think about Rhaenyra again, and with it came a gut-crushing guilt that would depart from the contents of his stomach. "The time for diplomacy is over, Viserys."

"Oh indeed." Viserys took a step back, nearly looking regal and not worn and old. Daemon had a strange and old urge to obey all his brother's wishes, as though his blood wanted him to bow. Or at the very least, apologize.

The touch of Rhaenyra's fingers was a soft one in the corners of his memory, and they had turned into claws, begging entrance with insistent demand that he had to fight back. Her name was in his throat, blocking away air and rendering him speechless.

"But I will handle the rest. You go back to Mysaria and the rest of your games," Viserys, nodded towards the barkeeper, an old family friend who spent the duration drying glasses as a way to keep busy. There was little about House Targaryen that old Cobstone did not know, but Daemon did not mind the man's presence considering he never spoke a word about it.

Bill Cobstone only bowed his head, watching as Viserys moved through the throng of tables and towards the exit.

Daemon stewed in silence, watching his glass refill, yet could not bring it in him to tip back the contents into his awaiting throat. He was filled to the brim with thoughts of her, longing for her—all only as powerful as his guilt.

He lift the glass, but even now he was searching for the imprint of her lipstick on the rim, wanting any reason to feel it against his own. Without it, the drink was as tasteless as water, yet would not quench his thirst.

"I love you," she had told him, and he in turn had frozen. Silent and boneless, he had frozen.

What had she expected him to say? She wielded those words like a gun at his temple, and what else was there to do but say it back? He could not.

He lifted himself up, swift goodbyes towards old Bill and a hollow pit in his stomach.

She was asleep when he had arrived the first time. The light had already trickled out the windows, Laena had gone home for the night, and Laenor was currently snoring in the corner of the room. Nobody wanted to leave Rhaenyra's side, a sentiment that Daemon Targaryen could understand.

The timing was never quite right, but Daemon, coward that he was, preferred her eyes closed. He wasn't ready for them to open, for him to witness that sinking realization that this was his fault. It was, of that he could not deny.

"I love you," she had wielded the words as a blade, yet now he saw that she had held the tip to her own throat, never his.

His fingers trailed the length of her bandaged arms, up and down, just to feel yet never quite touch. The room was quiet save for the sound of Rhaenyra's shallow breathing. She looked fragile in the pale light, as though one wrong touch could shatter her into a million pieces. But Daemon knew better, he knew that even shattered, her pieces could reforge. His niece was sharper than Valyrian steel, not something as fragile as glass.

He could stare at the soft features of her face all night, lost in its grandeur, even the imperfections weren't any less beautiful. Yet, covered in bandages, the sound of her voice replaced by the beeping of medical equipment, Daemon could not look at her face.

He had never apologized a day in his life, not to her or Viserys. He didn't know how. Yet, he wanted her to wake up so he could try. He was sorry for even the split in her hair, sorry for the rain that ruined her mascara, sorry for the wind that blew strands in her face.

He fell to his knees, now cradling her palm to his face, kissing the exposed skin of her fingertips. The touch of her brought along other feelings—ones that he tried to keep under tight rein. They were taboo and dangerous, yet flexed inside him as they strained against the bonds.

He could not get away from her, even when his shoes smacked against pavement at great haste. There she was, a vivid shadow that was imprinted in his mind.

Her fingers curled around his hand, and he quickly looked up, as though expecting her eyes to be open, looking down at him with emotions he never deserved. But her eyes were closed, her face contorted in strain from the pain that haunted her dreams.

She was right here, calling him back to her and he had no choice but to obey each cry. He raised, pressing the back of his hand over the exposed flesh of her skin. He was blindly following each resounding sound of her breathing, lulling him as it always did. He kissed the crease between her brows, wanting to sink into her skin, wanting to switchplaces.

He was led by an all-consuming urge that he had no control over.

He had no right to do it, no right to her whatsoever, yet he was drawn to the siren song of her lips that he couldn't stop dreaming about. His thumb dragged a soft swoop over her bottom lip, dry and cut but he did not care. She was still the most beautiful person he had ever seen, and he longed for her in the way a snake needed sunlight to live. He couldn't warm his body otherwise and when she wasn't looking his way, the world was colourless and cold.

His forehead pressed against hers, his hand upon her neck as his thumb lazily dragged circles on her pulse, just to feel it quicken. Only its calming drum against his hand allowed for his own to slow, calming in tandem with her own. It reminded him that she was alive, even if she could never be his.

When Daemon was younger, he had loved to plant seeds just to watch them grow. Each day, he would tend to them, saturating the soil until it turned murky and heavy with water. Yet, despite his dedicated care, the seeds refused to sprout. He persisted, sowing more seeds, hoping for a different outcome. But the results were always the same. "No matter what I do, they will not grow," he had told his mother to which she said, "There's such a thing as loving too much. They will never grow when you drown them."

He didn't want to own her. Nothing could cultivate when he had them in his hands and his niece was meant to flourish while he was meant to drown.

The second time Daemon had attempted to visit her, he never made it past the doors of the hospital. Microphones and cameras jostled for position as Viserys emerged, flanked by two goons who were more brawn than brain. Daemon despised them but preferred their company to that of Crispen Cole.

You f*cking coward, Daemon thought, yet no amount of self-deprecation could bring him to face her.

Daemon looked up as Cheese sauntered into the bar later that evening. "Get anything?" he asked, drumming his fingers on the countertop. Cheese twisted his hands together as he ran a shaky hand across his bald head before finally responding.

"She's a tough bitch," he said and then reached over the bar to pour himself a drink. Without looking, he knocked back the amber liquid in one gulp before slamming it back on the counter. Finally, he pulled out a card and handed it to Daemon.

Daemon took it with a forlorn sigh, noting it only had a fake name and Cheese's real number. "I'm flattered, but I prefer a man with hair," Daemon commented with a film of amusem*nt in his eyes.

"As if you could do better. Turn it around, f*cker," Cheese nodded towards the card as he lit a cigarette with steady fingers. The smoke swirled around him like wispy tendrils of fog and Daemon sighed in resignation, flipping it to reveal a symbol he hadn't seen before.

"What's this?" Daemon asked with careful enunciation of the syllables. Daemon peered at the paper, his finger tracing the sloppy lines of ink. The sharp corners and long loops were all too familiar, a reminder of someone he desperately missed. He bit back a wave of longing as he studied her unmistakable penmanship.

Cheese's voice sliced through the air, laced with scepticism. He exhaled a plume of smoke, directing it squarely onto the side of Daemon's cheek. "Probably some gang sign," he mused, eyeing the unfamiliar symbol. "I've never come across it, but if anyone's got the lowdown, it'd be Blood. I'm trying to go clean now."

"Clean?" Daemon scoffed, his derision palpable as he scrutinized Cheese's attempt at a polished appearance, despite the rumpled, subpar quality of the suit. Its lapels bore the scars of wear and tear, and stains marred the fabric's surface. Nevertheless, Cheese strutted about as if he were some sort of celebrity, puffing up his chest with an air of self-importance. The faint remnants of smoke and alcohol adhered to the garment, yet Cheese clung to it as though it were a designer label, ever since Daemon had first brought him into the force.

The NYPD was infested with officials in Daemon's pocket, yet an even greater influx were being swayed by Hightower's currency. This left him with no option but to dispatch a select few of his most faithful and reliable officers to maintain peace. Daemon just hadn't anticipated that 'Garrat Blacktyde' would enjoyit.

Cheese's gaze flickered, a furrow creasing his brow. Daemon could sense the name pressing against his teeth, ready to escape. "Tough as nails though, like I said," Cheese eventually remarked.

The words hung in the air as he paused, then declared, "Certainly more than you." Daemon held his gaze, expecting Cheese to expound. Yet, Cheese remained tight-lipped. At length, Daemon inquired, "What is it?"

Cheese at last tore his eyes away from the ember at the end of his cigarette and spoke, "She knew you'd sent me. She had a message for you too."

The muscles in Daemon's jaw clenched and he felt a sudden surge of adrenaline course through his veins. A split second later, his heart was thumping rigorously in his chest. f*cking traitor, he thought, tapping his palm against the beating organ.He was hesitant to ask, but he couldn't resist the need to know what she had said. "What message?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Cheese took another drag of his cigarette before answering. "Man, I don't know that fancy language," he said, the words coming out slower than usual, punctuated with a hint of nervousness. "Newhor* leer gurennna or some sh*t." He blew a frustrated cloud of smoke, butchering high Valyrian as efficiently as he often butchered Daemon's enemies.

"Ñuhor līr gūrēnna," Daemon repeated with a scoff, looking away. I will take what is mine."That all?"

"Asked her to write it down," Cheese said with a groan. "Your niece is a f*ckin' rude bitch. These Timbers look real to you?"

Daemon reluctantly looked down at the obvious knockoffs, tempted to answer with his fists. "Is that all, or would you like to switch places with Hobbs at the bottom of the ocean?"

Immediately, Cheese began to cough on the fumes of his cig, pounding his large fist into his chest. "f*ck, too soon. Fine. Something like 'door wagon si oceanygon' or some sh*t. I don't know." Daemon couldn't even begin to translate Cheese's awful Valyrian. "Ask her maybe? She said she wants to meet. Alone"

Daemon's hand clenched around the card, his mind racing. He never expected her to forgive him, not after everything that had happened between them. But the thought of seeing her again, of being alone with her, was too much to resist. The only way to overcome obsession was to yield to it. It hadn't worked thus far, but Daemon thought he might try once again.

"When?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion.

"Tonight, tomorrow, didn't say. I didn't ask," Cheese replied with a half-shrug.

"Where?" Daemon snapped impatiently, his voice echoing through the dimly lit room, its walls adorned with vintage posters from a bygone era. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and aged whiskey, swirling around the small space that remained hidden from prying eyes, like a secret oasis in the heart of the city. But instead of an answer, an unexpected sound reverberated against the locked doors, disrupting the hushed ambience. The tapping grew louder. The bar was as hidden as any Speakeasy, and nobody who knew where to find it ever knocked.

Cheese, ever alert, swiftly drew his gun, the click of the safety echoing in the room. His lips clung to the cigarette, inhaling its burning ember until the red tip glowed fiercely. "What a polite little knock," Cheese remarked, his tone laced with a mixture of curiosity and scepticism, as Daemon's eyes remained fixated on the card in his hand. Each detail, each connection, formed a vivid image of her in his mind's eye.

A sudden burst of laughter escaped Daemon's lips, a blend of amusem*nt and anticipation, as he raised his glass to his lips, savouring the last remnants of his drink. Meanwhile, Cheese swung open the door, revealing a scene that sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through Daemon's veins. With the gun pressed against Rhaenyra Targaryen's temple, Cheese's stance exuded a dangerous edge. "Lower the gun," Daemon's voice rang out, a command infused with a lethal undertone, "or I'll have Blood mop up the pieces of you all night." The words lingered in the air, intensifying his own pulse.

"Nice little place you have here," she said, her voice cutting through the tense air like a sharp blade. He heard the distinct sound of her hand smacking the gun away from her head like an annoying fly.

"You had him followed?" Daemon didn't need to ask, he just wanted to talk to her and yet he didn't know what to say.

"Mr Strong owed me a favour," she announced, her voice laced with a tinge of pain as she shrugged, her movements strained yet determined. A slight wince betrayed the difficulty she experienced with every step and gesture. He vaguely recalled the hospital's orders for her to remain bedridden or at least confined to a wheelchair, but here she stood, swatting away guns as if they had no place threatening her.

"Did he?" Daemon's gaze remained averted, his attention seemingly fixated on pouring another glass. Only after he took a sip and steadied himself did he finally turn to face her. She wasn't looking directly at him; instead, a coy smile played on her lips as she directed her attention to Cheese.

"I give mind-shattering org*sms. It's the least he can do," she declared, her words dripping with a boldness that caused Daemon's hand to tighten around his cup, his knuckles whitening as he observed her unabashed flirtation. "Quite a quaint place, uncle. Are you going to pour me a drink?"

"Should I kick her out, boss?" Cheese's tone turned sharp, his usual edge resurfacing.

"She's a Targaryen," Daemon responded with warning.

"Should I escort her," Cheese paused, a smirk tugging at his lips, "politely back home?"

Daemon remained silent, his gaze fixed on the liquid pouring into the second glass, as if seeking solace in the act itself. He observed his own hand, betraying him with its trembling, and swiftly wiped away the moisture that threatened to escape. "I want you to give us some privacy," he finally spoke, his voice tinged with a mix of irritation and resignation. "Guard the door and wallow in shame that you allowed yourself to be followed by a little girl and her pet boyfriend."

"Fair enough," Cheese replied, turning to make his exit. But before he could leave, Daemon's eyes caught the moment when Rhaenyra grabbed hold of his sleeve, holding him back for a fleeting instant.

"Your suit is as cheap as your boots, Mr Blacktyde," she said with a coy smile.

Cheese, undeterred by the insult, responded with a whisper that made Daemon's lip curl in disdain, "Perhaps you could buy me a new one. I'm a much better pet."

"Garrat," Daemon's voice carried a warning, his fingers twitching with the desire to engage in a fight. Recognizing the tone, Cheese swiftly scurried away, like the rat that Daemon knew him to be.

The doors closed, and Rhaenyra's radiant smile faded into a sombre expression. Her neck was concealed by a white wrap, her face partially covered, and she wore long sleeves, as if attempting to hide something beneath. Each step she took seemed laboured, her shoes weighing heavily, as if laden with the weight as she forced herself not to limp. He was standing before he knew what he was standing for, and she sent him a raised brow as though she were unimpressed by him.

"I've got it," she uttered, her voice as dry and grating as nails on a chalkboard. Yet, to Daemon, it was a symphony of beauty, even in its disdain. She mustered the strength to near the barstool and reached for the drink he had poured.

His hand shot out, grasping her wrist, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her black sweater. Desire surged through his veins, scorching his flesh, an undeniable force he couldn't deny. As his gaze locked with hers, he saw only frustration.

"Let go," she commanded, and obediently, he released his grip.

"You said to pour you one, but I'm not about to let you drink it," he responded, his fiery gaze lingering on the bandages adorning her throat. The sight provoked an intense mix of offence and desperation within him. "You are recovering."

"What would you know?" Rhaenyra bit out, silencing him.

In the past, he wouldn't have allowed it, but now he felt like a castrated f*cking dog for the way his throat closed up. His throat constricted, choking on unspoken words. The fragrance of her cherry perfume enveloped the space between them, and it was the sweetest f*cking intoxication that ever entered the bar. Much like that waltz, a lifetime ago, where he had been allowed to publically close the distance between them and detect the maddening scent. He had inhaled it as if it could save his life.

He maintained his distance, though every fibre of his being yearned to bridge the gap, his blood rushing in its predictable course whenever she was near. Downward, when it should have surged upward, reaching his brain. As she reached for the glass, he preemptively seized it, ensuring that their hands did not touch. He could do so little for her, and even this gesture felt woefully insufficient.

"I don't care about my f*cking throat or my voice," she stated, her words strained, punctuated by cracks that tugged at his heart, eliciting an unfamiliar sensation within him.

"Of course you do," he whispered, his hand itching to reach out and touch her face, to make her look at him with the same adoration she once had.

If there existed a more exquisite woman in the world, Daemon had yet to encounter her. In the past, she would flutter her lashes, reducing him to his knees just for the privilege of witnessing her radiant smile. But now, when her gaze met his, he sensed a void, a darkness akin to a black hole or a vacuum. In the past, he might have found satisfaction in extinguishing her light, turning her into his mirror rather than his better.

Instead, throughout her life he had drained her.

And he didn't know how to give back what he had taken.

"So help me, I ask so little of you. Give me the glass." Rhaenyra's voice carried a warning, one that reluctantly compelled him to comply. He relinquished his grip, allowing her to take it from his grasp. In the past, he wouldn't have even flinched as she snatched it away, hurling it with force into the line of expensive, imported liquor bottles before her. The sound of shattering glass rumbled through the air, like a thunderous explosion.

Yet his eyes remained fixed on her, capturing every trace of tension etched upon her face, the prominent vein pulsating on her forehead. Her once flowing locks were now cropped short, forming delicate silver curls that fell just centimetres below her ears. The sight alone caused a sinking sensation to grip his gut.

"Feel better?" Daemon asked slowly, hardly wanting to admit that a part of her scared him, thrilled him, and even her hatred and disappointment were beautiful horrors.

Her intense gaze locked onto his, devoid of any traces of affection. There were times when he secretly wished for her to cast aside her untethered devotion and see him for the twisted monster he truly was. But now, he yearned for that fervent adoration to return.

She emitted a sound, a blend of laughter and a scoff, though it held a tinge of weakness, as if her anger was slowly ebbing away. Though weak was not how I'd ever describe you,he thought.

"I didn't come here for..." Her sentence trailed off, interrupted by a wince that accompanied her effort to settle onto the barstool. Daemon instinctively neared, reaching out to place a hand upon her shoulder, offering support. She froze beneath his touch, her breath brushing against the nape of his neck.

The lightning between them was powerful, radiating and consuming the both of them like a wave. He stepped back ever so slightly, but not too far that he couldn't feel her heat. His fingers itched to roam and explore her body, to bring her closer until there was no air or space between them.

The charged atmosphere cocooned them in a dome of longing, a forbidden connection that only he seemed privy to. Drawing in a deep breath, he fought against his basest instincts, resisting the urge to seize what had not been freely offered. His gaze flickered briefly to her lips, a delicate shade of pale pink tinged with hints of silver, before returning to meet the intensity of Rhaenyra's eyes. He felt like he was staring into his own soul through those eyes, but it couldn't be, since his was dark and cold while hers scorched him.

She opened her mouth to say something but stopped short, shaking her head in frustration before meeting his gaze again. Daemon knew that if she gave him the slightest indication, he would not be able to stop himself from touching her again—not until he had explored every hairsbreadth of her with his hands.

Daemon let go of her slowly, his fingers trailing across her shoulder blade. He felt the heat of her skin through the fabric of her sweater like a burning brand against his flesh. He wanted to pull away, but he found himself unable to, and so he stayed there, hovering over her as if in a trance. But he stayed where he was, letting out a sigh as he stepped back from the danger radiating off of her body. His blood still raced from the touch they shared and the warmth that lingered on his skin. He tried not to show it, but even so, Rhaenyra's gaze softened for just a second before veiling itself once again in anger.

"What did you come here for?" Daemon whispered, softly into the air between them where the space filled with a vacuum of unvoiced musings.

"Business," Rhaenyra replied, her gaze hardening into a glint of steel. Her eyes bore into his, piercing and unwavering. "I want to talk about the Baratheon cargo you had sunk on the day of the Storm's End ball."

Daemon's hand paused mid-reach for his glass, frozen by the intensity of her stare. Across the expanse of the bar, she fixed him with a resolute gaze, her bandaged fingers lingering where his touch had once graced her skin. "I'm not certain what you're alluding to," he responded, his voice carefully measured.

"I've been busy looking into it. I was curious you see, after the first threat on my life. I've been trying to understand why I was being targeted." Rhaenyra explained, her gaze averted as if repulsed by his presence. Daemon's jaw tightened. "You must think I truly know nothing. Such a low opinion of me uncle."

Low opinion? The notion was almost amusing to Daemon. He didn't need her lectures. What he truly desired was for her to unleash her anger, to unleash her fists upon him, anything to rekindle the touch he craved so desperately.

"How long have you and Borros Baratheon been fighting for control over the opioid trade?" Rhaenyra asked over the sound of dripping imports on the dirty floor. Amber streams of liquid cascaded down the jagged edges, tracing intricate paths that merged into a sombre pool on the floor. Each droplet glistened in the dim light, reflecting fractured glass and perhaps broken trust. The air carried the poignant scent of alcohol. "Looks like I know things after all."

Daemon rose from his seat, fingers raking through a tangle of dishevelled silver strands. His touch traced a path of tension through his hair. "How did you find out?"

"Just now," she responded, her words barely above a whisper. "When you told me."

Daemon's gaze snapped back to her, and a low chuckle escaped his lips. He should have been furious that he had just been manipulated into admitting to a crime she had no proof of. He should have been humiliated that he allowed her to extract a confession from him. He should not have been picturing taking her into his arms so he could plaster himself to her, lick the length of her neck, and watch her face explode with ecstasy.

He had gone out of his way throughout the years just to look at her. He often prodded at her just to hear her witty response and intellectual acuity. Daemon didn't give a f*ck whether she dressed like a Malibu Barbie or clad in a sweater and half covered by bandages. Nothing could ever tear his eyes away from her.

"Two years," he admitted, his eyes fixated on the slow descent of his cherished whiskey, its drops trailing down the shelves. "The Baratheons encroached upon our territory, and I couldn't let that slide."

"Of course," she murmured, her gaze averted, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the sticky surface of the bar. Disappointment lingered in her voice, a sensation that grated against his senses.

"I will make them pay," Daemon moved closer, reaching to her, pausing and finally placing his hand on her shoulder. There was remarkably little about Rhaenyra that he did not admire, but nothing more than the genuity of her every honest word. Daemon wanted to collect every single one and bask in them like sunlight.

"No," she breathed heavily, her anger suctioned away until it was nought but kindling. He couldn't decipher the expression on her face, couldn't read her as he might a book, yet he could spend his entire life trying to trace her skin like braille. He wanted to know everything, every word she ever thought. "No. I will make them pay. The Baratheons spent years building up their drug empire. I want to destroy it. But I need you, uncle."

She shrugged off his touch, a gesture that shouldn't have affected him, yet his chest constricted with an unexpected ache.

"Your message," Daemon's voice strained as he inquired, his throat constricting. "Cheese's Valyrian is sh*te. What was it?"

Rhaenyra hesitated, a flicker of volatility crossing her features as she uttered, "Ñuhor līr gūrēnna. Daor jagon se ossȳngon."

I will take what is mine. Everything of yours, belongs to me.

Chapter 27: Our Beating Hearts

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ－Ｓｅｖｅｎ

𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Alicent Hightower never intended for anyone to get hurt. She'd reassure herself of that whenever guilt clung to her skin like a hook at the end of a fisherman's line. She strived to be a good friend, a dutiful daughter, and a loving mother, but what was she to do when each contradicted the other?

She attempted to be all three, stretching herself so thin that no room was left for her bones, muscles, or even a beating heart.

The grass at Dragonstone held no scent. That couldn't be right—surely that meant there was something wrong with her.

