Chapter Text
The wind blew and swirled around our protagonists. The pleasant aroma coming from the young lady distracted Prince Daemon for a few seconds. He dared to take her to the Dragonpit — there they had a rather decisive conversation in which the Targaryen earned a proper chance — and although the focus was merely an introduction of Caraxes to her, the Rogue Prince felt a genuine sense of interest.
Behind the innocent smile and graceful posture lived a suffering soul. It seemed a painful punishment to be related to House Hightower, but being a bastard of the Green House carved out the highest imaginable torture.
Entrusted with his new duties as commander of the City Watch, there was much to be done: reorganize the troops, provide them with proper equipment and training to rid the city of thieves, rapists, unworthy murderers, and scum in order to ensure adequate security on the streets of King’s Landing.
The Prince entertained himself. His appetite for fights, swords, and inflicting punishment spread, and he felt truly suited to a role given by his older brother, King Viserys.
Finally a role that’s worthwhile, Daemon thought. Remembering the annoyance of having been Master of Coin and Laws could make him want to roll his eyes, considering it a personal failure. A function so monotonous that the frustration of not being the Hand of the King — as he thought he should have been when his brother succeeded to power — gnawed at him. Thus, along with his brother’s announcement that he would marry Lady Rhea Royce (which he had vehemently escaped), a responsibility fell upon his shoulders.
Although his days were busy, sometimes the memory of the unique moment shared with Caraxes and Athelyna stained his mind, stirring him once again to discover what the neglects, experiences, and even Otto Hightower’s behavior were — beyond the disdain mentioned — and, above all, the implications of marrying Lady ‘Blackwood’.
And, after a week without seeing her due to his maximum dedication to the patrol, interest blossomed, along with Viserys’ suspicious glances that sometimes asked his brother about his moments with Daemon. It seemed intended to annoy him, but it became clear to the Targaryen that Queen Aemma Arryn harbored a terrifying affection for the young woman.
It was then that Daemon Targaryen decided to pay attention to Athelyna. He noticed how the servants seemed volatile and sweet around her — there was no characteristic fear of other nobles — how she spoke with her gentle voice. He caught how certain guards received her favors and laughed at her words and looked at her not with lust but with respect and affection. He realized how the lady did not take her breakfasts in the company of everyone and only presented herself formally at events that required the entire court. He saw how she dedicated her time to literature, painting, music, and even walked through the gardens humming near butterflies.
Lady of Favors. He could understand the title.
Resuming his posture, placing his sword at his waist after instructing one of the training sessions with some guards, he walked through the corridors. Daemon would admit it: he delighted in his fame, in the rumors that preceded him — no matter how bad they were. Being feared granted him respect in a world full of conspiracies, ambitions, and usurpers.
And, like a good Targaryen, he would affirm that he didn’t give a damn what the shitty opinion of a damned court was, with his arrogance dripping with every step taken.
Toward the kitchen. He knew Athelyna was there. His presence drew the attention of some servants who widened their eyes in fear. Crossing his arms, he could see her from behind, her wavy brown hair falling down her back, a bit disheveled, tied with a red ribbon. She was laughing, her hands seemed to be working on something, drawing Daemon’s curious glance at a glance.
He didn’t remember seeing any sane noblewoman bother to invade a kitchen.
“Helga, did the cakes please you?” an enthusiastic smile spread across the maiden’s face. Although the servant around her looked back at the Lady, freezing. Athelyna didn’t notice, with her hands occupied, arranging the cakes on a plate. “The cake is in the oven. I wanted someone to give me a proper suggestion. I decided to use another recipe. Dear Queen Aemma mentioned to me that…”
She stopped talking, drawing a confused look from the protagonist.
“What is it, my lady?” she asked attentively. Daemon noticed how she called her “my lady.” When she turned, the young woman’s expression was comical as her innocent eyes doubled in size. “Oh…”
The Targaryen controlled himself not to laugh. Athelyna looked like a joke. He was beginning to think that his betrothed in question was a comical relief to the chaos of the court, a responsibility, and despite initially seeing her as a burden, after being carried away by her words, he was uncertain about how he should behave. But the curiosity around the Lady with unpredictable reactions was reason enough to make him fulfill the minimum time he needed near her so that, at least, it wouldn’t seem suspicious.