Yet, as she stood there, silently observing the ashes spread over the graves of Aemma Targaryen and the child who never made it past infancy, Alicent couldn't breathe. Rhaenyra was the one suffering, so it felt somehow selfish to cry. It even felt selfish to want to cry. It wasn't Alicent's hands that wrapped around the delicate urn, scattering the last of Baelon Targaryen into the sea breeze.

Yet there was a weight that dragged her arms to her sides, as if lifting the very vestiges of Aemma's smile. She watched Rhaenyra nearly lose her grip upon the porcelain lid of Aemma's urn, and Alicent willed her legs to move, yet her muscles were taut and stiff. Just as she felt leaves crunch beneath her heel, Daemon had reached his niece first. His touch was featherlight as he took the lid from Rhaenyra's trembling fingers.

Her father was silent as stone from beside her, and Alicent wondered if for oncetheir thoughts were aligned. She wondered if he too hated himself as vehemently as she did. It was selfish to be so swept in stark grief, reminded of her ownmother.

Alicent's breath caught in her throat as she watched the urn teeter on the brink of falling from Rhaenyra's grasp. She reached out to help, though when Otto placed a restraining hand upon her arm, she wilted like petals under the summer sun. She heard Otto sharply inhale beside her, and felt his fingers dig into her elbow, halting all movement. Rhaenyra managed to keep hold of the urn and moved forward a few steps until she stood in the centre of the circle. Alicent watched as she slowly tipped it over, her throat constricting at the sight of the ashes spilling from the vase into ground—the remains of a woman who was more of a mother to Alicent than her own ever had been.

Not that she had the chance.

It's over, Alicent thought, yet there was no relief to be found when Rhaenyra set the urn atop the grass.

Viserys Targaryen's departure was a whimper in the wind. Alicent proceeded toward Rhaenyra, as if she were attempting to provide consolation the way sisters do. As if she hadn't spent most of their relationship filled with jealousy and resentment.

Otto Hightower clamped his hand onto Alicent's arm with sudden ferocity. His fingers dug hard and deep into her flesh, communicating an insistent message before he even said it. He wanted her to go to Viserys, to soothe him in any way she could.

He looked at her with an intensity that made her stomach clench, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Go,” he said. She wanted to argue back, but he'd always had power over her limbs and her life. She could feel the urgency of his words as she reluctantly turned and left.

The sun melted into the horizon, bleeding crimson and orange light across the sky. Alicent almost forgot where she was going. For just a few moments, she walked beneath the tree line and watched as the world turned to gold and copper and bronze in the slowly purpling twilight. A thick fog rolled over the earth, covering the land with a slitted veil of white that would only lift for brief moments as wispy clouds passed overhead. It was like watching pink ghost dragons fly across a violet-reddening sky.

For just a few moments, walking in the fading light, allowed her to forget what was happening around her—the funeral procession, Rhaenyra's unshed tears, and Viserys' anger.

But when an orange hue kissed against the horizon and the stars began to flicker over Dragonstone's cliffsides like fireflies in the summertime, reality sank back in with a heavy thud in Alicent's stomach. She didn'twant to do this. She wantedto be with Rhaenyra.

Yet, maybe Alicent Hightower did not want it enough—at the very least, she accepted that the hold her father had over her had always surpassed the love that sunk in her heart.

She didn't have a heart.

She was a greedy and envious and ugly thing, warped and filthy.

She wove her way through the thicket of tall grass, her high-heeled shoes leaving small craters in the soft dirt. With effort, she tore her gaze away from her feet and towards the fading sky, a blanket of emerging stars shining lowly in the light. It made her feel like an outsider, forcing her way into a family that was not her own.

It made her feel like a Cuckoo bird, tossing out the young from their nests so she might take their place. She was nearing the cliff edge when she heard his first hollow and repressed sob. She trailed her gaze up, forcing it away from the tips of her toes.

Up and up and up, till she reached black pantlegs. Up and up, till she reached the iron-pressed suit. Up and up, till she reached Viserys Targaryen.

She'd never seen him like this before—his face turned away from the assembly of family and friends. He was silhouetted by the sun, which should have made him look grand and powerful but instead only accentuated his loneliness and despair as if each sunbeam drew attention to his pain without giving any respite.

Alicent walked towards him slowly, feeling every single blade of grass brush against her feet as if each one was a wave lapping against the shore of her sorrow. Her heart beat as if it had been replaced by an hourglass, and she felt every precious moment ticking away.

Viserys seemed to be in his own world, yet Alicent could tell that he still knew she was there, so she took one more step forward and extended her hand. It was trembling, and she couldn't allow that so she willed her flesh motionless. The nails of her other hand dug so tightly into the heel of her palm that she could feel the blood against her fingertips.

The hand she offered stilled, yet, he didn't take it right away, though eventually his fingers touched hers and he grabbed on tightly. His eyes, however, betrayed a profound emptiness, like a soul drained of all life. His lips parted as if he intended to speak, but instead, all that escaped was a desperate gasp followed by a series of deep, shuddering breaths.

"The urn should have been golden," Viserys whispered, his voice blanketing the creeping fog. Alicent felt the trembling of his hand, so she gripped him tighter—forcing away her own grief. "I couldn't bear to choose the colour. How does one pick something that is to hold their soul?"

"She wouldn't have minded the silver," Alicent said, finding it difficult to picture Aemma complaining about something so frivolous.

"It should have been gold," Viserys repeated, his other palm raising to his eyes to conceal whatever passed there. Yet Alicent remembered the amount of people staring at her during her own mother's funeral. Alicent remembered the dirt covering the casket and the rain drenching the leaves not much later.

A part of her stayed buried under that mud, and no amount of digging would bring that part back.

And everyone kept staringand asking if she was okay, so Alicent Hightower refused to ask the same now.

She was a dead girl and all she could do was haunt, not comfort a grieving man.

A juniper tree rustled from her left, a whisper of pointed needles that fell to her feet. She practically felt her father's pointed remark with every rustling needle. Just say something,he would say.

"You took her home," Alicent said softly, wondering if she was already doing this poorly. "Gold or red or black. The colours don't matter. She's home."

His shoulders were silently shaking, the family and friends and strangers around them kept their distance, ushered away until it was just them on the hillside. Alicent watched the waves lap against the rocky cliffs, clutching the hand of a man not so unlike her own father.

The ocean was an extraordinary beast, serine when the waters were still, yet ferocious in its rippling tides. Alicent didn't belong here—neither a daughter or a lover or a friend.

Yet she felt her dad's hand, like a phantom, pushing her closer and closer off the edge. "Keep him company," Otto had ordered that morning.

"In what regard?" Alicent had asked, and she remembered the way his eyes meticulously examined the chestnut curls of her hair. She had watched him from through her vanity mirror, her heart leaping up and down her throat as she tried to conceal the dark circles from beneath her eyes.

"In any regard that suits him," Otto whispered, uncomfortable, yet demanding. "From here on out."

Alicent tried to shake the revulsion away, tried to build shutters over her eyes so she didn't have to see her feet shuffling closer to the edge of the cliff. She loosened her grip on Viserys' hand, scooting nearer until she could feel the heat of his flesh against her arm. "Do you want me to go?" She asked, yet was begging him to release her, to send her away.

"Stay," he said, gripping her hand. "At least until the sun sets."

Two Days Before the Fire

The sun had set many times since then, yet Alicent never strayed. She loved Viserys like a father—that was why it was disgusting to see desire reflected in his eyes just before he had leaned in to kiss her. She closed them, her body numb to sensation, just as it had been for many years. She tried to picture a different set of lips, ones that were not shaking with the craving for a ghost.

"Aemma," he had whispered in her ear just last night. Alicent doubted he was even aware he had done it, yet the tremor haunted her when she awoke.

"Have you talked to him?" her father asked, his hands resting against his knees, lips pursed in a tight frown. Rarely did she see Otto Hightower smile, and certainly not during their little meetings over the tea that she'd prepare.

"What more is there to say?" Alicent pressed her palm against her swelling belly, begging for a kick just to feel something again. However, it was still and as dry as dirt from beneath her fingers.

"Perhaps that Rhaenyra is an irresponsible child, unfit for leadership?" Otto suggested, raising the cup to his lips. There were normally birds singing from through the curtains, but her father had closed all the windows upon arriving. Usually, the birds would dispel her anxiety, filling the space with a calming ambience.

She heard nothing but the drumming of her own heart, lost in her ears. "She's not—"

Alicent didn't know how to refute it. Her father responded only to facts, and the fact was that all Rhaenyra Targaryen had done since becoming heir was scandal after scandal. Lately, Alicent could barely distinguish Rhaenyra from her uncle. Lately, Alicent could barely look at her.

Daemon is a monster,Alicent thought, reminding herself of the severed hand he had sent to her when she was just a child. Rhaenyra would never do that.

Would she not? Alicent did not know anymore.

"She's trying to do better," Alicent said softly, her voice strained and weak. Yet there was a bitterness that was clawing its way through when she remembered the magazines, stacked high on Viserys's desk, all detailing her many horrid exploits. Yet, Viserys never reigned his daughter in—in fact, all he could talk about was her.He barely paid Aemond and Aegon attention—it was always Rhaenyra.

And now, all Alicent's own father could talk about was her.

"Aegon's lessons have already begun. By 18, he'll be more ready than Rhaenyra ever would be. You know it," Otto said with a casual sigh, as though it were Alicent who was being unreasonable.

And he was quite talented at making her feel obstinate.

"Aegon is only five. Aemond barely 2," Alicent reminded, her gut churning with anxiety.

Otto let out a long sigh, now standing from his seat to turn his back to her. She could see his weary limbs, clinging to his sides. Where he showed strength to others, Alicent saw the cracks of her own father, not that they softened him. "We were once on the same side."

"She would do well. And she's the rightful heir. What am I to do? Spread lies and turn my husband against his own daughter all because she might be as vicious as her uncle?" Alicent shook her head, her hand flying to meet her temples as her body strained with an oncoming migraine.

"You don't know what I know," Otto said softly, his voice breaking with an emotion Alicent couldn't read. He seemed decidedly not himself, which had her concern rise in her lungs like crashing waves of water, tugging her under. His suit had been neatly pressed, but was rumpled and the ends frayed, as if one too many creases had been added, and he hadn't bothered to straighten them out.

Being in the half-lit shadows of the drapes was likely a deliberate choice. Otto Hightower had always been one to brood and rather than face his daughter, so he had chosen to cross his arms and hide his face. But he was still there, in the space between the kitchen and the living room, avoiding the light of the window.

"And what is that?" Alicent began, and he nearly looked ready to say it when the sound of doors opening, shattered the ravine and sanctuary that they had made.

Aegon's pattering steps filled the space, and he came running, only stopping when he collided with her legs. "Mummy, Dad got me a new dragon!"

Her son was strong for his age, but his small arms wrapped around her, his face buried in her skirt. Her fingers stroked the top of his hair, soft and fine like silk. He smells of clover and salt, she thinks.

"It's already broken," Alicent said, kneeling down to examine the plastic dragon he had clutched in his left hand. Its wing was fisted in his other fist, but she could see the half-obstructed view of red scales, peeking out at her from her son's fingers.

The plastic red dragon had a wing that twisted at odd angles, thanks to her son's rough handling. It made her wonder how many times he'd crash-landed it before, or how many times he made it soar into the sky. The other wing wasn't attached to the scaly, red body, slender neck, and winged torso that seemed almost fragile.

"Super glue it!" Aegon ordered, his wide eyes staring up at her.

Otto placed his warm hand on the centre of her back, and for a moment she felt almost loved. He smelled like nothing, not perfume nor cologne, just like clean fabric. It smelled of the clothes he wore. Before she could bask in the rarety and warmth of the touch, he had removed it, walking out to talk business with Viserys.

Alicent kept herself busy, even when Aegon's attention became suffocating from beneath his insistent demands. After she superglued his dragon back together, he snatched it from her hands, demanding attention, demanding food, demanding her to fix his toy again when he broke the other wing—demanding,demanding, demanding.

As Liza finally entered the room, having attended to Aemond, Aegon's face lit up with a warmth Alicent rarely witnessed directed towards herself. He rushed to Liza, embracing her in a manner far gentler and less suffocating than the attention he usually bestowed on his own mother.

"Aemond is taking a nap," Liza informed, sweeping a lock of dark hair behind her ear as she effortlessly lifted Aegon onto her hip. He giggled with delight, urging her to repeat the action, and she complied without hesitation.

Exhaustion settled heavily on Alicent's shoulders, mingling with an unexpected pang of jealousy towards the affection Aegon readily gave his au pair. It felt ludicrous to experience both sentiments simultaneously.

Twice now, she'd overheard her son refer to this woman as 'mum'. Each instance cut through her like a shard of glass, but Alicent masked her emotions, busying herself by washing her hands. She kept her back turned to them, shielding the turmoil that briefly contorted her features. She could only conceal her distress as she examined her gnawed and unsightly nails from over the steady flow of water. Hastily wiping away an errant tear, she turned back to Liza, offering a smile that was just a touch too forced to be genuine.

"Did you happen to see where my father and husband went?" Alicent's voice held a hint of strain, her eyes tinged with a mixture of exhaustion and a twinge of envy as she observed her son's affection for the au pair.

"I believe Mr. Hightower headed to the second-floor library," Liza replied, her laughter bubbling forth when Aegon playfully tugged her hair. She guided him to the table, settling him into a high chair. Her voice, light and warm as molasses, was directed at the boy. "Now, if you stay here, I'll make you your favourite meal. Do we have a deal?"

"Alright, okay," Aegon chirped, and Alicent's heart ached, that irrational pang of jealousy mixing with her own exhaustion. She hesitated at the doorway, torn between wanting to stay and learn her son's favourite meal and feeling the need to retreat.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was raw and weary. "Thank you, Liza," she managed before she turned and left the kitchen.

As she ascended the stairs, her swollen belly strained with every step. One hand clutched the bannister for support, while the other wrapped protectively around her burgeoning midsection. Her fingers tensed with every step, nails biting into her palms, and her sore feet protested the journey.

She passed by numerous unfamiliar, closed doors and walls that had once been adorned with Targaryen art, were now stripped bare. Rhaenyra may have been furious about the idols and paintings being taken down, but it wasn't Rhaenyra who had to live amongst them. It wasn't Rhaenyra who had to gaze at the paintings Aemma Targaryen had cherished, admire the artistry and brushstrokes, and then seek solace beneath the heavy blankets of her marriage bed.

She hesitated outside Viserys' study, feeling wretched and repugnant as she leaned her forehead against the door. It was a brief respite before she realized that all was quiet beyond. The cool wood provided a welcome contrast against her feverish skin, and she lingered there for a moment longer.

"Curious to know what's being discussed, Mrs. Targaryen?" a voice inquired from behind, jolting Alicent out of her reverie. Her back stiffened, and she tore herself away from the door with such force that she nearly stumbled.

A man she vaguely recognized stood there, one side hunched, his weight braced on a cane. His hair, long and wiry, was bundled and tied at the nape of his neck. He might have been tall, were it not for the curve of his back, and he might have been considered handsome, but for his lanky frame and the hollows of his cheeks.

Alicent could never quite distinguish the physical resemblances between Larys Strong and his brother, Harwin, even if they stood side by side. As Viserys' assistant, Larys had mirrored her husband's every move for as long as Alicent could remember. Yet, even as a girl, she'd never held much regard for him.

"Excuse me?" Alicent's voice barely carried a whisper as she edged away from the door, her moves attempting to cloak her own actions.

"It's alright to be curious," Larys said, a fleeting smile gracing his lips before it dissolved into an inscrutable expression. She noted the distinct stubble on his face as well as the bags under his eyes that seemed permanently embroidered into the fabric of his skin.

In all honesty, Larys Strong seemed like a weak and fragile man, but Alicent had always been somewhat scared of him.

"I was just looking to—" Alicent pauses, her words stumbling where her feet had not. The soft glow of chandeliers overhead cast a warm, golden hue that danced upon the polished marble floor, and his show seemed to loom much larger than his figure suggested.

"Looking to know what sort of council Mr Hightower has come to impart?" Larys insinuated, inclining his head towards the room adjacent to her husband's study. "I often work here, and I've become accustomed to the walls."

She observed his halting progress towards the door, relying on his cane for support with every laborious step. Astonishingly, he moved with a stealth that belied his apparent difficulty, his feet gliding soundlessly over the floor, expertly avoiding the creaking panels of wood. This subtlety might have escaped her notice in the past, but she had grown accustomed to the measured movements of those around her, treating her like a delicate glass figurine.

From the recesses of his coat pocket, he produced a key, the subtle jingle reaching her ears before she registered the distinct click of the lock turning. The door swung open without a whisper, and he gestured for her to join him inside, not bothering to illuminate the room.

Alicent clenched her teeth, her gaze darting left and right before she mirrored his movements into the enveloping darkness of his office. He uttered no words, and his movements remained as elusive as his breath. She held her tongue as she closed the door, her other hand pressing against her stomach, her senses heightened as she finally felt the rasp of his calloused hands on her arm, guiding her forward with a touch so delicate it sent shivers down her spine.

They approached his desk, a mere silhouette in the dim light seeping through the nearly closed curtains. She mustered the will to speak, but her voice fell silent as the unmistakable timbre of her father's voice reached her ears.

"I realize the news isn't pleasant," Otto Hightower said, and Alicent instinctively gravitated towards Larys as he shifted a picture frame, exposing a vent in the wall that offered a direct passage to Viserys's study.

"Pleasant?" Viserys erupted into a spurt of hysterical laughter. "It's absurd! You dare accuse my daughter of such filth?"

"I do so with a heavy heart," Otto replied, and Alicent detected an unprecedented sincerity in her father's voice. "I wish it were not true."

"Your little spies have lied to you," Viserys thundered, the force of his anger sending shockwaves through the room. Alicent, on the verge of retreat, halted as she sensed Larys's steadying touch at the small of her back. It provided no solace, yet she hesitated to ask him to withdraw it.

"I assure you," Otto responded with deliberate care, his voice now gentle, though Alicent discerned a subtle quiver in his words before repeating, "I wish it were not true."

"Have you grown so dissatisfied with your position that you must send your little mice to follow my daughter?" Viserys's voice boomed with anger, the intensity of his emotions palpable even through the vents.

"It was not Rhaenyra who they watch," Otto pressed on, his own reluctance apparent. He had drawn nearer to the vent, his movements purposeful, undeterred by his own reservations. "Whether Daemon seduced her—"

Viserys let out a disbelieving, harsh noise that sent shockwaves through Alicent. She turned to glance at the silhouette of Larys's face, only to find an expression entirely foreign to her. He was a stranger beside her, though he held her arm as if she were a friend. Yet Alicent did not have friends, so she tore it away, using the wall to support herself as her throat filled with acid.

"He is her uncle," Viserys shouted, the impact of his words accentuated by the resounding thuds of his fists against the desk, the sound reverberating through the walls. "And these are vile and disgusting allegations. I will not have them."

"And I would never lie to you," Otto asserted, his composed demeanour a stark contrast to Viserys's seething rage.

"Get out!" Viserys bellowed, his fists hammering against the desk once more. "If I hear these words again, I will see every root and seed you built in this business, destroyed. Get out."

"As you wish," Otto conceded in a hushed tone. Alicent leaned her forehead against the cool wood, absorbing the subsequent click and slam of the door. She tracked her father's receding footsteps down the hall, keenly aware of Larys's presence beside her.

The silence closed in around her, a familiar shroud that had long been her companion, though tonight it felt more suffocating than ever. It's not true. Viserys knows it's not,she reassured herself, but then the creak of the chair emanated from his office, signalling her husband's collapse into it.

Alicent was at a loss for what to believe when she heard the first tremor of sobs.

During the hour-and-a-half phone call with her father, Rhaenyra chose not to bring up the nightmares.

In the midst of stilted small talk and even more stilted business discussions, they managed to sketch out plans for the upcoming tower. As the call concluded, she had just nestled into her mattress, positioned towards the door, doing her best to disregard the way every motion seemed to set her blood ablaze with an encroaching ache.

And she couldn't f*cking sleep.

When she mustered the courage to shut her eyes, the same haunting images awaited her, replaying in an unending loop. Smog would fill her lungs, pressing her down, her fingers desperately clutching the sharp edges of shattered glass as she fought for breath.

In those moments, she'd remind herself,No one is coming to save you. So get the f*ck up.

The metallic tang of sweat and blood mingled in a nauseating fusion, her fingers clawing at the tattooed man's face with an almost feral desperation. It wasn't long before one of her hands found a jagged shard on the ground.

The sting would linger in her throat long after she woke, a haze of delirium enveloping her as she clutched her stomach.

She could have confided in her father about it, but her lips remained silent, incapable of uttering the words.

As the nights dragged on, Rhaenyra's mind became a turbulent whirlwind of unsettling thoughts she couldn't dispel. She shifted and rolled in her bed, her sheets coiling around her legs. The pain that had tormented her throughout the day had now surged, and she felt as if she were slowly being torn apart from the inside out.

In her mind, she envisioned a looming figure, its visage contorted into a grotesque mask. Hollow, ebony eyes stared back at her, its touch on her skin akin to the sting of razor blades. She struggled to scream, but her voice was imprisoned within her. The figure drew closer, its breath searing and foul against her face, until it vanished.

When she awakened, the loft was deserted. She would squeeze her eyes shut once more, only to realize she was still ensnared in slumber—and the loft was engulfed in flames. Rhaenyra existed in a state of perpetual exhaustion, and hunger gnawed at her insides. Yet, the moment she attempted to eat, she'd find herself with her head over the toilet bowl, retching and dry heaving.

In the fragile intervals between the endless nights, she'd gradually regain consciousness, sometimes even attaining a semblance of coherence. She'd recognize, at least, that this was not her loft. Her sanctuary had been reduced to smouldering ruins, taking a part of her with it. What had risen from those ashes was something raw and furious and ugly, prompting her to shroud the mirrors in her penthouse.

Even the sight of her stainless steel fridge in the kitchen could incite a crippling panic attack. So, Rhaenyra did not eat.

In her moments of clarity, she immersed herself in paperwork, her eyes stinging with exhaustion as she absorbed contract after contract. One phone call after another, she pressed on, determined to ignore more empty silences in between what her father wanted to say.

Rhaenyra wandered through her penthouse like a spectre—a resentful one, at that. As she applied makeup, her fingers brushed over the scars on her neck, sending shivers of discomfort through her. The weariness settled in from her father's calls, his attempts to downplay the severity, reassuring her they were healing nicely.

Each button of her shirt was meticulously fastened, every inch of skin concealed, though the friction against her neck sent sharp jolts through her already frayed nerves. Without a mirror, every task became a challenge, but Rhaenyra managed.

That evening, her phone vibrated insistently on her desk, but she simply observed it dancing across the wood, reclining against her chair and registering the creak it emitted under her weight. It buzzed again, paused, then repeated the cycle before she finally extended her hand towards it.

She recognized the number since it had become a persistent presence recently. Yet, the mere sound of Daemon's voice had the power to shatter her resolve, much like it almost had in that bar last week. A touch from him and it was as though the clock had been reversed, and she was back to needing him.

"You don't need anyone," Laena's words echoed in her mind, but the reality was far from that. Rhaenyra wasn't that brave or that strong, and despite the warning shouting in her head, her flesh was weak. Even his timid breath against her cheek had her nearly undone.

Laena was the strong one and at times, Rhaenyra envied her cousin so greatly that she nearly hated her. She might have if only Rhaenyra hadn't loved Laena so much.

Her phone rumbled again.

Rhaenyra couldn't indefinitely avoid him, especially when he seemed to find a way to reach her despite her attempts to block him. She lifted the phone to her ear with deliberate slowness, closing her eyes as she heard his breath on the other line.

"Does this mean your silence is at an end?" Daemon's voice reached her ears, prompting a surge of almost instinctual frustration. Yet, she knew hanging up would be both childish and spiteful.

"I thought you said tomorrow," she said, rising from her seat to peer out from the window. From down below, she was unsurprised to see him leaning against his car, parked illegally at the curb.

She and Daemon had planned a visit to the docks east of the Hudson, where Borros Baratheon has been settling his shipments of illegal contraband for the last six years.While her uncle had sabotaged his shipments during the masquerade, he also intended to set ablaze the warehouses where those ships were offloaded. It was an ostentatious and violent plan, one that Rhaenyra viewed as shortsighted and reckless.

"The shipments are coming today,"Daemon responded promptly. She observed as his head lifted, and despite the distance, Rhaenyra felt her heart plummet. She forcefully reeled it back in, forcing a humourless smile to her lips.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

Perhaps if she repeated it enough, it might eventually manifest as truth.

"So can I come up?" There was an undertone of a smile in his voice, and she certainly did not welcome it. It certainly did not make her heart lurch downward again.

"I won't be long," she said quickly, her voice stiff and without any of old Rhaenyra's weakness. That girl was burned out of her.

"It's about to rain," Daemon's voice held a gentle note.

"You have an umbrella,"she retorted, distancing herself from the window. His chuckle resonated through the line, causing her muscles to tense, as her every fibre still responded to his very presence.

"It's cold," he persisted.

"You have a coat," she fired back, resuming her place at the vanity. She deftly picked up the eyeliner pencil and began sketching along her upper lid, following the line of her eye with a steady hand to create a sharp wing. Each time her hand wavered, she took a deep breath and clenched her jaw until her hand steadied again.

"Maybe I miss you," he whispered, and her hand trembled, causing the liner to veer off course and mark her cheek. The sensation brought with it a wave of unsettling déjà vu. There used to be wind in the background, but now the other end of the line was quiet, eerily still.

"You're such a liar," she remarked with precision, reaching for a small cotton ball and dipping it in a small amount of makeup remover. She meticulously erased her mistake, a task made challenging without the aid of a mirror. Fortunately, years of practice had ingrained the motions into muscle memory.

In another life, she might have been hailed as a makeup guru.

Instead, she was a sick and ruined heiress.

Daemon had ended the call, but she paid it no mind, engrossed in her reapplication. Then, a small beep resonated from her security system. It shouldn't have sent her entire body into a tense lock, and she wished she were the type to instinctively reach for her pocket knife, to be a fighter. But Rhaenyra was who she was. Her breath escaped in rapid, shallow puffs, much like the wind buffeting against the glass of a moving car. She rose, the chair tipping over as she heard the approaching footsteps.

Finally, she grasped the knife as she sprinted for her bedroom door, slamming it shut and swiftly locking it.

"What a warm welcome," Daemon's voice echoed through the wood. It should have brought a sense of reassurance, but her heart was still illogical and racing as she pressed her forehead against the door. "Rhaenyra?"

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

It wasn't true. She just didn't want him to see her like this. She couldn't be ugly andbroken.

"It wasn't a lie," he insisted, and she sensed his weight against the door. The thud of his head against the wood merged with the cacophony of her own hyperventilating pants. If only she could steady herself enough to discern his breaths too.

"You dohave a key," she murmured softly, eliciting a chuckle from him, a sound laced with echoes of old memories.

"It was my guys who installed your security system," Daemon confessed, and she fought the urge to swing the door open and deliver a punch to his gut. She might have, but she was still mastering the art of controlled breathing. "Who do you think hired the doorman and your concierge? Critical thinking, Rhaenyra."

"I hate you." Her words held no fire, for all the warmth had seeped into her burns, stoking them in phantom pain.

"I know," his voice was a gentle, soothing caress, but it would take more than his tenderness to unravel the knot that had formed in her throat. "Do you want me to go alone?"

Her muscles coiled, and she unlocked the door, yanking it open. Daemon was there, leaning against the wall to her right. The instant she appeared in the doorway, he straightened. He raised his hands in surrender, but it did little to quell her rising temper.

"I came here for independence," Rhaenyra snapped, a surge of frustration making her crave destruction. She yearned to shatter the windows.

Daemon regarded her, looking down from over his nose. Though it was an insult, the resemblance to her father cut deeper. "You were never going to get that. If you thought otherwise, then I underestimated your delusions."

She stormed past him, her hands bracing against the couch. "Give me the key."

"It won't matter. You're a Targaryen. Any chance of independence was burned away with your loft," he said gently, but despite the softness in his tone, his words stung and left a lump in her throat. She didn't respond, but a surge of hurt pulsed down her spine in waves. "I didn't mean-"

"It doesn't matter,"she cut in, her voice vacuumed of emotion. Her heart clenched, fighting against the burn at the edges of her eyes. "No need to reschedule. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can go back to your life and I back to mine."

She heard him behind her, lifting the chair she had knocked over in her room. When she turned back around, she saw his fingers skimming over the covered mirror, only for them to drop back to his side, curling into a fist. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I don't care what you meant anymore," she retorted, slipping on her shoes. "I'll hire my own staff in the morning. I don't need you anymore, uncle."

Her words seemed to incite him, but whatever he might have said, he swallowed it down. "As you wish. Taking care of you is hardly an easy job, so maybe it's best you start looking after yourself."

She sneered, crossing her arms. "Even when we agree, you're still such an arsehole. Let's go, we can take separate cars."

"Or you can quit your tantrum, swallow your pride, and ride with me."

She was going to murder him. She was going to hate-f*ck him. She didn't know which one.

"Mytantrum? My pride?" Rhaenyra's voice broke, cutting out like a strained and out-of-tune note. "You arrogant, narcissistic piece of sh*te." She took a step closer, jabbing him low in the stomach and forcing him to take a step back. "What the hell is your problem? You came up here just to insult me?"

"You've done nothing but insult me—joining forces with Otto just to undermine me. Throwing baseless accusations. Blocking me," he said. She stared into his eyes, not flinching from the venom in his voice. He paused and ran his hands through his hair, hesitating as though searching for more words. She could see the emotion in his nerves twitching in his jaw, as though he wanted desperately to say something else—but instead he said, "We don't have time to argue."

She wanted to make time. She wanted more than she should.

She could feel her cheeks reddening and the heat radiating from her neck. Her palms were clammy and she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to conceal a shiver. “We’ll take one car, okay?” she agreed in an unsteady whisper. "We will take one car, sit in awkward silence, and get this over with."

As their eyes met, they both knew that this would be an uncomfortable, silent ride.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to fight. She wanted him to fight forher.

She had begun collecting 'wants' as frivolously as wishes, but nothing came from wishing.

Daemon was well aware that he was being a c*nt.

Perhaps he deserved the silence that fell upon the car. He did deserve it.

It was the silence of accusation. Daemon began to tap his fingers against the steering wheel as if he had done something wrong. Which, in a way, he had. Maybe he did hate her. And maybe she hated him too.

The cityscape passed by in a wash of colours outside the windows as they made their way through Sunday traffic, the only sound coming from the engine and the occasional honking horn that had their already awkward air extended like bad home renovations. The car seemed to lurch forward in a virtual vacuum, the only sound being the rattle of Rhaenyra's teeth. He should have apologised, but Daemon did not know how.

How could he think about wrapping his arms around her when she hadn't wrapped hers around him?

He trained his gaze on her without calling attention to himself, noticing every detail. Her strong jawline and pursed lips were set in concentration as she scrolled through her phone. She wore an immaculately pressed black pantsuit which hugged her toned legs and complemented the high-collared turtleneck that framed her neck. He fantasized about undoing the buttons, tracing her soft skin, and planting sweet kisses over every scar and marking.

"I'm an arsehole," he said into the quiet, hearing her snort of agreement. Normally, she'd reply with a snippy remark, but her lack of answer stretched for consecutive seconds instead. "You don't have to cover the mirrors.

She didn't look up, arms crossed tightly as she glared at her phone. “You don’t have to talk,” she said bitterly, her voice vibrating with anger. "You excel at that."

He sighed and brushed his fingers through his hair before finally responding. “I excel at doing the opposite of what you want,” he murmured softly. She scrunched her mouth in disgust but he continued, “You don’t have to cover them up, but I understand why you do.”

He didn’t know how to tell her that she came out of the fire more beautiful and more vibrant. He didn’t know how to tell her that she only needed to remove the sheets and towels to see that she wasn’t ‘ruined’.

"How much longer until we get there?" She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing as the seconds ticked by without a response. With a sigh, she took out her phone and opened up Google Maps. She zoomed in and studied the navigation line that stretched ahead of them like an uncertain future.

He glanced at behind him in the rearview mirror and grumbled, "He will still be there until Borros shows up in an hour. In the meantime, relax." Without warning, he steered the car to the narrower shoulder of the highway, swerving away from an oncoming vehicle that had grown too close before he cut off a blue Toyota Corolla.

Rhaenyra whipped her body around to face him, her eyes narrowed and shone with anger like two hot coals. Her lips pressed together in a tight line as she spoke. “Relax? How am I supposed to relax when you suddenlywant to talk about feelings?" She practically spits out the word, motioning air quotes with her hands. "You want me to talk to you? Fine. This," she said, circling a finger around her face where she attempted to hide the burns beneath her makeup, "This is your fault. I don't want empty words. I want the empire that belongs to me. I want the foundations beneath your feet. I want youto back off."

Daemon never had the proper reactions to her, and perhaps her promise to take all that he built should not have been so attractive. As it was, all he could picture was giving it all to her—which was irrational and counterproductive. He shook his head and clenched his fists, willing the irrational thoughts to flee from his mind as quickly and quietly as a fly escaping through an open window.

"You are the one who said you needed me," he retaliated, watching her pause.

The car slowed near the wharf and, without waiting for the car to come to a complete stop, she shoved the door open, hopping out onto the pavement. Her voice carried through the open air as she spat back at him, "We're here. Park and act like an uncle instead of a dick." Without waiting to see if he followed suit, she slammed it shut like a Neanderthal.

"Typical," he grumbled under his breath as he steered his car until it was sandwiched between a wall made of jagged red bricks and a gnarled shrub. He felt the salty ocean breeze and the high-pitched sounds of seagulls that filled the sky. In a few long strides, he had reached Rhaenyra's side and gripped her elbow firmly in his hand. "Act like your father's daughter and not some spoiled party girl."

A faint smile crossed her lips, barely concealing the disappointment in her voice. "Real nice," she said, though an awkwardness lingered between them. She crossed her arms and looked away before asking, "Why did they change the date?"

"Your new partner Otto has been looking into moving in. Seems he's been sweet-talking Borros into signing a new deal." They stood atop a rocky cliff, overlooking the frothy sea below and the sun setting on the horizon. But nothing could hide the heat radiating from her body as she stood close to him. His heart raced as he felt her every move and breath next to him; he was so distracted that he barely noticed the salt on his lips from the incoming breeze. "I thought it best we do this sooner rather than later."

It was a simple bribe—since it was difficult to import drugs when the harbour bans Hightower and Baratheon reentry.

Daemon had sunk Borros' ships during his party, not expecting any sort of alliance between his enemies. But Otto, with his contacts as Viserys's number two, had cultivated an extensive list of spies that Daemon hadn't expected. By doing so, he managed to spread his dirty hands into the drug trade, something that had always belonged to Daemon and the Velaryons—or recently the Baratheons.

Rhaenyra had no business interfering, but Daemon couldn't say no to her.

He had never been able to refuse her.

Rhaenyra leaned in close enough to whisper, her arm coming up to wrap around his rigid body in what could have looked like an awkward embrace. She spoke quietly, her voice firm but gentle. “He’s not my partner," she said carefully, her voice wavering only slightly. "I wasn't against you in that meeting—believe it or not, I was trying to help you."

Daemon's voice was clipped as they approached the warehouse doors, where three hulking men blocked their way. He glanced sideways at Rhaenyra and added sarcastically, "It would have been helpful if you had stabbed the fountain pen in his jugular," he said with a flick of his wrist as if thrusting an invisible knife through the air.

"I was wearing Chanel," she dryly stated.

"I would have bought you a new one," he answered, nodding at the men who promptly opened the doors.

"How generous," she said in an unamused monotone, her voice lowering to a whisper as they walked inside. "You must offer gifts to all your lovers."Her Valyrian was familiar and sensual, and it had him nearly tempted to drag her back to his car so he could taste every syllable in exquisite detail with his tongue.

The inside was humid and damp, loud with metallic clangs, the sound of crashing metal against metal. The warehouse was not as dirty as he might have assumed. The windows had been cleaned recently, the lighting was soft and the facility was well-lit. A whiff of marijuana smoke wafted through the air, but there was also a bitter residue of cocaine that left an acetous taste in the back of Daemon's throat, much like nicotine.

The warehouse was usually stocked with crates of cocaine, and it was a familiar, sticky and powdery substance that stuck to the hand when touched. Yet the warehouse was nearly wiped clean of it.

"Only for family." His fingers stroked the covered flesh of her arm, wishing to caress them under every fibre of cotton and silk. He needed her curled up beside his ears and whispering in Valyrian, where she smelled of backyard gardens and Vogue perfume. He wanted to pad his hands over her, remove her suit, and feel each and every imperfection.

He doubted he'd see flaws—blind as he was to them.

The interior grew dark, dank, and dirty as they walked inside, noting moisture from the walls and the ceilings that dripped onto the floor, which was cracked and flaky. The place stank of sweat, blood, dirt, and oil as they approached. The air was stale, hard to swallow, like oil-coated cotton.

"You're punctual," A man greeted, not bothering to look up as he continued hammering nails into a wooden chair. They were faced up and rusted as if they had been exposed to every weather element in existence.

Dalton Greyjoy's hair was a wild mane of wet, red strands clinging to his head, while his eyes were grey like wet stone. His body was as thin as a sapling until Daemon's eyes had reached the flexing of his gigantic biceps.

Greyjoy's hair was greasy, hanging over his face like a dark, gnarled shadow. His fingers, thick and calloused, twist the hammer effortlessly as he strikes with each swing. The whistle of air-dried wood bending to his will was all that could be heard over the sound of the cars outside.

"I wasn't aware this was a bad time," Daemon said with a slight smile, not minding the crude torture device that Dalton was preparing.

"Better now than in forty minutes," Dalton said, now glancing up through damp red bangs. His voice was like rocks on a chalkboard, grating, discordant and grumbly. "I'm expecting company."

"Perfect. This will just take ten," Rhaenyra said, and finally, Dalton's fickle attention darted to her.

"Amusing. What's the disgraced party girl doing in the business of men?" Dalton crossed his arms, one over the next, giving a view of his nails, both trimmed and clean. He griped the hammer in his right hand and it hung in the air as he held it up with the word "Harper" printed on the metal.

Daemon opened his mouth to speak, but a gentle tap of her fingertips against his forearm sent a current of electricity through him. He froze, mesmerized by the warmth radiating from the spot where her skin met his.

Rhaenyra's eyes glinted with amusem*nt as her lips curled into a wide smirk. "The Velaryons control the best ports, amassing more power while I'm fairly certain you've been handing out gifts of Tetnas to your prospective allies." She paused and raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps it's time to consider a new strategy."

Dalton's calloused hands deftly spun the hammer in circles, its arc illuminated by the various bulbs of industrial light. His tall frame was muscular from hours of work on his fishing boat and countless nights spent brawling with men who were usually found dead come morning. Daemon tried to hide Rhaenyra behind him, but when she tapped his arm again and shook her head, he refrained.

Dalton rested his hands on the rusty hammerhead and stared at Rhaenyra, a question in his eyes. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air as the sound of a scurrying rat echoed in the warehouse. "And what does a ruined heiress have in mind?" Dalton finally asked as he set the hammer down, one eyebrow raised. Yet even without it actively in his hands, Daemon felt no peace.

"I am aware of my reputation," she said, her lips pressing into a thin line. She moved away from Daemon's arm, away from his protection, and right into the distance of the very same Greyjoy who would have no problem splitting her skull with the very hammer he had released. "I enjoy having fun, which I was not aware was a crime."

Dalton sneered, settling into the chair that Daemon was sure would soon be stained with blood. His face was filled with sarcasm as he said, “I don't read gossip nor do I care to discuss it, heiress. What could you have to gain dealing with me when you could spend your time at your daddy's side, saving the world that your family helped destroy?”

"I am in line to take over once my father steps down and my father, I hear, has been making it very difficult for you to operate in my city,"Rhaenyra's voice was firm and commanding, her eyes hard as she held up Greyjoy's hammer. She moved slowly and deliberately, her gloved hands skilfully twisting the metal in her grasp.

Dalton's slender frame leaned back in his chair, one arm thrown over the back of it as he regarded Daemon casually. His dark eyes glinted with amusem*nt, and the corners of his lips curled up into a slight smirk. "Otto Hightower's already offered me the seat at the Targaryen Tower—my own seat in the counsel—as well as control over several key port facilities across New York," he said, shrugging nonchalantly. "All I'd have to do is notally with you."

Daemon shifted his weight to one hip and gestured with one hand, emphasizing his point. "You already manage and maintain many container terminals, warehouses, and docking facilities," he said. His voice was low and steady.

Rhaenyra's short and carefully braided hair was coming undone, a single bead of sweat slipping slowly down her temple. Her gaze was unwavering as she spoke, her voice soft but firm. "It sounds like Mr Hightower wants to turn you into a law-abiding citizen." He watched a bead of sweat linger against the side of her face, and despite all the imperfect adornments, he couldn't look away from her.

Dalton's lips curved into a small lopsided smile as he evaluated the offer, and he rubbed a hand across his stubbled chin. “It seems like a quality offer,” he said slowly, rubbing his hands together thoughtfully. “I think I might be inclined to a life outside of the weapons and drug trade. A comfy life for my sons and I, nestled away in one of your family's grand mansions with lush gardens and manicured lawns—sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

"Since when did you look for comfort?" Daemon asked carefully, now moving to his niece's side, placing a hand against her shoulder. "We are offering you war. Borros has been buying out some of the best facilities with Otto's coin. They are moving you out."

"What do you suggest?" Dalton glanced expectantly at Rhaenyra, his hand outstretched and waiting. She carefully placed the hammer in his calloused hands, their fingers brushing for a brief moment before her own retreated.

"Let my cousin Corlys dock his ships here. You're already dealing in weapons and stolen merch. Why not deal with us too? You don't need Otto to give you a position in the council or a nice little mansion on the coast. You can take that yourself," Rhaenyra suggested, and the smirk on his face was almost as dangerous as the weapons he dealt with.

"And what would you have me do in return?" Dalton said softly.

"Don't deal with Baratheon contraband anymore." Rhaenyra's jaw locked, and had Daemon not been watching her so carefully from the corner of his eyes, he might have missed the waver of her voice.

Dalton's mouth curled in a disapproving line and his brows knit together sharply. He locked eyes with her and said sternly, "They've been decent partners for years."

"And yet, even though it was your family who helped them rise to power again," Daemon's eyes burned with rage, the tense muscles in his jaw twitching. He spoke quickly, struggling to keep his voice even. It made no sense to judge the man for seizing an opportunity. "They offer no signs of gratitude."

Daemon had destroyed the Baratheons once, and it was this man who helped them stand from the ashes of their home. It wasn't out of the kindness of his heart, so Daemon could not judge him for using the good Baratheon name to raise his own standing when the high society had spurred the Greyjoys for decades.

Rhaenyra's hand moved to her uncle's arm, and her grip tightened. She had likely seen the patron list of the masquerade—many families had been invited, but none of them bore the Greyjoy name. "After all that they've done, they still haven't shown your family respect. It's shameful," she said. "I don't recall seeing any Greyjoys at the masquerade."

"Everyone was in masks," Dalton said with a casual shrug. "Perhaps we were admiring the view."

"I think not," Her voice dripping with disdain, she replied, "After all you've done, Borros is still embarrassed to be associated with you. Does that not infuriate you?"

Dalton leaned forward, his muscular arms pressing down onto his knees. The room was stilted, filled with anticipation as Dalton spoke. "I am the best smuggler in New York. I don't need the Baratheons' petty invitations." His voice was low and intense. "I'm curious, though, what you need."

Rhaenyra's face was stern as she crossed her arms. "I need your docks. We're looking to expand and I don't like sharing," she said, her voice low and cold. She mirrored his shrug, then continued in a softer tone: "The Baratheons have slighted you enough. You don't have to share with them the profits."

"They pay great amounts to use my docks," Dalton retorted, now standing. "You are only heiress, and last I checked, your daddy still runs the show. You aren't in the position to make deals."

"I am," Daemon reminded, but his skin still sizzled from the warmth of Rhaenyra's hand. "My brother is ill and weak." Her hand was hot against his arm until she dropped it, leaving him cold and hollow. "He won't be able to make the journey up those many stairs of Targaryen Tower much longer."

"I thought you Targaryens were trying to go clean," Dalton said, turning his gaze back onto Rhaenyra, yet his niece didn't waver. "Isn't that why your father fired me in the first place, half a decade ago."

"The first thing I will do when taking over is undo that oversight," Rhaenyra promised, her lips pursed together. "I am looking to replace Otto Hightower as Hand."

Daemon's blood burned at her words, his eyes narrowed now on the side of her face.

"I'm as uninterested in being Hand as I was at being on the council," Dalton said with an amused chuckle. "While I would very much like to see the ruin of House Baratheon, you, little girl, are not capable of it. Come back with your daddy's seat, then, we will deal."