After all, he had openly declared his “passion” for Athelyna Blackwood.
“Your Highness!” the servant, Helga, exclaimed in exasperation. Daemon remained impassive, his intense violet eyes fixed. In a flash, the elderly woman decided to leave, only saying respectfully to the brunette, “Lady Lyna, I will withdraw.”
Daemon followed the eyes of some servants who left, notably because of his presence. The Targaryen wanted to laugh, directing his gaze to Athelyna’s state: her hands with white specks, marks of a handful of flour. Her simple and plain little face made him raise an eyebrow.
“Playing maid, Lady Lyna?” he teased, using the form the servants called her, with unusual intimacy, even though they used her title. She frowned as she saw him approach, stealing one of the vanilla cakes from the tray. “Let’s see if this is any good…”
“I think she got scared by your look,” Athelyna grumbled, noticing how the kitchen became emptier than before. Only the minimum of servants remained, pretending they weren’t there.
The Targaryen raised his eyebrows after biting into the vanilla cake. With his lips dirty with the sweet, he looked like a perfect child at that moment, somewhat distant from the usual cruel image attributed to him.
“It’s not just her who gets scared,” Daemon commented, pausing his words and taking a cloth to clean his mouth. “If I’m not mistaken, since our last conversation, you haven’t shown yourself the least bit confident and you were still trembling. Where did this lapse of courage come from? Or are you trying to act strong since your last emotional outburst?”
Athelyna turned to him, furrowing her brows. Daemon had the unbearable talent of being completely stupid.
“Hm…” he grumbled, savoring the flavor. “This isn’t bad at all.”
She wanted to smile at the comment. But her immediate reaction was to remember the reasons why she had made them.
“Those are not for you…” she commented softly. Daemon narrowed his eyes in an incredulous expression. For one of the guards? he thought. He would laugh if she refused to give him the cakes to give to some random guard. “I mean, if you want, I can make some for you. I just made these for Queen Aemma.”
The Targaryen ignored his previous thoughts, focusing only on the way he had been addressed.
“Lord? Why don’t you call me by my name?” he frowned. Athelyna was a curious case. He didn’t know if she was afraid, ashamed, or wary of him.
“I already told you that if you wanted, you could dare to call me more affectionately. There is a need for us to create intimacy for this to work, am I right?”
Why the difference in treatment? Athelyna confirmed her suspicions: Daemon was unpredictable.
“I…” Before she could finish her sentence, the prince leaned toward her. She didn’t know how to react. No one approached her like that.
For Daemon, the action was not particularly unusual. He was a man with vast experience with women, including others, and getting close caused him a feeling of amusement. And he discovered in that second that he was pleased with the Blackwood’s reaction as he saw her become more tense and swallow hard.
“We don’t have much time for courtship. At least, I believe we should make the most of what we have, Athelyna,” he said, close enough to suffocate her with his violet eyes. His platinum hair like the moon was like a fatal charm. The combination made her look away, and Daemon was pleased with the thought that he could intimidate her in other ways that didn’t involve his position.
A somewhat disturbing satisfaction, it must be added, considering that the Rogue Prince usually felt stirred by women who dared to go against his conduct or preferences — especially younger and reckless ones — but he was still trying to understand what he would do with Athelyna.
“I thought you would be busy with the patrol,” her voice lowered, hands behind her back.
“Ah yes, I finished one of my…” Daemon would continue but saw her hand him another plate full of sweets. This time, vanilla cakes and others that the Targaryen had no idea about but seemed tasty. The smell was one of the best. “What is this?”
“You liked it, didn’t you?” Athelyna asked, like a true child. “You said it wasn’t bad at all. I worked hard, so I just thought that…”
“You weren’t going to give them to Queen Aemma?” he frowned.
“I can make more later and, besides, you are my betrothed,” Athelyna reminded him, locking eyes with Daemon, who displayed an expression that destabilized her as she felt his intense gaze. “It is my duty.”