"And in the meantime?" Rhaenyra retorted, her back stiffening.

In response, Dalton only shrugged his shoulders and the distinct hum of engines outside filled the room. The sound of car doors slamming shut was quickly followed by shouting voices in the distance, but neither of them seemed to pay any attention. After a moment of silence, Dalton spoke again filling the air with a sense of determination, "In the meantime, I'll continue hearing other opportunities, but make no mistake, I am intrigued."

"Turn away Borros and Otto," Daemon ordered, his hand clenching behind his back. "Turn them and their men away."

"That wouldn't be very gentlemanly," Dalton said with a sharp grin.

Borros and Otto had formed an alliance long ago, likely motivated by their shared loathing of him. He might have found it flattering if Daemon didn't despise the both of them. It was all so petty, Otto, who searched for power with no limit. Or Borros, who yearned for revenge.

"Send him away in whatever manner you wish," Daemon suggested with a coy smile.

"And what would the two of you give me in return?" At that moment, the doors of the room creaked open. Dalton quickly raised his hand to signal his men to halt at the entrance. They all stood still, awaiting further instructions.

"Partners," Daemon bit out, already knowing Corlys would not like the idea of inviting Dalton Greyjoy to their table. "My niece has yet to gather much support for her claim and that simply won't do. Turn Otto and Borros away, and you and I can deal as gentlemen."

"Thirty per cent," Dalton said, with a shark-like grin.

"Thirty per cent?" Rhaenyra gave him a pointed look, her eyes flitting across the gloom of the warehouse. She shook her head as if she couldn't believe his audacity. "I could give you financial backing after I come to power, but that offer is far too generous. Fifteen per cent is much more reasonable."

Dalton laughed, and the sound sent echoes over the warehouse walls. "Even the Baratheons promised more."

"You were dealing with a Begger Lord then. I am heiress to the greatest fortune in the world. Fifteen with us is far more profitable. We have more ships. We have more men," Rhaenyra listed, and Daemon found himself smiling.

He had always seen the world with jaundiced eyes. The world was a mess. It is a cesspit of treachery and deceit. It is a nightmare of lies and failures. Yet this was not the world his own brother lived in now, and despite Viserys's attempts to steer his daughter, this was the world she wished to rule in.

Or perhaps she wanted both, Daemon could never tell with Rhaenyra Targaryen.

"Twenty per cent or I walk," Dalton said with a nonchalant shrug. His lips were pursed as he turned to Rhaenyra, and he looked like an insect ready to consume his prey. "And I hear out Otto's offers instead."

Daemon could afford not being associated with Dalton Greyjoy, much preferring the option of burning all the man's establishments to the ground. Yet his niece would rather attack the Baratheon's expansions indirectly, which required the patience that Daemon Targaryen certainly lacked.

Rhaenyra nodded curtly. "Twenty per cent. And when I am seated, I will deliver on all the promises I have made and invest in your endeavours." Daemon watched as Dalton ran his fingers over the handle of the hammer, caressing it like a lover before he spun it lightly between his palms as if considering the implications of her offer.

Dalton stood tall and his hands rested on the arm of the chair, between the upright nails before he took measured steps forward. He surveyed the room before him with a smirk and gestured his men to come forth. "It would hardly be chivalrous," he drawled, his voice dripping with false courtesy, "to turn the man away after coming so far."

"Otto seeks to make a businessman of you."Daemon felt a sudden, heavy hand clap onto his shoulder, and he stiffened as if someone had just zapped him with electricity. He gritted his teeth together as the heat of suppressed rage rose within him. It made his insides ignite, but he bit down his own worst impulses. Dalton's heavy cologne overpowered the reek of fish carcasses on the docks surrounding them. "We would like you just as you are."

Dalton Greyjoy raised an eyebrow and co*cked his head to the side, regarding Daemon with a curious expression. “And what is that?” he asked.

“A pirate and a killer,” Daemon retorted, extending his hand. His grip was rough and fierce, a stark contrast to the practised polish of Otto Hightower's handshake.

Daemon watched with growing agitation as Dalton brazenly grabbed his niece's hand, tugging her closer before planting an undignified kiss on her jaw. Rhaenyra didn't show any reaction to the gesture, but Daemon saw the way her fingers tapped against her thigh—two taps that signalled her simmering anger. But as soon as Dalton pulled away, her hand stilled.

Dalton Greyjoy's blood would be salty and acrid, like sailors who drink too much and for too long, Daemon thought.

Dalton raised his other hand to the corner of his mouth and licked his lips.

"The rumours are true," the pirate, parading as a gentleman, said.His laugh rings out, the sound like glass shattering and bells chiming.

Rhaenyra did not inquire, only raised both brows, waiting for him to finish.

"You smell like royalty," he said with that same sharp grin, before releasing her completely.

The city was moving past in a never-ending blur, but everything was slow in the car. Their breath fogged up the windows, the cold air battling with the heat emitting from their parted lips. It was an awkward silence since they passed Otto Hightower and Borros Baratheon on the wharf, where Rhaenyra looked at both of them and wondered which of them had scarred her. She wondered which of them had ruined her life.

But no one had said anything, just a passing and furious nod of greeting from four people, not one trusting the other. Then they had grown further and further away from one another, even when Rhaenyra wanted to turn back around to drown Borros Baratheon in the ocean. She might have, but then Daemon's hand had rested on her back, urging her forward.

The sounds of waves crashing against the harbour were like a song she once loved.

Now, even with the chill of the January air, filling the car, she could still feel the heat of his hand upon her back.

"You did well today," Daemon broke the silence.

"He didn't say yes," Rhaenyra countered.

"He is going to," Daemon replied, looking at her from the corner of his eyes. "His options are between you and Otto. No sane man would bet against you."

She nearly dropped her phone, her heart thudding violently in her chest. "Don't say things like that."

"Like what?" His voice was soft and tender, which made the violence in her ribcage quicken in intensity.

"Lies," Rhaenyra couldn't look away from her own screen, her fingers drumming against her thighs as she tugged her sleeve down to hide the scars that mingled with the tattoos of carnations on the forearm of her left and the ravens on her right.

Daemon let out a soft chuckle that did nothing to quell her growing discomfort. "My admiration of you is no lie."

"First you wanted me displaced because you thought you'd do better than me as heir and now you admire me," Rhaenyra shook her head back and forth, her brain rattling in her skull. "I'm getting whiplash from your moods." She was greeted with a long silence, the words of the article she read becoming gibberish as the serifs all merged together.

"I never thought that," he whispered. "Quite the opposite really."

"Right," Rhaenyra said with an unconvinced snort that was greeted with—surprise, surprise—moresilence. The car continued past familiar streets, splashing rainwater into unsuspecting pedestrians when he turned.

"You said once before how you wanted to be like me," Daemon said, paying no heed to the New Yorkers who flipped off his car. "But all I've ever done is eat without tasting a thing. I've lived day by day, but experienced little joy. All I've ever wanted was to be like you."

Rhaenyra turned off her phone, now facing him as they stayed stuck in the midst of New York traffic. "You can't say things like that."

"Why? They're true," Daemon announced, removing his hands from the wheel to look her in the eyes.

"Because it's confusing," Rhaenyra snapped. "Because I'm mad at you."

"It can be confusing. You can be angry," he said slowly, lips raising in a lopsided smile that held little warmth. "I'm angry too. I'm angry that you offered the position of Hand to Dalton Greyjoy. I'm angry for being accused of multiple lovers when you're the only one who has ever been on my mind. When it was I who had to spend years watching you with some other man so beneath you. All of that can be so. Doesn't make what I'm saying any less true."

They had parked in an alleyway, and she was aware he had turned up the heater for her. She was aware of his every breath and his hand that had moved to clutch her own. His lips had gone to her knuckles, where his featherlike caress had enveloped her senses.

She was doing it again, but she didn’t want to say no to the hand sliding in her hair, pulling her closer as his fingers made contact with the sensitive flesh of her scalp. His lips went to her forehead, a light and almost innocent kiss.

It was almost the kiss an uncle might give to a niece.

Then, those lips dragged over her skin, to her temple, and she could hear his breath in her ear. They met her own with a dissonance she couldn’t quell. They were not in sync, but together, they sounded like music.

His lips feathered down, and she could feel each peck against her cheek. They rested on the corner of her lips, and she wanted to feel more. Her body was starved, ravenous for him.

But her body was also ruined.

Rhaenyra pulled away, her hands clutching his shoulders, head falling forward.

He was good at this. He was good at making her forget.

“I missed you,” he whispered, and he had said such a thing before, in this car even. Just because he said it, and even if he meant it, didn’t mean he’d ever fight off his nature to hurt her. His hand went to her cheek, resting there. “You said we will do this together. You said you want everything I have.”

Rhaenyra was greedy. Just as he wanted to possess her, she in turn wanted to possess him. She wanted the clothes off his back, the sand still clinging to his suit, and even the breath in his lungs. She wanted to own him.

But once he sees, why would he ever want her?

He, who had made it clear that her body was all he wanted of her.

He’d see and be appalled.

“We will talk tomorrow,” she said. The day they had was a decent one. Whatever they had the possibility to rebuild, was fragile.

“Or maybe you’d let me speak for a second,” he said, leaning back in the seat. Bits of silver hair had fallen over his eyes and the buttons over his suit had come undone.

Had I done that? Rhaenyra thought.

“What could you possibly say? This is business Daemon. I do need you, but I’ve accepted what you’ve been trying to tell me.”

“Oh? And what is it you think I’ve been saying?”

“That you have a wife. That you have a life that I don’t fit into. That it’s been fun, but we live in the real world and nieces and uncles do not get what I want in this world. I get it. Now let me go home.”

“Fun?” Daemon’s voice was a low hiss. “You think this has been fun?” He raised his hand in disbelief. “Nothing about you is fun. You are maddening. You are infuriating. You are everything but fun.”

“Oh very nice. Do continue.”

“And reckless. And brave and funny and intoxicating,” he said carefully, but there was a panic climbing in his voice that had her eyes widening. There was a tremor when he spoke, but he continued anyway. “And I’d give you whatever you wanted. You only need to ask. Whatever flowers you wanted. Roses and all.”

“I certainly wouldn't ask for roses. Those are a basic bitch flower.”

“And carnations aren’t?” He commented, glancing down at the little carnation tattoo that she had, hidden beneath her clothes.

“Watch your nasty mouth,” but her voice was a breathless whisper. She didn’t quite know what he was saying and it certainly wasn’t an apology, but she liked hearing it.

“I needed you there,” she said slowly, her eyes burning. “At the hospital. I needed you and you weren’t there.”

He shut his eyes. “I’m here now.”

She had wished for that before, but now it felt inadequate. Slowly, her head shook back and forth, her ears ringing so loudly that she nearly didn't hear him. “I want more. I deserve more. I shouldn’t have to ask.”

His brows furrowed, and the lack of understanding only further broke her heart. But it wasn’t her job to fix this. Especially when she was the broken one and he, the breaker.

“The Royce girl means nothing. Mysaria means nothing.”

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed. “I know.”

He sighed. “What more must I say?"

"There's nothing to say," Rhaenyra answered. "I just don't know what you want from me when I've been more than clear what I want from you." She grabbed his hand, raising it to her lips just to feel something again. It seemed that her weak flesh constantly did exactly as her mind forbade. “And you know, flowers would be a good start.”

"Are you asking?" Daemon's voice lowered, rumbling in his throat as his dark stare fixated on her lips against his hand. She felt his fingers tighten around hers, tugging her closer until only her seatbelt kept her in place.

"Are you offering?" Rhaenyra asked in return.

His free hand didn't move from his side after he dusted circles over her thigh. "That depends."

"On what?" Rhaenyra asked, feeling the space between them begin to close as he came closer.

"On whether you still want what you said you wanted from me," he whispered, now so close she could feel his breath against her lips. Drunk, she closed her eyes.

"Will it make a difference? I'm still mad," she said softly.

His kiss went to the corner of her lips, the sensation like a wicked pulse from her nerves. His left hand remained at his side, the other still held in her own, which tightened around him. "You don't have to relinquish your anger. In fact, I prefer it."

His lips were soft, his free hand finally rising to tangle in her hair, tugging her forward against the restriction of the seatbelt.

Rhaenyra let out little gasps against his lips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips and slipping inside. He tasted of mint and desire, and she couldn't get enough. His hand slid down to cup her breast, feeling the hard nipple through the fabric of her sweater. She arched into his touch, her own hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The car was too small, too cramped, but it didn't matter.

He didn't linger at her chest, slipping down to undo her seatbelt, separating only to let it glide over her and laughing when it got caught on her arm.

"Shut up," she murmured, looping her wrist out from the belt and resting her glove against his neck. It was dark, but she could still see the soft hue of his eyes staring down at her, nearly closed. It was loud, but she could still hear his little breaths from over the many lingering horns and sirens.

He reached up and brushed his fingers against the soft cotton of her turtle neck, tugging gently at the fabric in an attempt to bring her closer. She reacted quickly, pushing both hands against his broad shoulders and creating a slight distance between them.

He cradled her head in his hands, and she felt the warmth of them radiating through her scalp down to her toes. A hint of pine drifted from his tailored suit, and she closed her eyes, savouring every molecule of it. His lips pressed gently against her forehead, as if he was branding her and she thought she just might die from it.

It was dark and it was loud outside, but all she saw was the fabric of his coat and the violent drumming of his heart. It was cold from outside, but all she felt was the warmth of his kiss atop her head.

He lightly brushed his lips against her ear as he whispered, “I’ll take you home.”

She didn't know how to ask him to stay with her anymore.

The drive seemed to be in slow motion, with the trees and buildings passing like a blur. She felt slightly dazed as her head rested against the car window, the vibrations of driving over bumps lulling her into a state of relaxed delirium. She heard the distinct melody emitting from the car, letting out a small chuckle that made his attention fixate back on her.

"What's so funny?" Daemon's question was met with her exhausted, sleep-deprived blink.

"The song."

"It's Clair de Lune. It's a classic."

"Calm down, Twilight," she said, watching him promptly press the skip button on the touchscreen.

Eventually, a soft warmth against her shoulder made her flutter awake, and she lifted her heavy lids to see that Daemon's face leaning close. His fingers were gentle as they slid up to lightly tug at a strand of her hair. The man before her was not the Daemon she had come to know, yet she found herself leaning into him, wanting more.

"I can take care of myself," she replied, yet noticed he hadn't pulled up to the sidewalk and had instead turned into the car park shared by the seven occupants of the building. Whereas Daemon owned an entire tower of apartments all for himself, Rhaenyra was much more amenable to sharing.

He had opened her passenger side door, but he hesitated when he motioned to undo her seatbelt, so she spread her arms and shoulders, giving him access to the belt. With a quiet click, the belt released. Rhaenyra hesitated, holding his gaze for a moment before he finally held out his hand, offering to help her from the car.For all his claims of being a gentleman, this was the first time Rhaenyra had ever seen him act like one.

With the car door opened, the light from the many lamps glowed from behind him. The glare of the dashboard lit her face, and the dashboard itself beamed like a laptop. She slipped her gloved hand into his, allowing him to help her to her feet and close the door from behind her.

The lamplight glistened in the condensation of her hair, framing her silver strands as a flaxen halo as she stepped out of the car and onto the concrete where a chill enveloped her.

The garage was freezing and because she was a basic bitch, she longed for the smell of Daemon's cologne. He had already brought her to her knees with the gentlest of coaxing.

She walked slowly, her legs heavy, hands tightly clenched as she followed him towards the elevator. He grabbed his keycard and swiped it on the elevator scanner, but did not turn to look at her as he held the double doors open. "You don't have to come," she said again, her voice barely a whisper as her words were swallowed by the cold, clinical echoes of the steel walls.

"You want me to stay, you want me to go, you want me to change my favourite song," Daemon said, ignoring the pointed look she gave the access card that he slipped back in his pocket. "I'm getting whiplash from your moods."

She pursed her lips, but the corners slowly rose until a single laugh escaped her throat. It was an uncontrollable sound that filled the air like birdsong to herald a new day. He leaned in and looked into her eyes with a soft smile as if he wanted to capture her. “If I could bottle that sound, I would,” he said.

She wanted to say something witty, but her throat felt like sandpaper in her mouth and all she could do was gulp. Then the elevator doors beeped open to reveal a dark wood hallway that led to her penthouse, its tall windows illuminated by the city skyline.

Rhaenyra's hands shook as she fumbled with the lock, her widened eyes darting across Daemon. She opened the door a crack, her heart hammering against her ribcage. "Why are you acting like this?" she asked, clutching the edge of the door tightly.

Daemon sighed wearily and leaned his forehead against the doorframe, his voice pleading from behind it. "I'm tired and I've missed you."

Her arm dropped to her side as she stepped away from the door, allowing him inside. With a heavy sigh, she heard the door shut and latch behind her before she walked through the living room's sea of covered mirrors, passing by pictures and trinkets on her way to her bedroom. She listened to him move around the kitchenette, the water running and then the tell-tale sound of the electric kettle being switched on. His every step echoed off the walls as she dabbed a washcloth over her face.

She came back to two glasses of tea, painstakingly prepared to the exact temperature she enjoyed. "What did you do?"

Daemon lifted the glass to his lips, taking a small sip. "It's not poison. Calm down."

She spotted the blank space where a picture had been hanging on her fridge. It was one of her and Criston that she meant to yank down, yet forgot since she spent all her time in Connecticut after the breakup. "Kay. Where is it?"

He rolled his eyes, glancing towards the trashcan, but she didn't bother retrieving it.

"You are so immature," she muttered, watching him shrug.

"You could do better than Crispen Cole," Daemon said softly.

"I have. Harwin Strong was a very gentle lover," she said.

"You're funny," Daemon said, smiling into his tea.

"So you've said," she answered with an uncertain tremor in her voice.

His eyes weren't straying from her face, examining it in a way that made her self-conscious and uncertain. She took a sip, tasting the distinct notes of Lavender and Chamomile, mixed with a hint of lemon. It spread down her throat until it settled low in her stomach.

"I did visit you," Daemon admitted slowly, and she finally looked up from the rim of her mug. "It doesn't make me any less of a coward. I couldn't face you then, but I did see you."

She settled in her seat, avoiding his stare as she examined the dead flowers resting in the vase on her counter. She examined the wilted petals and leaves that spread like old carcasses atop polished marble. She couldn't remember buying the bouquet, couldn't remember the last time something lived and breathed inside these walls.

She let her hand rest upon her cheek, hiding the creaking burn that travelled up her neck and to her ears.

"You should have come when I needed you, but you are always there when it's most convenient to you," she answered slowly, but there was no heat in her voice, yet it seemed as if her resignation held more power than her anger.

"It's certainly never been convenient. Not then and not now," he murmured, setting down his cup, and watching as she mirrored the movement. "But I'm staying. I wantto stay."

The backs of her eyes burned as she stood from her seat, leaving only a quarter of tea left as she slid it away from her. "I'm exhausted and I haven't slept for two days." Her fingers went to her face, sliding down to her mouth and resting back against her eyes. "I'm just so tired."

Her voice broke, but Rhaenyra did not cry because no one was there to save her or help her because she didn't want fickle help or frivolous safety. Daemon offered neither as he walked around to cup her face and press a gentle kiss atop her eyelids that fluttered closed for him.

"I thought you weren't that sort of guy," she said in the face of his blatant romance.

"I didn't think I was," he said with a light laugh. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

"Scandalous," she said with a soft smile, letting him lead her. She felt the soft mattress hug her and the blanket envelop her as he pulled them over her shivering figure. She watched him through hooded eyes as he knelt down next to her, stroking away strands of short hair from her face. "Are you going to stay?"

"Do you still want me to?"

"If you do, I might never let you go again," she warned with a drowsy smile. She watched his lips twitch up, briefly.

"What a horrifying thought—to be your captive," he said, watching her lift the blankets to let him in. She thought he might not take the offer, yet he only slipped off his shoes and laid his coat against the ground before the mattress sank against his weight.

She felt his body envelop hers, felt his arms loop around her back to pull her forward, and she didn't even mind when he stole her pillow. Instead, she rested her head against the crook of his arm to lay her cheek against the soft fabric that covered his chest.

"I really do love you," she whispered, and he might have torn himself away from her before, but instead he moved so she was resting on her back. It didn’t make her feel weak to say it. It felt like a confession to herself, not much to him.

His hand drifted against her cheek in a featherlight caress as his mouth made contact with the parting of her lips.

It wasn't a reply, but she was too exhausted to do anything but kiss him back. As their lips moved against one another, Rhaenyra felt a familiar heat spread through her body. She had missed the touch of him, the way he could make her feel alive and wanted—even if he had equal talents to make her feel unwanted.

Daemon's hands roamed over her body, tracing the curves and valleys of her form. She responded in kind, drifting her hands over his chest and down his back.

Yet his hands did not roam beneath the fabric of her clothes and his kisses did not wander.

Chapter 28: Whisper and Deny It

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ－Ｅｉｇｈｔ

𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓎 𝒾𝓉

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Let it be said that he tried—he tried staying locked in place, her hand squeezing tightly against his inert fingertips. He tried counting the wisps of her lashes, even when he wanted nothing more than to wake her with his tongue between her legs and her thighs crushing his head. He tried to still his muscles and relax against her strengthening grasp.

He tried.

Yet Daemon unclasped Rhaenyra's fingers from his own, leaning to brush his lips across the zigzagging scar along the palm of her hand before he untangled himself from the blankets. In between the slight dipping of the bed and her soft breathing, he heard the drumming of his pulse in his ears.

He stood up, his body yearning for movement, for action. The room was cloaked in darkness, save for a sliver of moonlight peeking through the gap in the curtains. Daemon quietly padded across the floor, his bare feet making little sound. His senses were on high alert as he slipped into his coat, the fabric whispering against his skin. The moonlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting a shine upon the furniture that adorned the room.

As he reached the door, he cast one last glance back at the bedroom door. He recalled her chest as it rose and fell rhythmically, her face serene in repose. He paused, pressing his head against the entrance as the cool wood sent ripples of sensation through his feverish skin.

There was a photo, framed, upon the wall and it took Daemon's attention away briefly. Viserys' arms were wrapped around her shoulders with a smile that he had only ever seen his brother direct towards his wayward daughter. Daemon felt the smallest tinge of guilt, flicker in his gut—springing up his throat like vomit.

Yet Daemon was a creature of habit, and his desire for Rhaenyra often outweighed his loyalty to Viserys.

He slipped out into the hall, the door clicking shut behind him and filling the empty space with the sound of the automatic gears moving to lock. His breath seemed unnaturally loud in the hushed stillness of her penthouse at night. He strode down the hallway, each step deliberate, his footfalls muffled by the thick rug runner.

At the end of the hall stood a solitary guard, back ramrod straight, face impassive. Daemon met the man's gaze and held up a finger to his lips. After a tense moment, the guard gave a barely perceptible nod and turned his head away, yet Daemon made certain to place a wad of bills into the guard's lapels with a stiff pat.

Satisfied, Daemon descended the staircase leading to the lower levels, bypassing the elevators. He could almost taste the freedom that awaited him beyond these walls.

He had nearly reached the last step when a voice rang out, shattering the silence. "Going somewhere?"

Daemon strained his neck, to where Rhaenyra leaned against the railing, staring down at him from the distance of many flights of stairs. She had gathered herself, her expression rearranged into one of indifference. He could see she had run a brush through her hair before chasing after him in a beige dress that must have been chosen in haste.

"Go back inside," Daemon ordered, his voice carrying an echo that travelled up the stairs and into her ears. He noted the white wrappings around her right leg and the thin shawl she had draped over her shoulders—covering her most severe burns under a layer of bandage and silk.

"I will," she said carefully, a tinge of doubt flickering like fireworks over her smooth features. It was so out of place on the canvas of her perfect face that Daemon found himself rising the stairs, one at a time. "Where are you going?" Rhaenyra asked, though he had watched her lips motion to form different words before these were chosen with the same haste as her adorned dress.

"There's much to do, unless you'd rather the Baratheons or Otto spend their nights getting headstarts?" Daemon had distributors to call, lawyers to email, and warehouses to inspect. Yet, Rhaenyra didn't even have to ask, and he was already rising the stairs to meet her.

"I don't want to keep you," Rhaenyra said, and he watched her back straighten, stiffening with that same doubt that Daemon wasn't used to seeing in his niece. Rhaenyra was perhaps the most confident and self-assured woman he had ever known, so watching her hesitation had his head throbbing.

"Of course you do," Daemon said, now only a short distance from her, able to see the fluorescents cast specs of light across her pale cheeks. "My greedy little dragon."

Her lips twitched up, and he watched her step forward, wearing mismatched shoes. He noted they were nearly identical, though one was an off-shade of cream. "You once promised to give me whatever I wanted, remember?" Rhaenyra grabbed his hand, and he nearly jumped when he felt her lack of body heat.

"And what do you want so badly that you ran out in your worst ensemble of clothes?" Daemon questioned, though he didn't know how he managed it when he felt her soft lips trail over his palm.

"I'd like to hire my own security team, for starters," Rhaenyra said stiffly, though he could barely hear it as his pulse drummed in his ears. His eyes were trained on her trailing lips as she kissed the tips of his fingers.

"Not a chance. You'd get supermodel Gen Zs, fresh out of high school," Daemon said, and she let out a dry laugh as she stepped closer to him.

"Fax. Fax," she agreed, and he let out a shaking sigh as he slipped his hand from her grasp, though his skin felt colder somehow without her touch. "No printer."

"What does that even mean?" He shrugged out from his coat and placed it around her shoulders, bundling her beneath the wool. His lips twitched up into a rue smile as he forced her to take a step closer, watching her all but stumble into his arms.

"It means you're a dinosaur," she said with a shrug, but he watched her flushing cheeks from beneath the weight of his lashes. "And once again, you didn't get me a gift for Christmas. Very rude."

"I got you your security team," Daemon said softly, feeling her fingers brush along his waist as he closed the coat around her shoulder.

"I wanted a new car. Or perhaps Otto's ring, still attached to his detached finger," Rhaenyra said, quirking a single brow.

"Such a greedy kid, indeed." Daemon watched her uncertain smile with another flicker of irritation.

"Where are you going?" Rhaenyra repeated her question, her fingers still latched onto his white button-up shirt, further wrinkling the fabric.

"Should I have awakened you to say goodbye?" Daemon wasn't certain what the 'right' thing to do here was. Certainly, the 'right' thing was impossible for him—impossible for them—considering how wrong it all was. It seemed that no matter what he did, it was never correct.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," Rhaenyra said softly, and he felt her hands drop from clutching his shirt. "I just wanted to see you off."

His nose burned and his mouth felt dry when he opened it—only to close it moments later. "I didn't want to wake you," he said carefully. "I have a meeting at daybreak and wanted you to sleep past it."

Rhaenyra's lips twitched up for a moment. "Next time, leave a note. It's polite."

"I'll keep that in mind." Daemon nodded, making a mental note to leave a written farewell next time he had to slip away in the early hours. Though the thought of a 'next time' caused a pang in his chest.

"Or maybe leave me sweet little gifts. I could use another romantic box of Planned B," she said with a dismissive shrug that only caused him to wince.

"Will you ever let that go?" Daemon had thought he was being responsible, considering she had manhandled him in all the ways he had liked. He could still remember her gorgeous hair, creating a canopy over his face as she clutched at his skin. He could still hear her little pants in his ears, echoing on repeat, forcing him to briefly close his eyes and control himself.

Yet, she still remained behind the safety of his lids, and he could nearly feel her constricted muscles that created an iron clamp around his co—

That's enough,he thought, forcing his eyes back open.

"No," came her soft reply. "Humility and guilt is a good look on you. It's truly the best foreplay you could give a girl."

I'm about to f*ck this little idiot on a staircase,he thought with a calming breath.

Rhaenyra fidgeted, her mismatched heels shifting from one to the other against the linoleum floor. She avoided making eye contact, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. The awkward silence between them seemed to stretch on forever, and she struggled to find the right words to say.

"As much as I relish your sharp tongue," Daemon chuckled, his voice low and husky. Finally, Daemon cleared his throat. "I should be on my way to that meeting now."

Rhaenyra's fingers tightened on the fabric of his shirt, bunching it at his waist in a futile attempt to keep him there. The warmth of her body against his was almost tangible, making his heart flutter.

"Right, of course," Rhaenyra said hastily, making no move to release him.

I'm about to f*ck you,Daemon thought, his nostrils flaring—which was a mistake because she smelled like heaven. Like citrus and flowers and amber and cherries.

Daemon hesitated, then slowly lifted a hand to brush back a strand of silver-gold hair that had fallen across her face. His fingers lingered a moment too long against her cheek.

Rhaenyra's eyes fluttered shut at his touch. When they opened again, her expression was one of such intensity that he nearly stumbled backwards. It gave him vibrant flashbacks of his own aunt, whom he had once begged to love him. It was easy to get wrapped in Saera's allure—she, who could sway an executioner to put down the axe.

And now, Rhaenyra was his echo and his reminder of what a cruel and twisted monster he was.

"You and I are the same. Stones for hearts. Oh, I do understand,"Saera had once told him, and Daemon was not in the same mind to turn Rhaenyra into himor, far worse, into Saera.

And yet, his fingers were sliding down her cheek and his lips were pressing into the crown of her head.He made to pull away but Rhaenyra held him fast. She tilted her chin up, her eyes seeking his. He could see the glimpse of longing there, hidden beneath an even stronger display of pride. He knew he should extricate himself, should turn and walk away down those stairs. But he found he could not.

"I don't want to be your niece," she admitted softly, lips quirking up. "I don't want to be your secret either."

"I never wanted to be an uncle. Not just yours," Daemon whispered right back, lips mirroring her own. "And I see you're not much good at keeping secrets, considering you've made certain Laena knows and doomed me to her awkward advice."

Rhaenyra's laughter echoed off the walls, a light and infectious sound that ignited a fuse in Daemon's heart. As much as he longed to ravish her there on the staircase, propriety and the risk of being caught kept him at bay. After all, money could only buy so much silence.

Murder bought far more.

"At least I confided in someone trustworthy," Rhaenyra said with a hint of bitterness, her smile fading into a tight-lipped frown. "You told Alys f*cking Rivers." The mention of her name made Rhaenyra's eyes flash with old anger, like coals reigniting in a dying fire.

Daemon's hand lingered on her arm, but his touch grew cold as he removed it. "I wouldn't tell Alys Rivers so much as a bedtime story," he said, his voice tight with frustration.

"Oh." Rhaenyra's face flushed with anger, her features twisting in irritation as she searched for the truth in his words. "I see. Oh. So you didn't f*ck her?"

Daemon merely shrugged, not denying nor confirming her accusation. "I didn't say that," he replied with a hint of smugness.

She fished her keys out of her pocket and clenched them tightly in her fist. With a swift motion, she swung her arm and the metal edges connected with his shoulder, causing him to raise his hands in surrender.

"Not recently, you heathen," he quickly added, flinching as she made another threatening gesture with the keys. "But I would remember telling her about something as important as you."

Her expression froze on the canvas of her face, like a master painter examining the work before adding another brush stroke. "Well, in that case, Miss Rivers might know a few things. Let's not point fingers."

Daemon's usually stern expression was twisted into a furious scowl, though the corners of his mouth were twitching with suppressed laughter. His broad shoulders shook with mirth as he struggled to contain himself.

"What's so funny?" she inquired, and he leaned his head against her shoulder, taking in her sweet scent that always calmed him.

He pressed his lips softly against her honey-coated skin, whispering "I adore you" in a low, husky voice.

"You shouldn't be laughing. I don't know what she wants," Rhaenyra said carefully.

"She wants what they all want," Daemon murmured, his hands gliding along her waist and caressing the curves of her body. He pulled her closer, feeling her warmth radiating through their clothes. "A piece of you to devour."

A soft gasp escaped her lips as his warm breath tickled the sensitive skin of her neck. His mouth pressed delicately against her throat, his tongue tracing a path along the pulsing vein. She couldn't help but let out a small moan of pleasure.

"Incest, and now cannibalism? You certainly know how to woo a lady," she teased, but he could see she was trying to hide the desire that he knew was building inside of her.

His lips trailed a path of electricity, tingling kisses along the delicate skin of her neck, his touch lingering but careful to avoid the bandages that still wrapped around her. "I don't need to charm you out of your pants," he whispered with guttural desire.

He could feel her pulse racing against him, matching the rhythm of his own quickened heartbeat. Their bodies pressed together, igniting a fire between them that only grew stronger with each passing moment. As his lips moved against her, he could feel her body pulsing and responding to his touch, her arousal palpable even through their clothes. The flick of his tongue against the column of her neck elicited a deep whimper from her throat, sending shivers down his body. The ground beneath them seemed to tremble in response.

"I will f*ck you right here on this staircase," he growled in a low voice, his already hard erection pressing firmly against her thighs. She gasped at his words, unable to resist the overwhelming desire that coursed through her veins. In that moment, nothing else mattered except for the raw passion that consumed him—perhaps her. "If you ask. If you beg."

Rhaenyra's breath caught in her throat, her eyes sliding shut as she refused to acknowledge his fingers inching down her legs. The silky fabric of her dress bunched up at her thighs, revealing the smooth skin beneath. He made certain she could feel his warm breath on her neck as he spoke with a hint of urgency in his voice.

He leaned in, nuzzling her neck with hungry kisses. "I should leave," he whispered against her skin, but his hands roamed eagerly over her curves, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “So let’s make this quick.” Despite his words, his touch was purposeful as they wandered about her flesh.

With each kiss, he descended her body, his lips lingering on every hairsbreadth of skin as he lowered himself to his knees. His movements were slow and deliberate, matching the rhythm of her staggered breaths. As he balanced on the lower steps, his hands roamed over her hips and thighs with a reverence he reserved for her. With a skilful tongue, he traced delicate patterns along her exposed stomach, igniting every nerve in her body with raw desire.

"The guards are waiting for me to return," she reminded him reluctantly and he only sent her a sheepish smile before trailing his tongue down her body. It slid over her skin like a warm caress, where he could practically taste her—ready and wet for him. "If they were myguards, they might listen to me when I told them to wait out—f*ck."

His tongue brushed along the covered lace of her slit and he felt the sting of his scalp when her fingers tangled into his hair and pulled. "Do you want more?" He whispered, the words barely audible in Valyrian. With practised movements, he lowered his mouth even further, his hot breath causing her to arch her back and gasp.

He firmly grasped her hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He savoured the round curve of her arse as he spread it apart. His tongue swept up and delved deep into her, eliciting a moan from her lips and causing his scalp to sting with satisfaction.

"You are a demon,"came her breathless reply.

They might have continued, if not for the loud banging against the steel-plated door that led back to her floor. The sound reverberated through the small space, echoing off the concrete walls like a warning. "Miss Targaryen," a gruff voice called out from beyond the metal barrier, insistent and concerned. "Are you still there?"

"Yes. Five minutes," Rhaenyra called out, somehow managing to keep her voice level, despite how greedily Daemon began to devour her.

"Miss Targaryen, our orders are to keep you in eyeshot," one of the guards stated firmly.

"You are in earshot. That should su—" Rhaenyra's brows gathered when Daemon nosed aside her panties and finally pursed his lips around her cl*t. "Suffice." With a deep chuckle, he trailed his hands over the gooseflesh that dusted over her thighs. "I hate you," she whispered darkly, though her tone was laced with desire.

"Say it again,"he whispered hoarsely against the soft mounds of flesh. She tasted like sweetened milk—like the tantalizing promise of everything forbidden. Electricity coursed through him as he reached down, teasing her until she gasped and writhed.

"I hate you," she repeated in Valyrian. "You're awful and cruel and rude."

He slid a finger inside her at once, rocking it back and forth, feeling himself hardening more when she gasped his name and weaved her fingers through his hair. "I don't know how to be a good man," he whispered against her cl*tor*s. "But I'll do by best."

Rhaenyra's knees nearly buckled, her moans so constrained that she had to slap her palm over her mouth, just so they wouldn't echo over the walls. He could feel her walls closing in on him, a velvet vice on his tongue as he pushed inside her with a second finger, feeling her clench and relax around him.

"Don't..." she whimpered, arching into him. He responded by adding a third finger, stretching her slowly, curling them in a rhythm that matched his tongue's dance on her cl*t.

She shuddered violently, her voice a muffled cry against her palm. It took only moments before she came hard against his face, trembling and shaking under his ministrations. Daemon couldn't help but smile against her skin, pulling away to look upon her flushed face and dilated pupils.

"Again," he ordered, his fingers still rocking inside her, back and forth as he watched her eyes roll back as pleasure coursed through her. "Say it again."

"I hate you," she whispered, and his mouth returned onto her, tongue swirling in gentle waves that had her finally collapsing. He narrowly caught her, his palms digging into her head where he devoured her lips with all the hatred he had. One kiss turned into the next and the next until she was gasping into his lungs. His fingers continued to rock into her as his lips swallowed her every sound and whimper when she exploded against his skin.

His lips moved over to her ear, licking and biting as his fingers stilled and her cries turned into quiet little breaths. "I would f*ck you right here. I would bury myself in you and f*ck you until you couldn't walk. I would make you cum so many more times until you had nothing left to give me."

"You have a filthy mouth," she whispered right back, her voice breathless and deflated. His eyes locked onto Rhaenyra's intertwined legs, nearly tangling into him. Her position, with her legs splayed open and her dress hiked up to expose her smooth skin and swollen sex, had his co*ck almost spearing through the fabric of his trousers.

"It's covered in you, my little dragon," he murmured.

"If you had stayed, maybe all that would have been possible," she said, wincing when she moved. He gently kissed her bandaged neck, his heart in his throat and his blood coursing with her every sound.

"Another night, Rhaenyra," he promised.

When Alicent was younger, the sky had been brighter. The snow held far more innocence. The trees had been magic when they swayed. She was older now and the sky was dark. Ice flooded the roads, causing cars to swerve past the divider and into oncoming pedestrians. The trees would sway until they fell, crushing whoever happened to be at their feet. She was too old to believe in magic.

Yet she had to believe in something. She'd have never survived each hardship and her solitude without believing in some higher power. Rhaenyra had been her oldest friend, and Alicent had lost that friendship. It had been ripped away from her, leaving blisters on her hands and scars on her knees.

But she wasn't alone.

The Mother had ensured she'd have her own children. Her gods had made them healthy and beautiful. With their Targaryen features, overpowering the Hightower ones, there was no denying their parentage. And Alicent workedtirelessly for them to have a good life. She sacrificed everything to make certain they had a better home than the one that bore her.

Yet a single scandal would blemish them by proximity.

"I don't want to do this," Alicent whispered, pacing back and forth about the garden. Her flats sunk into the fine earth, leaving behind a trail of prints that the gardeners would have to cover later.

She had tried to speak with Viserys already—"Rhaenyra wouldn't do such things," he had said with urgent fervour, but what else would a father say about his daughter? Yet, he has also never lied to her, as honest and steadfast as her own father.

A bird chirped above her head. Twice. A crow in the branches overhung the garden, its feathers as black as her heart should have been. The chill of the breeze sank through her bones, freezing the breath in her lungs as Alicent stopped her pacing and turned to face the sunrise. The once vibrant flowers were now wilting, their petals falling limply around her feet like morbid confetti on a bleak parade.

She never understood her father, no matter how often she tried to. He was the one who all but sold her into marriage, spread seeds of discord in her head, and watered them diligently. Yet, her father loved Viserys Targaryen and how difficult must it have been to share such horrid information.

Alicent anxiously gnawed on her cuticles, the sharp edges of her canines digging into her skin. The pressure and pain were almost a relief, a distraction from the looming task at hand. She could feel the blood pooling under her nails, but she couldn't bring herself to stop.

The garden around her was lush and green, with vibrant flowers and twisting vines climbing up the walls that enclosed her. It was more than an hour before she even deigned to speak again, her anxiety tangled in her stomach.

"I don't want to do this." Her voice carried through the grandiose grassland, bouncing off the towering walls and echoing back to her ears. The lush greenery surrounding her seemed to wilt at the weight of her words, nature itself sensing her distress.

As if in response, the crow let out a shrill caw above her head, its sharp call piercing the stillness of the air. With a powerful thrust of its wings, it took flight, the soft sound of feathers rustling against the breeze as it disappeared into the sky.

"They respond better to birdsong," Rhaenyra announced her presence with a gentle, lilting voice. "Mother used to tell me that the birds are messengers for the gods. Of course, you're the only one of us that believes that."

The sunlight filtered through the leaves above, casting dappled shadows across her face and revealing her features. Despite the partial cover, she was in plain sight.

Alicent didn't respond, focusing instead on the tightness in her chest, the ache that never left her side. Rhaenyra had once been her whole world, but now she was a constant reminder of what was lost. Her best friend, her confidante, her person. Now, she was a hindrance and a stumbling block in Alicent's bid to protect her children.

Rhaenyra sat down on one of the stone benches, her beige coat billowing gracefully around her. Even though it was early morning and the stone should have been cold, Rhaenyra didn't shiver. She'd always had a strong constitution like that. "You mentioned wanting to talk," she said as she brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "Shall we take a stroll?"

Alicent paused before reluctantly following her lead. They sat on opposite sides of the bench, the brilliant hues of the morning casting a barrier between them. With a deep breath, she began speaking in a shaky voice. "Father came to Viserys and he told him something."

"I'm sure he'd say many things," Rhaenyra scoffed, her voice sharp and edged with bitterness. Alicent flinched, knowing all too well the animosity between them, but it wasn't until she witnessed their tense exchange that she truly understood why. The usually composed and polished Otto had revealed a side of himself that surprised her.

Despite his supposed honour and moral righteousness, her father had resorted to sending spies to lurk about their lives. They slunk into the shadows, gathering mud and soot on everyone he mistrusted.

And when it suited him, he'd brandish that information like a weapon, shamelessly manipulating those around him to fulfil his desires.

Yet, she didn't know what he wanted.

That was a lie.

She didn't want to know.

"He said..." Alicent's feet sunk into the soft earth as she paused in her speech, her once pristine heels now caked with dirt. She lifted herself from the stone bench, her swelling belly nearly bringing her right back. The sun was layered beneath a swaying blanket of clouds, yet she could feel the heat beating down on her back, causing sweat to trickle from her forehead.

She stood there, feeling the bitterness of the earth seeping into her heels, but she couldn't move.

"Out with it," Rhaenyra urged, using the familiar tone that often grated on Alicent's nerves. It was a regal one, spoken as if she was Alicent's better—a mirror of Daemon Targaryen.

Alicent felt a surge of bitterness, creep up her throat, but she shoved it down. Her marriage had done that to her, twisting her insides in ways she couldn't predict.

"You and Daemon have been f*cking," Alicent hissed out, the words guttural and harsh, yet she had lost the ability to care.

The world seemed to freeze around her. Birds stopped chirping, the wind stopped rustling the leaves and even her heartbeat seemed to hold its next pulse as the words hung in the air.

By all the Seven, she thought, please let it be a lie. Please let it be a lie.

"Alicent," Rhaenyra began, her voice low and cautious like she was handling a mouse trap.

But Alicent had the upper hand for once in their twisted relationship and she was going to use it. She needed to protect her children, even if it meant crushing the last echoes of their friendship.

Rhaenyra stood, the fabric of her scarf, draped around her neck, swaying softly in the breeze. She wore a beige coat, slacks, and a sweater—all constricted her movements and hid the evidence of the fire.

"That is a vile accusation to make," Rhaenyra said, her eyes wide as she placed a hand above her heart.

"Then why did you find it so difficult to respond to it?" Alicent retorted sharply—but she prayed to the Gods that Rhaenyra vehemently denied it.

She dug her heels into the cold ground, a barrier between herself and the denial that was seeping into her bones. She couldn't believe it. Not Rhaenyra, not the girl who had once confided in her about her first period and who had wiped away Alicent's tears when boys were mean to her.

Alicent wanted to be wrong. She needed her father to be wrong.

"Because I was surprised," Rhaenyra said swiftly, her lips pursing open and closed as her voice raised and cracked. "You pull this accusation out of nowhere and expect me to have a response?"

Alicent hesitated, her hand cupping her belly as if she were protecting the fetus inside. "This could ruin us—not just you. All of us. My children. Your father. You. Me."

"Which is why the very concept is ridiculous," Rhaenyra took a step forward, reaching out and taking Alicent's hands.

Alicent's voice was barely audible, trembling with disbelief. She leaned in closer as if afraid someone might overhear. "So... it's not true?" Her voice cracked and she struggled to catch her breath, like a parched desert wanderer desperately seeking water. "My father...he said..." She swallowed her reluctance and continued. "He said Daemon and you were seen together in the thralls of passion. At the Baratheon ball."

Rhaenyra dropped her hands.

Rhaenyra's fingers dug into the fabric of her coat, her knuckles turning white. "I love my uncle, but he is my uncle. I would never ever do such a thing," she whispered through clenched teeth.