He liked that answer, finding it as cliché as possible, but Athelyna showed no irony. It was as if she perfectly followed moral reins, the roles with mastery, more correctly than a person in that corrupted society could, and the main thing was that she seemed satisfied with it.
“Duty, you say…” Daemon knew that whatever kind of relationship Athelyna had, she would be given to exceptional loyalty. She seemed to be loyal. “These are the ones you make for my guards?”
Somewhat confused by the reason for the question, she nodded.
“Make worse ones for them,” he ordered. Athelyna widened her eyes at Daemon. The Prince bit another piece before speaking. “They don’t deserve such good ones. They are not prepared for these rewards.”
She did not answer, finding it absurd.
“Agreed?” Daemon asked in the face of her silence.
“You shouldn’t be so selfish, my prince,” Athelyna advised, not answering him directly. “Each of them deserves equally the good and the best for their service and effort for this city.”
“I thought your duty was to follow my words, my Lady,” he said, cleaning his hands and letting out a laugh. He looked at her cautiously. “I tend to be very selfish with what belongs to me.”
He just didn’t expect her next words.
“I believe we all have the ability to perfect ourselves and grow. A wife’s task is to help her husband grow, not to reduce him to deviant behaviors, to guide him to greatness by her side,” Athelyna said, her compassionate and morally correct expression contradicting Daemon’s words — which was what he least expected as she added, with a brief smile, “Correct me if I am wrong, my prince, but your intentions are still to marry me, am I correct?”
Was I cornered? Somewhat disbelieving that he could have been surrounded by such a little thing, he laughed.
Daemon pondered for seconds on the answer.
“What is your relationship with your family of origin besides, of course, disdain? Do you know your mother?” the Targaryen questioned, aware that there was no one else in the place.
She shook her head in denial, pausing her words.
“Before coming to the castle, I don’t remember much…” Athelyna was a terrible liar.
Daemon knew it was a lie but did not press her, not when such memory seemed so dangerous that he saw her shudder slightly, shrinking her shoulders before continuing.
The Targaryen remembered the murmurs about the little girl welcomed by Jaehaerys. Even the first reports of a possible bastard were dissipated due to her appearance. She lived in peace for a while, until her features became similar to a deceased noblewoman, the mother of Lord Hightower.
“If your intention is to marry me, you should know that you should only trust me,” Daemon recalled, his eyes becoming more threatening. “The only one who will truly defend you.”
Prince Targaryen had come to terms with it. As much as he felt he had fallen into a trap made by himself out of pure disdain for Otto Hightower, his intuition screamed about the young woman. And even though he was not given to such premonitions, he did not forget that if he did not unite with her, he would be forced to marry Lady Rhea Royce.
Damned Bronze Bitch. He thought, somewhat fed up. He remembered having crossed paths with the woman, who was very close to his sister Valaena and had mocked him, leaving him completely incredulous from head to toe.
No, thank you very much, he thought. The Blackwood, despite appearing miserably common on the surface, without extraordinary Valyrian beauty traits — those that were brutally the man’s preference — an impetuous impulse or a range of influence and manipulation that would be useful to him, he knew that Athelyna held a mystery apart, more than she should for a simple bastard.
“The Hand of the King…” it hurt in her throat to refer to her progenitor, but the beginning drew Daemon’s eyes, who paid attention. “Although he has never shown his contempt publicly, his distant looks and warnings about my posture were enough. But when he decided to propose the marriage, he sought me out to offer his help, saying that I should see him if I needed anything to be guided.”
Son of a bitch.
“In other words, to manipulate you like a piece in his game,” Daemon laughed in disbelief. It was somewhat obvious that he would try to lure her as quickly as possible, to sink his claws to influence her. “I presume he wishes to rekindle family ties to guide you in this cruel world for the good of the realm.”
There was irony in his voice. Athelyna glimpsed genuine irritation toward Otto in the man’s countenance, a certain mockery. This did not affect her in any way. She did not recognize the Hightower as her father. He was a very strange figure who, she knew — because everyone said so and he acted as such — was her blood father.