Alicent wanted to believe it. "You Targaryens have had," her voice was strained and choked, so she cleared her throat, “queer customs in the past."

She truly wanted to believe, but Otto Hightower had never lied to her before. He'd always been a rock and a constant in her life when people continuously abandoned her.

"He heard it from his informants," she whispered, reaching to grip Rhaenyra's hands harder than she meant to.

Rhaenyra's grip loosened. "f*cking spies," she cursed, the profanity jarring in the serenity of the garden. "I would think my father of all people would know better than to trust them."

Alicent's heart fluttered with a flicker of hope, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. The feeling was so wild and free that she almost wanted to reach out and grasp it, to hold on to it for as long as possible. She could just imagine the look on her father's face when she told him he was wrong, that he had misheard or his spies were mistaken—a simple misunderstanding, easily corrected.

Yet, the doubt remained, lodged in her veins like a thorn.

"Then explain what happened," Alicent whispered, and a flash of irritation splayed across Rhaenyra's face, swallowed in the tide of her silence.

"Nothing happened," Rhaenyra reiterated carefully. "He took me home after Laenor's wedding, cheered me up after mine and Criston's breakup. We barely spoke at the ball where he made that dreadful speech and then left early. What more am I to say?"

Rhaenyra's hands were encased in alabaster silk gloves, but as they touched Alicent's skin, the coldness seeped through.

"And the other times?" Alicent pressed, her voice shaking. "The times when no one else could see you?"

Rhaenyra's grip on her hands loosened, and they fell to her sides, the weight of betrayal as oppressive as the heat that pressed down on them.

"Never," she said, her voice firm and unyielding. "You have my word. I swear it on my mother."

Alicent's brows smoothed out, the crease dissipating back into her skin.

"Please believe me," Rhaenyra said softly, stepping closer, her spine as rigid as an arrow. "You can't imagine how hard these last few months have been. Now isn't the time for these sorts of accusations."

The thorn of distrust stayed firmly lodged in Alicent's beating heart despite how she tried to yank it free. She wanted, desperately, to believe in Rhaenyra's words, yet Otto was many things—but he was not a liar.

Always cold truths, never comforting lies.

And one thing held true more than anything.

Daemon Targaryen was capable of even more disgusting things than this.

"I believe you," Alicent whispered softly.

Gods she wanted to.

Rhaenyra's face contorted into an expression that took Alicent a moment to decipher asrelief. Yet relief for what? Relief that she believed a lie or relief that she believed the truth? Alicent didn't want to see the worst in people and surely she hadn't used to, but it was so hard when all Rhaenyra showed was her worst. Drugs, gambling, frivolous spending of money that wasn't hers, parties, scandals—and it wasn't like she had never gotten scolded for it.

Despite her wrongdoings, Viserys only gave her a disappointed glance when she entered the room, reluctant to so much as raise his voice at her. By Rhaenyra's age, Alicent had moulded herself into the perfect daughter, chiselling away pieces of herself to make room for what was best for the family.

And she was despised for it. Her character was taken apart in the press. Her best friend hated her. Her son was constantly a menace and the other wouldn't even let her hold him without crying. Now she was to have another who would likely grow to resent her too.

And Rhaenyra got to go to school. She got to live however wanted. She got to love whoever she wanted.

And she chose Daemon.

Alicent recoiled at the horrid thought, her body instinctively moving away from Rhaenyra who sat back atop the cold stone bench. The delicate features of her porcelain face were a stark contrast to the lustrous strands of silver hair cascading down from her cropped cut. The strands were short enough to reveal the graceful curve of her neck, though it was mostly obscured by the colourful scarf wrapped around it.

"How are you feeling?" Alicent quickly recovered her voice, though it came out hoarse and perhaps insincere.

"I'm fine," Rhaenyra said, perhaps too quickly. There was something strained between them now, and it was worse than when Alicent's marriage nearly broke their friendship. Despite it all, Alicent never stopped caring or loving Rhaenyra like a sister—despite becoming her mother.

Alicent took a step closer, trailing her fingers over a cut strand of silver hair. When Rhaenyra had been brought in, her hair, once a cascade of silk, clung unevenly to the edges, charred by the indiscriminate tongues of flames. The left side of her neck bore the harsh aftermath of the fire—the skin mottled with angry red and brown hues, the texture uneven and raised. The burns extended down her neck, tracing a painful path to her left arm, where the damaged skin revealed a landscape of blistered patches. The hospital gown had failed to conceal the damage. The burns on Rhaenyra's side created a disquieting mosaic of damaged tissue, the colours shifting from fiery reds to ashy greys.

Alicent never got to see the burns after the treatment, so all she could imagine was damaged tissue beneath the scarf.

"You look stunning," Alicent said softly, her accusations in competition with her guilt.

Rhaenyra paused, her delicate fingers, moving like fluttering birds, brushed against the jagged edges of a burn that crawled up her jawline like a dark secret. Then, as if remembering it, she untucked the strand from her ear. That strand, once a soft and silky veil, now served as a curtain.

"Was there anything else you wanted to accuse me of? Or shall we continue with the small talk?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice harsh and guttural. She seemed to blend in with the scenery as though she belonged here, despite how she never came home. The house always embraced her within the various dragon artwork and disgusting paraphilia that littered the walls. Despite how much of the art Alicent had removed, the grounds reworked, and the home redesigned, Alicent still felt like an outsider. She had replaced dragons with portraits of the Faith of the Seven, hoping this place might be more welcoming.

Yet she never felt at home or at peace.

"I am trying to protect you," Alicent said swiftly, trailing her palm down her dress, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles.

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed, finally propelling herself from the bench, exposing the top half of the dragon carving, inscribed into the stone. By the time she was standing, Rhaenyra's expression had softened, apologetic. "I'm sorry. I know that. It's just been a difficult morning."

Alicent wanted, desperately, to salvage something. "I will speak with your father." As she reached out to Rhaenyra, Alicent's palm trembled slightly before pressing against her cheek, just as it had when they were children. The touch was meant to be comforting, but Alicent was becoming numb. "I will tell him that it is a mistake."

"Thank you," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice cracking. "I swear it." It was a promise made in earnest, one that held the weight of their entire relationship behind it.

"I know." Alicent's soft lips brushed against Rhaenyra's forehead, leaving a faint warmth in their wake. "You've never been a liar."

And perhaps Alicent might have believed it—perhaps she might have fought on Rhaenyra's side.

Alicent sat alone on the cold, stone bench, shivers racing up and down her spine. The melodic trill of birdsong drifted through the garden, filling the air with a peaceful serenity that calmed Alicent's troubled mind. The garden was alive with vibrant colours and scents, but they were muddled in her nostrils.

The sound of uneven steps reached Alicent's ears, drawing her attention to the approaching figure. Larys Strong's presence was announced by the soft tap of his cane against the stone ground, with each step a deliberate and necessary effort. His hand gripped onto the handle tightly, relying on it for support as he made his way towards her, accompanied by the soft creaking of his cane.

"Lovely day out for a stroll," Larys announced carefully.

Alicent tried to push out an unconvincing smile, yet Larys always made her uneasy. "What business brings you here today, Mr Strong?"

"As I said," Larys replied with a convincing expression of nonchalance. "A stroll." He lingered in his inscrutable expression before walking along the stone pathway to the selection of Hyacinthoides non-scripta that hung about, swaying with the gentle breeze.

He paused, fingers outstretched like the delicate tendrils of a vine seeking the warmth of the sun. His movements were unhurried and in the palm of his hand lay a solitary bluebell, its slender stem adorned with clusters of azure blossoms that swayed delicately in the breeze. The air was alive with the sweet perfume of blossoms, and the sunlight speckled through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the earth below.

It should have been tranquil, but Alicent wasn't having a good day and she didn't like Larys Strong.

"Bluebells are not native to New York," he said softly. "Yet, despite being far from merry old England, look at how they thrive."

His voice was a suggestion, but she was in no mood for games. Instead, her eyes searched through the trees she had planted, wishing for escape. She remained jealous of the birds that pushed off the branches, their ability to fly freely had her lips pursing in discomfort. Her back was sore from the baby growing in her stomach, but despite the pain of the birth, she was content that Viserys didn't seem to enjoy f*cking her when she was pregnant. It kept her bed empty for eight months, allowing her the solitude she wished for.

The solitude that Larys Strong had denied her.

"Yes. They are my favourite flower," Alicent said stiffly, though it wasn't true. Alicent didn't have a favourite anything.

"And yet they have withstood New York's harsh weather, rooted their vines into the earth, and brought colour to the garden," Larys replied, her fingers grazing over the petals before falling away. The stems had weathered at first in the harsh elements of New York, their deep green leaves twisting and twining around the sturdy trellis. "This place benefits from your presence. It always had, Mrs Targaryen."

No matter how many times she heard it, Alicent would never grow used to the title that came with her marriage. She clutched onto the name Hightower until the day her father forced her to give it up—exchange it for a better one, he'd said.

"What can I do for you, Mr Strong?" Alicent's voice held a harsher bite than she intended, but it only elicited a humble smile from Larys in return.

"While there is a multitude of things you can do," he answered, almost sheepishly. "I do not require assistance. I only sought you out because I noticed your solitude."

"It was quite intentional," Alicent admitted, her tone softening despite herself. She glanced at Larys, his gentle demeanour a stark contrast to her own guardedness. Though, she hardly trusted Larys.

"Yes, you do not lack solitude these days," Larys agreed. "I have to wonder if you are in need of a friend. While I am a meagre one in comparison to all that must be at your beck and call—" Alicent stiffened at his comment, furiously scrubbing clean any expression that might give away her insulted sting. "—you would find that I could do so much more for you than Miss Rhaenyra."

"That is a very bold and audacious statement," Alicent's snapping reply was lidden with disdain.

"I am not usually so blunt," Larys said swiftly, though there wasn't apology hidden in his face when he continued with a disingenuous, "Forgive me."

Alicent looked away, yet her attention was drawn back to the drooping bluebells, her fingers twitching to pluck them from their stems and cast them aside. "Forgiven, Mr Strong."

"Larys," he corrected with a light-hearted airiness in his voice. "I've known you for long enough to be on first names, don't you think?"

Alicent swallowed her retort, because she knew that Rhaenyra would have said something cutting and Alicent wasn’t quite so rash. Yet, her temper remained true. “I prefer you continue using my title.”

A faint, knowing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, accompanied by a barely discernible glint in his eyes. It was a subtle amusem*nt, veiled behind a mask of composure, yet unmistakably present in the way his gaze shone with hidden humour. "Of course. I wouldn't dream otherwise. Your father worked hard for that title."

A fleeting shadow passed over her features, a subtle shift in the set of her jaw and the tension that tightened the corners of her mouth. It was a quiet indignation, simmering beneath the surface like embers glowing in the darkness, barely perceptible but unmistakably present. She levelled her ire, dousing the flickering embers of her temper until they were but quiet kindling. When she came to, there were crescents, wedged into the heel of her palms from her sharp nails.

"I only worry for you, Mrs Targaryen. You've put all your faith in Miss Rhaenyra. It pains me to see it misplaced," Larys' head was bowed in a gesture of concern, but to Alicent, he resembled a wilting bluebell, drained of its sweet perfume and turned bitter and acrid.

"Speak plainly, Mr Strong," she ordered, her back stiffening.

"Oh, perhaps I should not," Despite giving off the appearance of a frail and timid man, not physically imposing, he still scared Alicent. "I only worry for your father's position, now that he's spoken so truthfully."

"Is that right?" Alicent had already spoken to Viserys, who continuously berated her father's character in defence of his daughter. She was inclined to agree, now that she heard Rhaenyra's blatant denial.

"It's only that," Larys took a step closer, leaning his weight upon his cane as he moved. "I hear his position is now in jeopardy."

Alicent stiffened further, her spine rigid as a steel rod. "Surely not."

"Your father crossed a line, Mrs Targaryen and there are consequences for those who defame Mr Targaryen's daughter," Larys said with genuine sympathy as he once more met her stare. "Even if the defamation is true."

Alicent's heart was drumming through her ribcage, now so loud that she could scarcely hear the words being spoken.

"Even if the proof of it is in Mr Targaryen's office," Larys said.

"That's enough," Alicent found the words to snap, her voice rough and dry.

"I only wish to help you," Larys bowed his head. "You have friends here, far more loyal than the previous ones, Mrs Targaryen."

Viserys paced the room, back and forth with increasing ferocity. There was a swelling lump in his chest, sinking further and further as his feet prodded along each panel of wood in his study. Every passing second, it became easier and easier to imagine ripping the Valyrian steel dagger from the wall with such ferocity, that he'd take particles of the wallpaper from beneath it. Every passing second, it became easier to imagine driving that dagger straight through the sinewy muscle of his brother's sternum. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white against the golden fabric of his sleeves as he paced.

When they were children, Daemon had made it his mission to continuously spread chaos with every breath he took. He destroyed everything—Viserys's toys, clothes, and tore across all the maps of old Valyria. He made a brothel of Dragonstone and embarrassed and thwarted every attempt Viserys made to undo the damage Daemon had wrought upon House Targaryen. Yet, out of love and duty, Viserys had continuously defended his brother.

He gave him countless seats in the council, and yet every gift was met with resistance and spite.

Viserys gripped his desk until his hands were white and bent. He had drawn the curtains, yet light trickled in upon the stack of photographs like granules of sand through a sieve. Daylight normally vivified the city and his office, but now he wished for the cover of darkness. He had lit a fire, stood just near the hearth, and held up those photographs to the flickering flames that licked and swerved, ready to consume. Yet no matter how he held them there, the fire did not reach up like a starving mouth and consume them.

He was a dragon—Rhaenyra was a dragon—so just as fire would not kill them, so too, would they not burn the rumours that were sure to spread.

"Viserys," Alicent's voice was accompanied by her telltale knock, one that would forever be engrained upon the fragment of his mind to mean her quiet presence. "May I?"

Viserys hid the photos behind his back, circling his desk and placing them into the safe with a resounding click as Alicent Hightower entered. She had a soft voice, absent of her father's monotone, that at times, sounded like the hiss of a coiled serpent. Viserys liked that about Otto—until the hiss came in his direction.

Today, Alicent wore a dress of the deepest yellow, with a silver trim that caught the firelight. Glitter seemed to sparkle in her tightly coiled hair.

"What is it, Alicent?" he asked, lowering himself into his chair. The leather creaked under him, and Viserys ran a hand through his thinning hair. The door closed with a resounding click behind her, and he barely resisted the urge to stand again.

Confined spaces were suffocating him nowadays, and each breath he took reeked of the stale scent of his own panic.

Alicent all but curtsied, her dress belling around her like the petals of a poisonous flower, before stepping closer. House Targaryen had enough salt in its wounds to add yet another issue, but Viserys was reluctant to send her away. Alicent, at times, calmed a bit of the panic that crept in with her steadfast loyalty and wit.

"Have you talked to them?" Her words were rough around the edges, speaking in a tone that had his migraine flaring.

"What are you referring to?" Viserys began, though his pulse had crept up his throat. "Don't speak in riddles. That's Otto's voice."

For a moment, something as vicious as her father flitted across her face before she swatted it away with her placating tone. "So you have avoided it."

"Riddles, Alicent," Viserys said, his hands gripping his desk.

"I heard you and my father discussing your brother and my stepdaughter," Alicent edged forward, her hands at her sides.

"And?" Viserys clenched his jaw, and he felt ribs expanding with each inhalation. He wondered if there'd be a point in denial, but of all things, his wife was not a liar and he would not be one either.

"Viserys," Alicent placed a hand on his, her ringed fingers cool against his hot skin.

It wasn't often that she touched him. Usually, it was him seeking her out when the sun lowered—just to feel flesh beneath his skin and picture Aemma under him. It was cruel, of that he knew, but it was the transaction of their marriage.

He placed his palm atop hers, his lips spreading into a gentle smile. "They are but rumours. Your father has many, but it doesn't mean they are accurate."

Alicent tore her hand from his, the cold rings leaving behind a void that deepened the chill in his bones. "Why haven't you confronted them?"

Viserys nearly laughed, trying to compose himself. Daemon would deny it and of course, his brother's word was worth less than the gold he'd pissed away in the brothel rooms of his debauched casinos. Rhaenyra was far more cunning—she had Aemma's eyes when she lied straight to his face.

"I," Viserys began and stopped. He rubbed at his temples, squeezing them painfully. "I am trying to protect my family."

"And what is Daemon doing to protect it? Other than your daughter?" Alicent asked harshly, her voice rising. She clamped a hand over her mouth as if to stop the words, as though she could stuff them back in her pretty, poisonous maw.

"You will hold your tongue," he bellowed, his voice causing the very rafters of the study to tremble. His chest heaved, and he roughly wiped away the beads of sweat that had collected on his brow.

"I care about her reputation. If my father already knows," Alicent's voice lowered, correcting itself even now. Viserys was amazed by her ability to do that, and how, even when he knew she was actively doing it, it still placated him. "It's a matter of time before all of New York knows."

"He would deny it. Rhaenyra would deny it. And we would be left tearing our house apart."

Alicent sat in the chair across from him and folded her hands in her lap. She was a picture of serenity as she spoke next, something that chilled him to his very core. "I know you are trying to protect the family, but a dragon cannot bathe in its own filth."

"What would you have me do?" Viserys asked instead.

"Cut the head off the snake. Send him away. We've talked about marriage for her before—to the Lannisters?" Alicent said softly. "I think it's time to consider it more sincerely than before."

"I will not force my daughter into marriage," Viserys retorted, rubbing a hand down his face. "After what she has been through, that would be cruel."

"It is a common practice. Your good grace has allowed her to run wild all these years," Alicent replied, reaching over and gripping his hand. "And there is happiness to be found. Look at us."

He wasn't certainthey were the prime example of happiness, though there were times he might have loved her as he had Aemma. There were moments, when she pressed her fingertips against his jaw, and he leaned into her touch. There were moments. Yet, moments didn't always equate to joy, though there was no denying that she took him through the worst of his grief with her grace and her poise and her devotion.

"I will think on it," Viserys said calmly. "I am meeting with Daemon today. Iwill think on it."

"It is not confirmed," Alicent agreed. "It could very well be just smoke, but it doesn't matter if others think there is fire."

"If there is one," Viserys replied softly. "You're father lit the first match."

She recoiled back, stung, yet with viper-like speed, she recovered. "I spoke to Rhaenyra already, and she denied the allegations."

Viserys was not surprised, though he was just as swift to nod his head. "And do you believe her?"

"Rhaenyra isn't the type to lie," Alicent said with a slowness in her words, as if she was doubting them as they crossed her tongue.

"It's just smoke," Viserys replied after a quiet hush, though the words had him wanting to laugh until he could not stop. He could practically hear the sounds that came from his closed lips, drumming and drumming before they finally narrowed into gut-wrenching sobs. The laugh could resemble the very inversion of joy, like skin pulled apart to reveal rotten meat.

"Of course," she agreed with a half-hearted smile. "Only smoke."

Yet, Viserys felt like his home was burning.

Daemon was drunk before the light cracked in through the curtains. He missed his meetings—and rescheduled them for later dates as he lifted the glass to his lips. It was an early day, and he couldn't see a damn thing for the gin still sloshing in his skull. He cursed underneath his breath as the bones in his body creaked and groaned when he sat up. His side ached from where he'd hit the edge of a table. The liquor tasted like ash, yet it numbed him just enough to forget the a time when his life made sense.

A tumultuous whirlpool of emotions churned within him, leaving him feeling completely out of control. It was as if he were lost at sea, battered by the relentless crashing waves. As Laena accused, he had never been a complex man, content to indulge in vices like whor*s and gambling debts, always living in the shadow of his older brother Viserys, the true heir to their family's wealth and legacy. But even as he wallowed in this life, there was an unexplainable yearning that left him unsatisfied, always searching for something more elusive than the riches and wrongs he surrounded himself with.

Rhaenyra ruined everything, and still, he couldn't stay away from her—and hetried. He tried so often that it was a wonder there was room for anything but her.

So he was surprised when two hands landed heavily on his shoulders, nearly yanking him off his bar stool and forcing him to stand. The pain from the tight grip sent a jolt through his body, but he remained still as the few other patrons scattered, paid off by someone at the door. Only a few stubborn regulars remained but they had scattered like rats at the sound of approaching footsteps. The hushed whispers of exchanged money quieted and were promptly drowned out by the traffic from outside. It was clear that money could buy more than just a drink in this place. It could buy silence and safety in the early hours of the morning.

As Daemon slowly blinked his eyes open, the harsh, bright light assaulted his senses. He could hear muffled voices and feel strong hands gripping his arms, holding him upright. Through bleary eyes, he saw his brother Viserys standing a few feet away, giving a curt nod to the two men restraining Daemon. With a single gesture from Viserys, they released their hold on him and he stumbled forward, trying to regain his balance. But his body betrayed him and he crumbled to the ground, his head spinning as he stared up at the jagged and worn ceiling. The room was now empty, the only sound coming from the tinkling of shattered glass underfoot. The smell of stale beer and sweat lingered in the air, mixing with the metallic taste of blood in Daemon's mouth. Daemon's head throbbed and his body ached from the fall. He struggled to lift himself up, grasping for any remaining ounce of strength, only for it to fail him.

"I wanted to do this in the privacy of my estate," Viserys spoke, and his voice was harsh and scarcely contained his rage. "But you cancelled the last two meetings. Can't say I am not surprised, though I remain disappointed."

Daemon chuckled, attempting to rearrange his thoughts, though his stomach clenched with a nauseous ache. He had left Rhaenyra's place three days ago, but since waking up to her, he had thought of nothing since. She wouldn'tgo away. She was with him even now, her glittery pink nails scratching against the bones of his skull.

He hadn't been able to f*ck another—though he'd tried and tried in vain.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the throbbing in his temples and the sickly sweet taste in his mouth made him wince, both drunk and somehow hungover.

"I'll give you a chance to deny it. Let's get it out of the way," Viserys's words sliced through the tense air, his voice sharp and unforgiving. Daemon's gaze snapped to his brother's face, taking in the harsh angles of his jaw and the rage burning in his eyes.

"Deny what?" Daemon finally deigned to speak, his insides curling and twisting into intricate and disgusting knots. "It would help to know the accusations before I deny them."

Viserys' laughter rang hollow, devoid of any true joy. The sound was sharp and mocking, like the crack of a whip. "My daughter. How long has it been going on?" Viserys sneered, but didn't wait for an answer before delivering a swift kick to Daemon's side with his leather shoe. Pain radiated through Daemon's body, each blow feeling like a dagger being twisted in his flesh. He coughed and wheezed, struggling to maintain his composure against his brother's pointed attack. The smell of alcohol permeated the air, mingling with the stench of sweat and olives. "Was it happening in my house?"

Viserys repeated the attack, each blow feeling like a thousand needles piercing his skin. If the alcohol didn't destroy his organs, surely his brother's merciless assault would finish the job. Despite the pain, Daemon could only cough weakly, too exhausted to fight back against his brother's onslaught.

"Truly brother," he managed to choke out between gasps for air, wincing at the pain shooting through his ribs. Daemon let out a weak laugh, which was likely not the way to placate Viserys' barely concealed rage. It certainly earned another kick before he could even finish the words, sending him sprawling onto the cold stone floor. "Have you gone completely mental?"

The taste of blood filled his mouth as he struggled to catch his breath.

Viserys' voice was a venomous hiss as he didn't bother to wait for Daemon's confession, immediately kicking him with a force that sent waves of pain through his body. "You've ruined her," he snarled, his eyes blazing with fury. "It's not enough that you are a complete disaster." Viserys finally knelt down, his fingers digging into the scruff of Daemon's unbuttoned collar like claws. With a powerful yank, he brought Daemon up to face him, causing sharp tremors to run down his spine as he struggled to breathe under the pressure. "She's just a girl and you what? Seduced her?" His accusation dripped with disgust and contempt as he held Daemon in place, daring him to deny it.

Daemon's piercing gaze narrowed, his features sharpening with newfound clarity. But the glimmer of amusem*nt still lingered in his eyes, like a drunken haze refusing to dissipate. "Seduced? Brother, I hardly had to try," he taunted, unable to resist poking at his brother's pride. But his bravado was quickly silenced when he felt the cold bite of Valyrian steel pressed against his throat. The sharpness of the blade sent a chill through him, momentarily jolting his senses back to life.

"I should do it. Do it and be done with you," Viserys hissed out his words, a thin line of spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. Though his words were steady, Daemon noted his hand was shaking. It boded well for Daemon's continued breath, yet it did cause the tip of the dagger to twist into his skin with more force than Daemon liked. "I have always defended you. Protected you—" The words were swallowed down Viserys' throat, and Daemon watched the bobbing of his brother's Adam's Apple.

This would be the optimal moment for denials or apologies, but Daemon found himself incapable of either. Instead, he let out a hollow laugh, ignoring the sting of torn skin and the trickle of blood, trailing down the column of his neck. "She's a woman now, and she acts like it. Who am I to deny her?" If he were a good man, this would be the part where he confessed his wrongdoings and saw the light, but it was just not in his nature. He searched within himself, but could not find the remorse that others expected from him.

Many things he'd regret, but remorse?

A guttural growl escaped from deep within Viserys' chest, sending shivers down Daemon's spine. The sharp edge of a blade glinted in the dim light, poised to strike at any moment. Normally, Daemon would have instinctively moved to defend his throat, but this was his own brother before him. Despite the hurtful words and threats, he couldn't bring himself to raise his hand against flesh and blood.

Viserys' voice was cold and sharp as a dagger, slicing through the air. "I should send you away," Viserys said with a heavy sigh, his hand clenching around the hilt of the dagger as he pulled it back into its sheath, hiding it in his coat. "You'll never be able to return to New York again."

Daemon felt his heart sink at the prospect, but it was the next words that truly sobered him.

"Nor will you ever see her again."

Adrenaline surged through his veins as he scrambled to his feet, audacious determination taking over his body. "No one would want her now. Give her to me." The sound of their heavy breaths and pounding hearts filled the bar, punctuated by the distant hum of outside traffic.

"Excuse me." As if awoken from a daze, Viserys blinked rapidly to clear the confusion that had momentarily clouded his face.

"It's a tradition in our house. Just as it had been for our parents," Daemon's words cut through the tense air, revealing the dark secret that had destroyed their family before. He spoke with careful enunciation, almost as if each word were a delicate piece of porcelain. The mere mention of their true mother was taboo, a scandal that had been kept hidden for years. "Who are we to fight tradition, brother?"

Viserys's cold laughter reverberated through the room, sending shivers down Daemon's spine. The sound was like broken glass scraping against metal, filled with harrowing emotion that seemed to twist and contort his brother's face. Daemon couldn't help but eye the dagger still glinting in Viserys's coat, wondering if it would be used against him. Before he could react, Viserys's fist flew out and struck him square in the jaw, the sharp edges of his rings digging into Daemon's skin with a painful sting. As Daemon stumbled backwards, his back collided with the bar stools, causing them to crash to the ground in a chaotic symphony of noise. It was a deserved hit, but Daemon's patience was waning.

"I will fix the mess you madeagain," Viserys hissed out, punching Daemon straight in the gut and the force nearly had him vomiting as he bent forward in pain. "I will right your wrongsagain. You will undoubtedly go back to your whor*s again. If I catch you so much as whispering to her, I will have your body dumped into the Hudson. Are we clear?"

Daemon only groaned, his brain rushing with the force of the hit.

Though the threat was a real one—one that he'd remember when he sobered—it was one Daemon was incapable of following. He had left Rhaenyra once before, sparing her all of this, but he found he could not do it again.

Her scent was permeated on his skin, and to live without it was to tear away his flesh.

Chapter 29: Valyrian Steel

Chapter Text

Ｔｗｅｎｔｙ－Ｎｉｎｅ

𝓋𝒶𝓁𝓎𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓁

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

As Rhaenyra unsheathed the dagger, the moonlight bounced off its surface, creating a dazzling display of translucent colours. The blade itself was as thin as a shard of crystal and almost seemed to disappear when viewed from certain angles. A soft blue glow emanated from its edges, and Rhaenyra could feel the bite radiating from it. It was sharper than any razor she had ever held in her hand.

Her daddy was going to kill her for taking it.

Normally, Rhaenyra would attempt to blame it on the staff, then slip what she took back into place once she got bored. Since this was such a normal occurrence, her mother would immediately know who had done it and she'd get her arse spanked.

But they'd have to find her first and Dragonstone housed a castle so ginormous, that they'd be searching for weeks before finding a child who only wanted to hide. She wasn't planning on any real adventures, but she got so few chances to play knight unattended. Soon, she'd be swept back to New York where her father would likely spendmore andmoretime in his office, doing adult things that simply bored her to tears.

She moved gracefully—or as gracefully as an eight-year-old could—her feet carrying her around the perimeter of the parapet. Each step left a faint scuff mark on her shoes, evidence of her determined climb to the very top. Her Mum was going to murder for it, but Rhaenyra didn't see the point in fretting. She was already in trouble, so what were they to do? Double ground her? She'd see her phone taken away, anyway. What's one more crime?

Her breath was heavy from the ascent, but she couldn't resist the feeling of being so high above everything else. The world below looked like a miniature diorama, each wave and ebbing crash against the cliffside reduced to tiny details.

The view was breathtaking, the breeze brisk and wet against her cheek. It whipped at her loose hair, tangling it into a knotty mess she'd have to sleep on while it dried. She wouldn't care.

"I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, Lady of Fire and Blood," she announced, pausing to gasp for air. "And I'll not be cowed by you!"

She struck at an imaginary foe, twirling the blade in a practised motion that would have made the guards envious. Who knew she paid attention in her lessons? Then again, she was always one for impressions.

"And you!" she whirled on another imaginary assailant, "shall rue the day you've underestimated this dragon!" She crowed with glee.

"Calm down, little princess. I think you've killed it," came the haughty voice of her uncle, nearly causing her father's dagger to fly out from her fingers and into the crashing waves below. As it was, she only fumbled with it, watching it fall from her grasp and balance atop the stonework of the path to her right.

"Uncle Daemon!" Rhaenyra's ears were red with humiliation, but her excitement overpowered even her embarrassment. She stepped over the blade to fling her arms around his waist. He always dressed to the height of fashion, and she'd emulate his colour palette when he wasn't looking. "You're home!"

Daemon Targaryen smiled down at his young niece, ruffling her hair in a way that would cost anyone else a limb.

"Right. Home. Here," Daemon glanced over the edge with a brief scoff that she didn't much understand, but before she could comment on it, he continued. "And I see you've been getting into trouble without me." His violet eyes danced with mirth as he lifted her up, her toes dangling a few centimetres above the ground. "I was only gone for a few days."

"It's been forever! And I've been so good," she pouted, scowling at him.

Daemon's laughter filled the air like bell chimes, echoing through the morning sky and back again. "Save it for your father, sweetling. You've got guilt written all over your face." He placed her on the ground and took in her dishevelled, tangled hair. He combed his fingers through stray silver strands, and Rhaenyra winced when they hit a particularly nasty knot. Usually, her Mother would awaken to braid it, but yet again, her fat and pregnant Mum had slept in.

"You promised to teach me more words," she said urgently, her brows furrowing in such a way that had his smile tugging on his lips. It nearly seemed like a reluctant gesture, but Rhaenyra could not always tell with her uncle. "I wanted know lots Valyrian,"she said, and she figured she messed up her tenses once more when she noticed Daemon wince as if he had been visibly insulted by her attempt at High Valyrian.

Her Father certainly never taught her and her mother was always so busy getting pregnant.

"Perhaps you should have practised the words you already know instead," Daemon whispered back unkindly. If Rhaenyra wasn't so used to his barbed words, she might have been offended, but as it was, her skin was as tough as dragonhide. "Must it always be lessons with you? I bring gifts."

He pulled out a small box from his coat, and she heard the rustling of his fabric when his hand slipped into the inner pocket like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. She wanted a new bike or perhaps new shoes, but he opened the box to reveal a dainty, carved beast in its place.

"It's a Dragon," she observed, reaching out to run her fingers through the intricate grooves and dips in the wood. It was polished smooth, with no splinters in sight. She could see her reflection in the deep obsidian orbs of the dragon's eyes. "It's beautiful."

"And expensive," Daemon replied, shooting a wary glance at the dagger she had stepped over to run to him. "So I'd appreciate it if you treated it with more care than you did your father's heirloom."

"Oh f*ck," Rhaenyra cursed, rushing over to the dagger and carefully kneeling to pick it up. She trailed the hem of her dress over the blade, wiping it clear of any dust before she glanced back up when her uncle snorted.

"What does Viserys do when you curse like a sailor?" Daemon asked, kneeling next to her and holding out his hand for the blade. She stared at his fingers with a look of distrust before she reluctantly placed it in his waiting palm. The blade seemed to suit him far more than it ever fit in her clumsy fingers, but that didn't matter because it would never belong to either of them. The unborn fetus in her mum's belly had more claim to it than a disgruntled uncle and a wayward niece. "Perhaps a coin in a sware jar?"

"I don't see him here, so if you punish me, I'll know you are a loser," Rhaenyra said with a sneering smile that had his lips twitching up in amusem*nt. Rhaenyra adored her uncle, and appreciated his strong fingers, trailing over her hair when he ruffled it. She liked how he talked to her when everyone else seemed to talk down to her.

"What did you steal it for?" Daemon asked carefully.

Bits of wind had tussled his hair, sweeping long strands over his cheekbones. He looked like the Dragonriders in her father's old books—strong and confident and male. Rhaenyra nearly rolled her eyes, but—and not for the first time—wished she could be like him. All she'd need is a dick. She already had the audacity.

"I was going to throw it into the ocean," Rhaenyra admitted reluctantly.

The violent sound of the sea, crashing against the cliffs below, was punctuated by the cawing seagulls. Gulls fought over old fish bones, squabbling over the sinewy meat while their feathers ruffled in the wind. "Why?" Daemon asked after a long moment.

"Because I hate it," she spat out, her fists clenching into tight little balls. "I hate it. I hate her and her stupid fat belly. I don't need a new brother or sister to replace me. Because I'm tired of being a girl," she blurted out, and winced when Daemon chuckled. "I'm serious!"

"Why would you want to be heir?" Daemon asked carefully, swirling the blade skillfully in his hand. He looked like an expert swordsman, which did not help mend her irritation. "It's boring and time-consuming."

"What would you know?" Rhaenyra asked, not at all nicely as she finally stood, her long dress wrinkled as she glided her palms over it. "You've never been heir."

"You're awfully nasty today," Daemon said, still kneeling down, his elbow resting on his thigh as his finger obstructed the view of his nose. Almost immediately, she felt a stab of guilt, lurch into her gut. She wanted to apologise, but all that came out was a squeak that blended in with the noise of the gulls.

"I just—" Rhaenyra shook her head. "Everyone's so excited about the new baby. They are making all these plans and I—I'm just stuck here."

"Do you want to go back to New York?" Daemon asked carefully.

"I don't know," she said with a frown as she worked her fingers through her sloppily braided hair. "Mum said she can't fly."

"She can't," Daemon agreed. "I could take you."

"Really?" Rhaenyra's lips reluctantly tipped up. "They won't mind?"

He flipped the dagger, the point balanced firmly in his long fingers as he offered her the hilt. "So long as you don't lose a priceless and old family heirloom, I'll consider it."

She pouted, but reached her hand out to the hilt, gripping the blade firmly in her palm. It felt right in her hand, like it belonged there. Yet, it wasn't hers. Girls can't inherit sh*te—not even a dusty old blade.

"Did anyone notice it was missing?" Rhaenyra asked.

"Too busy noticingyou missing," Daemon finally stood, holding out his hand where she stared at it with an expression of mistrust.

"How did you find me, anyway?" Rhaenyra questioned, placing her sweaty palm in his.

"My little dragon," he said with almost reluctant affection. "You're never hard to find. We need to work on your lack of unpredictability.”

Daemon wasn't answering his phone. This wasn't a surprise since Rhaenyra was used to his moods and his moments where he'd fall off the face of the earth like an emotionally stunted douchebag. If he wasn't her uncle and if she hadn't received a package of a severed hand that morning, she'd let him and perhaps move on with her day. Perhaps not.

She wasn't all too good with moving on and he wasn't very good at letting her try.

"I don't know what to do with it," Rhaenyra snapped, watching her cousin open the lid and immediately close it with a thinly-lipped smile.

Laena didn't seem all too surprised, which caused a flicker of disappointment to settle in Rhaenyra's gut. It was difficult to get Laena off her kelter, but Rhaenyra couldn't resist her attempt. Her hair was coiled into a half-bun, leaving the rest of her curly silver locks to fall down her back like curving water. Rhaenyra envied her casual beauty, the way she could look put together without a trace of makeup while Rhaenyra looked like a drowned cat most mornings.

"Burn off the fingertips to start," Laena said, tracing her gloved hands over the box. "They didn't leave a note?"

"Hold up, burn off their what?" Rhaenyra retorted, tracing her manicured nails against the bone-white marble countertop.

"Focus, Nyra. Did you get a note?" Laena repeated, and Rhaenyra sighed heavily.

"It was pointless drivel," Rhaenyra spat, crossing the room to her walk-in closet and rummaging through the mess of clothes for a bottle of Vodka. "I don't know what it means."

"Don't drink that," Laena snapped, effectively startling her out of her thoughts as she snatched the bottle away before she could unscrew the top. "That won't help."

"What will?" Rhaenyra snapped, seizing it back as she managed to unscrew it with a vicious twist.

"Perhaps gathering yourself into a stable person again," Laena replied, yanking the bottle and hurling it into the trash. "Understand?"

"My dad got me that," Rhaenyra mumbled.

"Now, where's the note?"

"I was saving it," Rhaenyra continued with a dismayed sigh as she grabbed the note from her bag and handed it over.

"You're not an alcoholic, are you?" Laena asked with furrowed brows as she uncrumpled the paper. "It won't be our next long, uncomfortable talk, right?"

"No you arsehole," Rhaenyra snapped, collapsing against her couch and letting the plush cushions embrace her. "I could be worse, Lae. I could be out there, burning down buildings and f*cking random men without protection."

"You should try women. We're much less trouble," Laena suggested, her eyes darting over the words. "Did a child write this? It's amateur."

Rhaenyra glanced at her Apple Watch, but her eyes were glazed as she stared at the time. "I'm so tired of all this. Luckily my brother did not live past infancy. He'd be having to do all the work."

Laena looked amused as her bright violet eyes scanned her from over the paper. "He'd be a son—and a wealthy one at that. He'd probably be the one sending the threats, you know?"

Rhaenyra's lips twitched up, but there was little amusem*nt to be had. "Why am I being threatened at all? Haven't they disfigured me enough?" She sunk her head back to stare up at the spinning ceiling, but she felt the cushions dip as her cousin joined her side. Laena's strong presence was like a brush of cool water from over her skin, settling against the burns and fanning them down until they no longer hurt.

"I've looked into that symbol," Laena's voice was quiet, hushed from over the crackling fire and boiling water from the kettle. Rhaenyra had missed her cousin's tea—Laena always steeped it just right and added the perfect amount of honey and lemon. "The tattoo is apparently from some gang called the Sheepstealers down in Fleabottom. My sources are looking into that now."

Rhaenyra was quiet, too busy staring at the patterns on her ceiling when the kettle began to whistle. Laena pressed her palm against Rhaenyra's thigh as she stood to prepare the tea, and Rhaenyra focused on the sound of Laena's steps as they grew further and further away. She looked down at her Apple Watch again, but there were no new messages and she felt pathetic for wanting them.

"Whose your source?" Rhaenyra didn't mistrust Laena, but it was hard to give anyone blind faith after seeing what people did with it.

She heard Laena approach, steam wafting from two white mugs. Laena's clear and smooth face wrinkled with uncertainty as she placed the mugs down on the wooden table, the sound of her metal jewellery jangling with every movement. "You won't like it."

Rhaenyra's face scrunched, but she inclined her head for her cousin to continue.

"Alys," Laena replied curtly, stirring her tea with a spoon that clinked against the porcelain. "Nothing to worry about though. I don't trust her either." Laena waited for Rhaenyra to speak, but she could only stare back up at the ceiling, aware of every movement Laena made as the thoughts in her head just jumbled together into a mess.

"You are on a first-name basis?" Rhaenyra asked carefully.

Laena hesitated, blowing on her steaming mug of tea before taking a sip. "We're not friends if that's what you are implying." She set the mug down with a clink and placed a hand on Rhaenyra's jittery knee, the touch making her still. "What's on your mind?"

"Good," Rhaenyra said softly. "Because, seriously, f*ck that bitch."

Laena let out a surprised laugh, and her hand casually squeezed Rhaenyra's knee. "She's not that bad. She has a certain jen c'est quoi."

"She's a dick," Rhaenyra replied with a snort.

Laena chuckled, her breath mingling into the steam of her tea just before she took another sip. "Your security seems top-notch. How did the hand even get here?"

"I went for a coffee run," Rhaenyra began, finally reaching for her tea. The warmth of the mug leaked into her skin and she lingered into the touch before she rose it to her lips. It smelled of rose and lemon and honey. "It was in my car."

"Unfortunate. You know, most billionaires have drivers. Jason doesn’t even know how to start a car, let alone drive one.” Laena twirled a strand of coiling silver hair around her pointer finger.

“Jason Lannister is a loser with absolutely no ability whatsoever,” Rhaenyra replied with a snort.

“Catty today, Nyra. Meow," Laena said with extra enunciation. "Anyway, I’ll take the hand with me and deal with it."

Rhaenyra's eyes finally darted to her, lips twisting up into a sardonic smile that felt too bitter to be directed at her favourite person in the world. "And burn the fingertips?"

"Among other things," Laena said with a twisted smile as she raised the letter back to her eyeline. "’Stay out of the business.’ What does that even mean?"

Rhaenyra had many ideas, which was why she phoned Daemon fifteen times. It would have been sixteen, but she had filled his f*cking voicemail box. "It's no surprise that no one wants me in power. My puss* aside, I don't exactly inspire leadership qualities."

"Neither does Laenor, but he's not getting death threats. What did you do?" Laena retorted sharply.

Rhaenyra opened her lips to reply, when her security alarm went off and a violent ringing filled the room. She didn't get the chance to panic when she heard the soothing beeping of various familiar buttons, silencing the ringing. She heard familiar strides, and despite how she resisted, her blood warmed when she saw Daemon's face. There was a bruise along his jaw, and her eyes honed into the blue, discoloured skin with a hint of alarm.

"Oh great," Daemon said with a sigh when he noticed Laena, who had sent him a coy smile that was partially hidden by her mug. Daemon tossed a bag on the table in front of Rhaenyra's feet, prompting her to drop them back onto the ground as she stood to open the paper bag. Daemon slapped her hand away, and she scowled up at him.

The room fell into awkward silence as Laena glanced in between them. "I am perfectly aware that you two are f*cking. It doesn't have to be awkward."

"Oh my god," Rhaenyra mumbled as she hid her face in her hands. Her gloves restricted feeling, but she knew her cheeks were hot with morbid embarrassment.

"We're unfortunately not f*cking at this moment, no thanks to your splendid presence," Daemon replied in his stunning ability to make everything worse.

"I wish I had died in that fire," Rhaenyra mumbled. "Much less painful."

"Morbid joke," Laena muttered with a click of her tongue. "What are you doing here, Daemon?"

"You were supposed to be in Fleabottom this afternoon," Daemon replied softly, reaching down to grab Rhaenyra's tea, helping himself without her permission. She noticed his lips purposefully grace the red lipstick mark that marred the porcelain and, judging by the arch of Laena's brow, she noticed it too. She dug herself back into the couch.

"Your niece got threatened again andIactually answer my mobile," Laena said with a sneer, causing Rhaenyra to further sink into the cream-coloured sucesso, inhaling the earthy aroma being emitted from her freshly cleaned couch.

Daemon's brow twitched, but he sent back an equally combative sneer that disappeared when his eyes darted to Rhaenyra. "This is what happens when you talk, dear."

Rhaenyra only closed her eyes, dipping her head into her hands. "I am so uncomfortable."

Laena hummed, sitting back up and walking over to the wooden box. She nonchalantly grabbed it and walked it back to Daemon, showing him the contents. "Familiar?"

"Ah," Daemon replied with equal nonchalance. "That explains why he's not answering my calls."

"Oh, you actually do know how to pick up a phone," Laena said, closing the box with a sniff.

"Drop the arm in your daddy's incinerator, Laena," Daemon said with a snort.

Rhaenyra held out her hand expectantly, and Daemon compliantly handed her back her tea. She took a sip, feeling the citrus calm her nerves. "You know whose arm it is?"

"Hard not to recognize those calluses. Greyjoy," Daemon answered.

"Oh? Dalton?" Rhaenyra replied.

"Very likely," Daemon responded with a frown, his fingers absently rubbing against the bruise across his jaw.