“No. He made it clear that I was not his daughter,” Athelyna paused her words in a long sigh. She felt guilt in her veins when remembering what happened. “For so many years, as a burden to the name of his house, I do not intend to risk following any advice or guidance, my prince.”
A bitter sensation flowed through the man. She was not to blame for anything. Otto deserved every ridicule and the reminder that his pseudo faith and morality was a joke.
“That house is a burden in itself. It has nothing to do with you. Do not approach him or listen to anything he tells you. Most of it are lies that are part of his damned conspiracy. It is fortunate that you did not grow up around them,” Daemon did not contain his contempt. “Although, the company of your half-sister…”
Athelyna took a deep breath at the mention of Alicent, lowering her gaze.
“Let me guess, the exemplary Lady Alicent Hightower despises you?” Seeing her not answer, the Targaryen moistened his lips. “That explains a lot.”
“I don’t blame her, not at all,” the protagonist’s uncomfortable confession left him confused.
“And why not? As far as I know, it wasn’t you who went around fucking,” the Prince did not contain his vocabulary, drawing a laugh from her mouth. She condemned herself afterward — an action that made him laugh softly — but upon seeing the smile disappear, he continued, “What fault would you have?”
“Otto Hightower’s wife died shortly after the rumors began and…”
“His wife died of heartbreak at having him as a husband. She was so disappointed that she fell ill,” Daemon shook his head. The poor woman who subjected herself to lying with and bearing children for the putrid man was cursed by fate. “Your half-sister’s hatred was certainly cultivated by Otto, to divide her. She is so blind that she faithfully believed it, but it is not your fault, not in the least. It is only his.”
He gradually understood what Otto Hightower wanted to do before. And he knew that deep down, he had angered the man. His bastard would be conquering a higher position than Lady Alicent Hightower, a rather inadmissible detail for an ambitious man like the Hand of the King.
“It is not my fault,” the Blackwood’s murmur made him look back at her.
Someone had accused her of that. Daemon let out a breath.
“No, it is not,” he said dryly. Dealing with mischief and conspiracies was not his favorite function, but he wanted to make Athelyna know exactly what all this was about.
“From now on, turn only to me. I guarantee that no one will be able to harm you,” he said seriously. There was seriousness in Daemon’s voice.
She smiled sweetly, but the words she would say were not what the elder expected.
“I did not intend to trust any of them,” she revealed slowly, looking him in the eyes.
“I may not have any experience or knowledge about the court. I avoided it my entire life. I prefer the simplicity of the servants as much as the simplest tasks, but I hear the whispers and can observe what they say around me. Even expecting only the best, no heart creates affection for the other overnight. If a man does not love his own offspring because he considers it a mistake, how could he be trustworthy?”
Innocent, not naive.
The weeks of the so-called courtships passed, with small and meager moments between the two, which Daemon believed would be easier to marry than ever. Even though he believed it would be completely tedious once she became his wife, it was difficult to understand how she could be as unpredictable as he was — even if in the opposite way. On one of the days, he found her working with dirty hands, like a craftswoman, working on a sculpture for Queen Aemma and the future heir to the realm, Baelon.
The moments were short. The City Watch was arduous. Even though the glorious function made him feel he was gaining the trust of the men, there was something beyond power due to his position — soon he would have loyalty — but, like everything in his life and inconstant temperament, there was a moment, a weakness.
A bad-taste joke coming from a commoner, without the unfortunate man noticing the prince’s presence, about the rumors of courting a bastard. But it was not the speech that left him furious. He personally did not care about the birth of his future wife — he would marry even a whore if it pleased him — but it was the reminder that he had no control over his life to the point of having to marry Athelyna in an attempt to convince himself that it had been his choice.
He continued to be treated like a child by his own brother. This left him distressed. And, as a man given to pleasures and the infamous Flea Bottom, the Rogue Prince decided to distract himself that night, more than he should.
On that same night, when heavy rain beat violently on the streets, washing away the filth, the loud noise, in which commoners and nobles sheltered in their accommodations, our protagonist was startled when knocks resounded on her door, waking her with some urgency. When she opened the door, Ser Harwin Strong, the guard soaked from head to toe. But before the Lady could offer anything, she saw that he was carrying another body — Daemon Targaryen, completely drunk.
“He…” Harwin struggled to find words, frowning. “We thought it wouldn’t be appropriate for the Maesters or anyone from the court to see him in this state, but I think the worst would happen if he were alone. If you want, we can just leave him in his chambers and…”
She laughed, opening space for the Ser. A clear indication for him to put Daemon in any corner of her room, considering he seemed so drunk that he couldn’t open his eyes.
“Thank you, Harwin,” she thanked him. Before he nodded, she added, “You should dry yourself, otherwise you will get sick.”
Harwin let out a weak chuckle in confirmation.
The door closed. Now Athelyna had a drunk Daemon Targaryen on her couch, near the fireplace with his eyes closed. He seemed to be sleeping, and this worried her greatly because he was soaked and could become seriously ill.
“Where am I? Where is my cup?” Opening his eyes slowly, a completely dizzy Daemon asked. Athelyna handed him a glass with water, but when he took it in his hands and took a gulp, he grumbled in disappointment, “Ah… that’s not wine.”
“In my room, my prince,” Athelyna searched for blankets that could warm him. Returning near the man, she poured more water into his glass. “It is better that you drink.”
“You already brought me to your room?” Daemon let out a laugh that made his chest vibrate. “And I thought you were as holy as a Septa. I’m completely drunk and you set up a conspiracy for me to come to your chambers.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“That is a very serious accusation. It is not quite like that,” she laughed softly, her cheeks blushing at the assumption. She found a slightly funny drunk Daemon. “Come on… I need to take off your shirt. You will get sick.”
Her hands trembled slightly. She had never touched a man, even if purely to help him. She brought her hands to his garments, removing the first layer, a little heavier.
“Look, now you want me without clothes…” Daemon smiled wickedly. Running his fingers through his own hair with a soft laugh. “Your next step is to steal a kiss?”
Athelyna took a deep breath, in front of him, striving to untie part of his shirt.
“Prince Daemon, just help me, I…” She felt like she was dealing with a child, but she was startled when Daemon pulled her by the waist onto his lap.
The Blackwood could stutter right there. Her warm legs over Daemon’s rain-soaked body. The smell of alcohol impregnated around her. She shivered with the thermal shock, and Daemon liked how warm his betrothed’s skin was. He found her dangerously soft like silk.
“I’m not an easy man like this, but you leave me no choice,” the Targaryen began to say, somewhat seductive. She frowned. The clumsy way canceled any effect, only making her want to laugh. It was like watching a performance by the court fool. “You seem very interested in me.”
Athelyna laughed.
“Why do you think I am interested in you?” she asked.
Daemon laughed, shaking his head as if the question were ridiculous.
“I was kidnapped and you are undressing me,” he said, watching her remove his shirt. Feeling a shiver over his body when Athelyna took it off. “I think you are desperate and thirsty for me.”
“You need to warm up. The clothes will dry…” About to get up to get the blankets for the man, she was surprised when he leaned in, holding her by the chin, fixing his gaze on hers.
The violet eyes were more intense, darker in the fireplace light.
“You could warm me, with your hands, with your lips…” The whispered speech moved her. She felt a sensation over her body for the first time. She swallowed hard when she saw him smile but release the touch. “I want to warm up again.”
She frowned, confused.
“Again?”
“A whore lay with me many times and was warm in the storm,” the revelation made her laugh at the way Daemon said it, already with his eyes closed, babbling.
She honestly didn’t care.
She found it common — a detail caused by the comments she heard from servants about how noble betrayal was completely normal — and she felt no kind of sensation, of course, because she had no intimacy with the man. It must be added that the Blackwood was content to just be his future wife to conquer her freedom. She cared little about who he got involved with.
“Was your lover beautiful?” Athelyna asked, distracted as she covered him, making sure to keep him warm, also removing his equally soaked shoes. Daemon murmured “yes, she was.” “Think of her to warm yourself and drink water to rest, my prince. It was a long night.”
Completely drunk, the Rogue Prince fell asleep. The next afternoon, waking up wrecked with a headache in chambers that were not his, memories of the previous night invaded his mind. Including, Daemon Targaryen remembered the main thing: his marriage would be announced that night to the court.