Laena's eyes narrowed, and she pulled out her phone to make a call. Rhaenyra heard soft French spoken, but her French was hardly conversational. She noted Laena's lilting smile, her shoulders relaxing as Daemon knelt down near her. Rhaenyra felt his fingers brush against her knee, and she could feel the heat of his hand through her leggings. Her eyes narrowed on the scraps of his knuckles when his fingers squeezed into her flesh. Her eyes traced the bare forearms, his rolled-up sleeves, his broad shoulders and the length of his neck before they settled on his eyes.

"You alright?" Daemon's words were sensual, but they shouldn't be because she was technically still pissed at him. She certainly didn't trust him or the burning flesh beneath his hand.

She raised her fingers to the tender skin of his jaw, gently tracing the bruise. "I hope the other guy looks worse for wear."

Daemon's lips twitched up and his hand settled against the back of hers, preventing her from dropping her arm. Even with the glove, she could feel the heat of him from through the lace and it shouldn't have been so warm and inviting, yet she couldn't pull away. He twisted his head to press his lips against the visible skin between the edge of her glove and her sleeve. Her eyes shut as she felt the slightest heat across her veins.

“Where have you been?” Rhaenyra asked softly, trying to urge her f*ckingurgesaway from her puss*. She was tired of thinking with that instead of her head. She was like a dog with a bone.

sh*te, she was like a man.

A sliver of emotion passed across his face, but she couldn’t read it before it retreated to that same place he’d go whenever she tried to get close to him.

“We need to talk,” he said, finally lowering her hand with a squeeze before he stood up to stride to Laena just as she hung up the phone.

“It’s not Dalton. Apparently, it’s his brother, so that’s not good,” Laena said with a sigh. “Why the f*ck are you associating with Greyjoys?”

“Business opportunities,” Rhaenyra said casually, taking another sip of her tea. “Do you disapprove?”

Laena looked between both niece and uncle with a growing frown, yet she did not voice any of her concerns as her sharp white canine scraped against her tongue.

“Do you know what he is?” Laena finally asked, no hint of condescension in her tone, and Rhaenyra loved her all the more for it.

“I am aware of his practices. I figured now was the time to uproot Otto Hightower from his high horse. The Baratheons too. If they are going to amass their power through blood money, then I will not be squeamish with bloodshed,” Rhaenyra said after a small moment of hesitation.

Laena let out a long sigh. “I have to go downtown. But you,” Laena turned her harshly narrowed gaze into Daemon, whose brows raised at her animosity. “Are an awful influence and she could do better. I just wanted to make sure you realised it.”

Rhaenyra’s lips twitched up reluctantly.

Laena raised her hand to cup her ear. “Well?”

“Was that a question?” Daemon asked softly.

“Yes. I want your affirmation that you realise you are a grooming piece of crap and have single-handedly given me a stomach ulcer,” Laena announced, and finally Rhaenyra let out a laugh, her shoulders shaking as she rested her head between her legs after placing her cup back atop the table.

“I didn’t find it particularly funny,” Daemon said, though his lips twitched up for a second, his eyes settled on Rhaenyra so thoroughly that she could feel it beneath her clothes.

“Kill me now. This is so painful,” Rhaenyra said with a breathy huff.

Laena’s smile softened, ever so slightly. “Well, I have to meet with people about a sheep and thief.”

What little humour fled Rhaenyra’s expression as she sat up. “Call me if you find anything of merit. I want their names before I take their throats.”

Laena paused, the slightest hesitation before her eyes flitted to the visible bandage creeping from beneath her cousin’s scarf. She frowned but nodded. She gave her cousin one last kiss on her cheek before turning to Daemon Targaryen. “She so much as breaks a nail, cousin, and I’ll get your hand its own box.”

Then Laena left, and with it she took the easy atmosphere with her, surrendering the room to awkward silence. Rhaenyra pressed her gloved fingers against her sweater, squeezing life into her numbing skin from just above tender and healing flesh. It brought forth a haze of pain, but she brushed it off as she sighed and collapsed back against the couch. Barely a minute passed before Rhaenyra’s phone vibrated and she nearly broke a nail trying to pry it from the coat draped over the couch.

Laena: Be strong you dumb bictch

Laena: *bitycvh

Laena: *BITCH

Laena: Autocorrrhct doesn’t know f*ck all

Laena: srrsly girl. Tough luv here. You are in the negatives for dignity and im embarrassed for you

Laena: Sex on a staircase Rhaenyra?????

Laena: That’s how the patriarchy wins

Laena: Srrsly i just can’t with men

Laena: Choose the bear Rhaenyra

Rhaenyra’s lips spread into a stretched-thin smile as she grabbed her tea and nearly drained it. Daemon had made little noise as he prepared himself a cup, but she noted the flask he poured into the steaming black tea with a snort. I shouldn’t have told her about the stairs, Rhaenyra thought with a deep sigh.

Rhaenyra: Story as old as time. Dumb bitycvh f*cks her ex :)

Laena: ha

Laena: ha

Laena: ha

Rhaenyra: would you believe me if I said I think of him as a friend

Laena: calm down Olivia Rodrigo

Rhaenyra: nothing is gonna happen

Laena: k.

Rhaenyra’s eyes scanned over the period, blaring at her from through her cousin’s message. Somehow, she'd prefer to be called a whor* than deal with a ‘k’.

“Drink this,” Daemon ordered, holding out the tea that she saw him spike with alcohol.

Rhaenyra raised a brow, but didn’t grab the cup. “Gross. An abomination to the tea.”

“We need to talk, so be a good girl and drink the tea. You’ll thank me later,” he said, casually sitting on the table so his knees brushed against her own. Her nostrils flared with the enticing scent of his cologne, rich and fragrant.

“Don’t call me a good girl. I am not a dog,” Rhaenyra said carefully, grabbing the tea. “What did you do?”

Daemon took a sip straight from the flask resting in his coat. All the while, he avoided her prying gaze, but finally, he met her inquisitive eye and nodded to the tea. She let out a sigh, but took a long sip.

“Happy?” Rhaenyra asked.

“You look beautiful today,” he whispered, and her eyes immediately narrowed.

“Well, you look like sh*te,” she retorted, nearly unable to resist the urge to graze her thumb against the bruised skin of his jaw. Instead, she stroked her thumb against the rim of the cup.

“Your father knows about us,” he said softly, gauging her reaction as her fingers froze.

It wasn’t immediate. The vertigo and feeling of falling crashed against her head like a crescendo of plunging rocks. She was sitting, but it was as if she had sunk to the ground, and collapsed as her lungs squeezed inward.

Her hand had dropped, limply at her side. It didn’t feel like her hand, numb and dissociated as it was. She was an avalanche of crashing emotions, slipping down her skin like a landslide. She wasn't sure when her head had fallen in between her knees, but once there, she couldn't raise it back up again. A thousand thoughts swirled in her mind, but the words stuck to her tongue like tar.

Heat flushed her cheeks, a mix of mortification and dread and something so closely resembling fury that it set her heart ablaze. She barely registered Daemon kneeling in front of her. Normally, his touch would awaken her nerves, but her arm was numb when he slowly soothed a path up her sweater.

"Don't touch me," she ordered softly, detaching herself from the couch and away from him. "What did you do?"

Daemon stared blankly up at her, but her eyes lingered once more on the bruise that clipped the underside of his jaw. She could hear so little apart from her drumming heartbeat, but she caught the hitch in his breath, stuck in his throat before he swallowed it down.

"Daemon," her voice was rough and raspy, but it had never returned quite to normal after the fire. It had become deeper somehow, but she was in no mood to cry over it. "What did you do?"

"Your father approached me about it," Daemon said carefully, and Rhaenyra could practically see him picking and choosing his words—likely deciding what information she deserved.

"And you denied it, did you not?"

"Not exactly," Daemon admitted, and Rhaenyra's smile stretched across her face with unnatural grace before she grabbed the cup from the table and flung it at his head. He narrowly dodged it, tea and ceramic shattering against the back wall, splashing them both. His voice rose to a hiss as he wiped at his cheek, but Rhaenyra was already rounding on him.

She grabbed things at random, pillows, remotes, the cigarettes she hadn't opened, all tossing them at him. Most he avoided, as though he was used to hysterical women, but some managed to hit him. When her fingers wrapped around the vase of flowers next on the table to her left, Daemon's hand closed around her wrist. Pain flared up her arm as she tried to free herself, but Daemon only held her tighter.

"Rhaenyra, stop it," he growled, eyes like moonless nights and his grip like iron. His other hand went to her middle, holding her against him.

"Let me go!" she seethed through gritted teeth, struggling against his vice-like grip. "I hate you!"

"I am aware. I am also aware that is the vase your mother bought you. Hit me if you like, but you'll feel worse if you break it," he said carefully.

Heart pounding, Rhaenyra stared at the carnage she had wrought with wide, unseeing eyes. The room seemed to tilt around her, and suddenly Daemon was there, with his arms securely around her waist as he held her close to his chest.

"I'm sorry," he said roughly, his voice muffled against her hair. "I'm so damn sorry."

Rhaenyra thought she was out of tears, but they were building behind her eyes, knocking with an insistence she could hardly avoid. Her burns were stoked with phantom pain, her heart was breaking, and she was scared. It was all his fault.

But it wasn't fair that his arms were the only thing that warmed her. She hit her fist into his chest, dug her nails into his flesh, but he held her tighter. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to grab one of the pieces of broken ceramic and slice open his jugular. She wanted to be done with him.

To be free of him.

"Your father loves you," Daemon whispered into her hair, his voice brittle and wary.

Her throat hitched with a wet and disbelieving laugh, her hand still clutching onto his chest until her nails were digging deep into his flesh. If she had claws, she could have ripped him open and torn out his lungs. It wouldn't make up for all the times he had stolen her breath, but it could momentarily give it back.

"I'm ruined," she said softly. "It's all your fault."

"He loves you," Daemon repeated, his voice harsher now. "It's me he hates."

"I'm ruined," she repeated right back. "He will never trust me. He is disgusted by me.Ihate you."

Daemon let out a shaking sigh that sounded almost like regret. "I'm not supposed to see you anymore." Daemon carefully pulled away, forcing her to look up at him. She could barely see a damn thing, red outlining her vision. "But I couldn't even go a day in exile without touching you."

He was talking, but she could barely hear a sound.

She wondered what it would look like without him. Without his touch and his smell, but she had never known his love. She had learned to grow content with the barest hint of his affection, even before that affection turned lustful. She had grown around licking up his love from Valyrian blades, never minding how it cut her tongue over and over again. She could live with him abandoning her, and if he had an ounce of self-preservation, he would. He had done it before and she hardly had faith that he wouldn't do it again.

"You are not ruined," he traced his fingers over her neck, where burns remained hidden from his prying eyes. "You are ruination and I am utterly transfixed by you every day."

She shook her head, the drumming of her heart making it nearly impossible to hear him. "I'm ugly and disgusting and he has two sons thatdidn't f*ck his brother. You have never lied to me before Daemon, so don't start now."

She was overflowing with anger that had no outlet, and words that had no one but him to hear. She tried to block it away, but her animosity towards her brothers was always in the forefront of her mind, simply for the crime of being born.

“I don't care if your father threatens me. I don't care if you think I'm the most evil, unnatural creature walking on earth. You are probably right. You can think whatever you want or do whatever you want. I need you. I want you. I miss you."

"My dad will kill you," she said softly, his words penetrating her eardrums—and she was just pliable enough to let him.

"A setback, but not unavoidable," he grumbled, almost offended that she thought he'd die by Viserys Targaryen. “I want to take care of you. You will have your revenge. You will have your titles and all your inheritance.”

“But I’m a disaster," her words came out torn and uncertain. "There's something horrible and rotten in me."

“The only thing that's rotten in you has been me," Daemon pulled away, and forced her to look up at him. He had hooded eyes, but they were still bright with life and desire. She traced over the lashes she wanted to kiss, wishing the desire could be suctioned away from her. Yet, it remained just as forceful and inconvenient as before.

"Is that a sex joke?" Rhaenyra's lips reluctantly twitched up, and she felt his thumb brush along her cheekbone where a trail of tears had begun to travel.

"I have ten more in the barrel," he whispered right back with a smile.

"I need a minute," she finally told him, gently separating from his hold so she could think without his touch burning straight through her will.

"You'll have it," he answered, letting her go as she rushed to the bathroom. She didn't bother with the lights. The mirror was covered with a pinned towel, so it didn't much matter if she could see.

She turned on the water, trying to drown out her gasping breaths and any noise from the other room that might remind her of his presence. Rushing water did little to soothe and she didn't have the strength to check her phone or call her father. She couldn't begin to know how she'd navigate this and perhaps it was a naive dream to hope that she'd be able to die with this secret. She used to have nightmares of her father finding out and always expected that should it happen, she'd see him the very same day. He'd scream at her and berate her and be disgusted by her.

It never occurred to her that she'd get his silence instead; that her phone would remain unbothered by so much as a text. Perhaps that was the plan—never to speak to her again.

Her breaths came out quicker as panic began to truly seep into her lungs. Her fingers gripped the countertop until she could feel the stinging of her nails. She ripped herself away, only to feel desperate rage overcrowd her by the towel covering the mirror. With trembling and clumsy hands, she tore it away, hearing the clatter to the ground.

She didn't recognize the woman staring back at her. The first thing she noticed were her eyes, so familiar and yet so alien at the same time. Red-rimmed and bloodshot, they were edged with violet shadows that made her look more like a raccoon than a Targaryen. Her short silver hair was in a bun on top of her head, but strands had come undone and she looked like she just woke up. She looked vulnerable and terrified.

She hated her reflection, so much so that she gave it a hard slap. Pain exploded across her face, but it was nothing compared to the agony in her chattering heart. Her reflection winced in solidarity, but it did nothing to quell her panic.

She couldn't breathe.

Rhaenyra grabbed her hairbrush and hurled it at her reflection, feeling satisfied when the glass shattered around her. She used her shaking hands to feel her face, ensuring that she hadn't damaged anything more than the mirror and gasped at the foreign sensation of her own cheek. The water covered much of the sound, judging by the lack of movement from outside. She didn't want Daemon to see her like this.

She didn't want him to pity her or worry. She wanted to solve one thing on her own.

She took a deep breath, her chest heaving from lack of air as she stared at herself through disjointed glass. She didn't look or feel beautiful—yet another thing Daemon was wrong about.

Laena would suggest self-affirmations, but Rhaenyra only squeezed her eyes shut and turned off the water. When she returned to the living room, she didn't see him. She hated the lurch in her gut when she noted his lacking presence, but her feet gravitated to the paper bag he set down on her table. She walked to it, hearing it crinkle from beneath her grip as she looked inside to see a black satin box. The last box she opened been an underwhelming gift, but she highly doubted Daemon carried around body parts in his free time.

She left it alone when she heard the noise of his steps from the study. She followed the sound, still coming down from her panic attack.

He was snooping about her belongings, most covered in dust since she had never really cleaned on her own before. In his hands was a carved dragon that had her breath cut off. "I thought you tossed all my gifts," he joked, words tapering off when he noticed the stillness of her demeanour. She stared at the dragon as though she also forgot she'd kept it—but there wasn't a single thing from him she'd ever tossed away. Only one did she give back to him, but the rest she couldn't bare to part with.

"You've always spent your money frivolously," she said, aware she haunted the doorway like a poltergeist.

It was her home, yet she couldn't picture it without some piece of him. She couldn't picture a future without him.

"Very true," he said softly, holding the dragon like a freshly lain egg. "I didn't buy this though."

She stepped closer, finally leaving her safe doorframe to further reduce herself in his presence—or so Laena would tell her. But as smart as Laena was and as in high esteem her advice was, Rhaenyra had only ever truly loved one man. When you want something for so long, it was difficult to even view an obsession as a person anymore. They became a manifestation of that want and Rhaenyra was only just beginning to view Daemon as a man.

A broken and damaged arsehole, sure, but she couldn't control how she felt.

"You made it?" Rhaenyra was within touching distance, but all she did was hold out her hand and wait for him to deposit the dragon into her palm. "I always thought you didn't like me as a kid."

"I didn't," he admitted with a half smile. "You were stubborn and greedy and clingy."

Rhaenyra knew it wasn't a compliment, but she found herself smiling as she stroked her gloved fingertips across the surface of the obsidian eyes. She didn't interrupt him, having little in the way of words.

"And you mimicked everything I did. I thought you were mocking me. Making light that you had more right to our great inheritance than I ever could," he admitted, and when she tilted her chin up to look at him, he was staring out the window towards the many skyscrapers—many he now owned.

"I was a kid. I wasn't nearly as intelligent or manipulative to mock you," she said with a snort.

"Hindsight is 20-20," he chuckled and the sound of his laugh slithered over her spine as potent as any touch.

"What do you actually want Daemon?" Rhaenyra asked softly, only to hear him chuckle again.

"Come with me," he ordered, crossing the distance to grip her hand. He was already dragging her back to the living area before she could rearrange her bearings.

"Is this another pointless attempt to avoid conversation, uncle?" Came her wary reply when he dropped her hand. She pressed it to her face, covering her eyes as a headache drummed through her skull. She jumped when she felt his fingers brush along her neck, over her covered collarbone.

"I'm answering your question," he whispered into her ear, his breath blowing away stray strands of hair that was not in a bun. It was no longer long enough to tie with ease, but she made due to the best her ability. Now, with his lips pressed to the back of her neck, she wished she let it down so she'd have a barrier.

His hand braced her shoulder as her back arched into his touch like a cat being pet along its spine. She let out a reluctant, yet content sigh as he laughed into her neck. She nearly jumped when she felt a weight against her collar, her hand reaching to feel a necklace resting against her sweater. After he fastened it, she felt the chain slide along the exposed skin of her neck with solid, yet lightweight that only Valyrian steel could harbour.

"What is—" Rhaenyra began, her fingers brushing over the necklace.

She turned in his grasp, chest heaving against his as he stared down at her with deeply hooded eyes, practically black with expanding pupils. "It belongs to you."

She didn't have words—her heart was drumming too loudly to hear her thoughts. She thought she'd cry again, but her eyes remained dry as she felt him lift the necklace up to his lips, and the sight of his kiss had her blood heating.

"Take off your gloves," he ordered, and she was ice once more.

"No," she said with a harsh bite in her voice.

"No?" Daemon probably wasn't used to hearing her rejection, which helped her now, but didn't do much to restore her dignity. "You're bleeding."

She saw a bit of red on the edge of her glove, and while it was ugly, the cut it was from was shallow at best. "I'll take care of it on my own."

He smiled, nodding as if he'd listen to her. "Right. Or you can take them off and let me see."

“I don’t want to. I’ll get blood all over your nice suit.”

“Stain it. I don’t care," he answered, holding out his hand and he smiled when she placed her hand into his. She was shaking when he gripped the edge of her glove, but he rubbed soothing ministrations across her skin as he slid it off. The was red and scabrous skin, and she had to look away when he inspected the very shallow cut, barely enough to consider a bandaid.

"Why did you keep it?" Rhaenyra asked, absently fingering the necklace.

"Why did you give it back?" Daemon retorted.

"I thought it would hurt you as you hurt me," Rhaenyra finally admitted. "Did it?"

"You have more power over me than you think, Nyra," he whispered softly, and she jumped when she felt his lips against her burn. She tried to pull her hand away, but he held on strong.

"Let go," she ordered, but he did not.

"Your father said he'd have me put down should I continue to see you," he told her with a sardonic chuckle. "Yet here I am."

"You never liked to be told what to do," she agreed, her voice guttural.

"Perhaps," he sighed heavily but continued. "You said you had something rotten in you. I have yet to see a single thing that was not sweet, but in this space, right here, you can say anything. You can do anything. Unload every thought, terrible or cruel and I won’t baulk. I would never abandon you, Rhaenyra. I am right here with you in this mess."

She shook her head as it clouded with himagain.

He stroked a path up her arm, and she shook as he exposed more of her ruined skin as the sweater was pulled back. She tried to shake him off, but he was relentless. "You are so beautiful I can hardly breathe," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Every sheet and towel placed over your reflection infuriates and offends me."

She let out a choked breath. "I blame you for every one of them," she admitted in a harsh bite. There was too much hurt coiled around her voice to come off as venomous, yet she watched Daemon flinch.

"I blame me too," he answered, pressing his lips against her palm, his lips brush along the scar that cut across her palm. She was on fire, and yet all he touched was a hand.

"Show me you're sorry," she ordered, her voice as molten as hot wax when his eyes darted up to her. She felt his tongue lap against the smooth flesh of unblemished skin and she nearly closed her eyes in pleasure.

"How?" He asked softly, too innocent to be genuine.

"The only way you know," she replied, and he let out a shaking breath of amusem*nt before he pressed his lips against her wrist, and she felt the familiar pang of fire run up her veins as he continued to kiss along the scar tissue that created a map of her self-loathing.

Rhaenyra moaned as his hands closed around her hips, gripping the material of her clothes as he tugged her against him. Her back was pressed against the wall, and she haphazardly dropped the dragon onto the floorboards, hearing it clatter. Neither of them cared about the mess of pillows and thrown objects as their mouths crashed together. Daemon had one hand in her hair, holding her head in place as he tasted every curve of her lower lip before delving inside to claim the wet heat her tongue.

"I've missed you," he mumbled against her lips between slick caresses over her bottom lip. She let out a squeak as his fingers slid over her arse just to cup the fleshy expanse of her curves. She felt his hard length against her, practically quivering with need as his lips dragged down her jaw and to the length of her ear.

She tugged at his clothes, eager to feed off his pulse when she heard the beeping of her security camera. She let out a disgruntled sigh, dissatisfied as he chased her kiss as she pulled away.

"You practically begged me to f*ck you before," Daemon hissed when she tried to pull away. "Must you punish me now?"

She let out a wry chuckle as he continued to suck her neck. She slipped a hand over his chest, sliding it down to cup him, rubbing up and down in a teasing manner before she extracted herself from him completely. He leaned his head against the wall, his hands clutching it as she escaped to the security tablet to the side of her door. She spotted one of her guards from through the screen, and she pressed a single button to let him know she was listening.

"What is it?" Rhaenyra asked, impressed that her voice came out clear even as she felt completely flustered.

"You have a guest," the man announced.

"I don't get guests, Jones," Rhaenyra replied with a breathy sigh. "I don't have friends."

Please don't be my father. Please don't be Alicent. Please be Kim Kardashian, she silently begged.

"Says her name's Nettles. Want me to send her away?" Her guard asked and Rhaenyra sighed, defeated.