A lavish banquet, invitations to various noble families. There was an uproar amid rumors about the refusal of a possible marriage to Rhea Royce and Daemon Targaryen, the prince’s courtships regarding the bastard Athelyna, perhaps an announcement involving Princess Rhaenyra and the search for suitors. There was much that could be revealed that night.
Being the main star of the night caused a chill in Lady Athelyna’s stomach. After King Jaehaerys’ death, she had been thrown into the shadows, striving to the maximum to live in such a way.
Queen Aemma insisted on having her by her side most of the time. Although completely disconcerted by some malicious comments and perverse looks — notably judging her or commenting on the resemblance to a pure-blooded Hightower — the presence of a special House comforted her heart: the Blackwoods.
Her insides rejoiced with affection upon encountering them, the only noble family that showed her affection. She did not know what agreement Jaehaerys had made, nor did she even know how much the Blackwoods knew about her — especially her condition — but they were careful and so hospitable that they could pass for her family.
It must be added that they monopolized the Lady’s attention with success, to Queen Aemma’s relief. She knew very well the rivalry between Blackwood and Bracken — the latter house that showed absolute disdain for Athelyna and, the malicious tongues say, started the rumors about bastardy to destabilize them.
This, of course, until Daemon Targaryen appeared.
“Attention! I ask for everyone’s attention for an announcement of utmost importance,” King Viserys stood up, beside his wife. Silence filled the place as everyone turned to the man. “It seems that the last times have only been filled with joys: the marriage of my younger sister, Princess Valaena and her pregnancy, the pregnancy of my own wife and Queen Aemma. It fills me with pride and satisfaction to share one more grace and blessing from the gods by announcing that we will have another marriage.”
Murmurs filled the space. The Hand of the King shifted uncomfortably, as did Alicent Hightower, who exchanged a brief glance with Rhaenyra. The latter held her hand in a sign of support, still finding the sudden decision of her uncle to marry a bastard absurd.
Athelyna’s stomach tingled. She felt small, nervous, and cornered. At a glance, Prince Daemon’s eyes met hers — those large, brown eyes — and he almost gave her a sly smile. He was still thinking about the incident when he was drunk.
“It is with pleasure that I tell you that my brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen, is betrothed to Lady Athelyna Blackwood of House Blackwood,” King Viserys announced proudly. The swarm of devastating eyes turned to the betrothed, hungry, and various comments permeated.
Prince Daemon was amused. He appreciated attention. Oh, he delighted in it. Especially in shocking people, because he knew that was exactly what happened. Standing up a few seconds later, he headed toward his betrothed, Athelyna Blackwood, who, despite being nervous and anxious, held a calm and gentle aura. She took his hand, heading to the hall, where they shared a waltz.
He caught the protagonist’s flushed cheeks, somewhat embarrassed by so much attention.
Daemon delighted in the scandal.
“It seems there is no turning back, my betrothed,” he whispered lowly. The two close as they danced. Daemon made her focus on his face. “You are trapped in this.”
“You took my unbreakable chains, my betrothed,” she found the choice of words amusing. Trapped was not the way she could see herself marrying Daemon, even if he was cruel, as long as he was respectful enough to her.
He raised an eyebrow, an amused smile covering his face as he spun the brunette in his arms.
“Watch me melt them.”
There were even rumors that during the banquet, amid the celebration and congratulations to the betrothed, unpleasant comments coming from members of House Lannister about Athelyna caused a disdainful laugh from Daemon and a not-so-friendly response — causing incredulous and arrogant expressions — but it would be no surprise given how inconvenient the lions could be when hungry for power or attention. And certainly the snakes of House Hightower saw it as an outrageous insult.
Daemon Targaryen defended her honor.
Despite affirming to himself that it was a whim and obligation because Athelyna Blackwood was only his betrothed, future wife who should be respected, he perceived an appreciation being cultivated in his interior, a peculiar sensation, just like Lady Athelyna: unusual, mysterious, and slightly innocent.
Prince Daemon just didn’t realize that he was the one tied in unbreakable chains from that day on.