Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You had known from an early age on that the world wasn’t fair. It was perhaps a strange thing for a young child to realize, but ultimately, it wasn’t hard to come to that conclusion. Not with a mother that was never allowed outside her rooms unless your father or his most trusted guards accompanied her. Not with a mother isolated from everyone she loved. You were the only person aside from father who was allowed to see her unsupervised.

Your mother was everything your father wasn’t, soft and sweet. Meek, some would say, but you saw the weary understanding in her gaze, the quiet knowledge that fighting was a fruitless, painful thing. No one would take her side and she would gain nothing. She would only lose everything she still had left.

Your father was a rough, harsh man, with a heavy, bruising hand, ever unsatisfied with your existence, for you had been born without a cock - that was what you had overheard his advisor say once. You were not a son, just a daughter. His only child, despite his best efforts to achieve the opposite. 

You remembered how maesters went in and out of your mother’s rooms, giving her teas and herbs and a plethora of strange treatments to try and aid her in that endeavor.

It was your father who taught you, unknowingly, how to lie well, how to be quiet and observe and go unnoticed. He had you as his cupbearer, for lack of the son he actually wanted and you made sure to be soft and sweet and silent, to listen carefully to everything said - and everything unsaid.

It was your mother who taught you, unknowingly, how to endure, how to use every advantage you could get, no matter how tiny, to its full potential. 

She listened when you cried and struggled and how your heart was bleeding with despair over not being enough for your father - for the lords who’d never let you be anything than what they desired of you. Your heart ached over wanting more of life and being told that it was just not your lot.

Your mother was lonely and cut off from the world and you were a lonely child, your world kept small by rough hands and a hard stare and adults telling you it was not a lady’s business to bother herself with the concerns of men.

Your mother was the one who brushed your tears away and whispered, "It isn’t in our blood to give up, don’t take their words to heart, sweetling."

So one day, your mother’s words echoing in your mind, when the septa ended her lessons, you asked, soft and sweet, if you could stay in your father’s library to keep studying the faith.

"I fear I can’t remember it all as well as I’d like," you said, speaking carefully so the words came out exactly as you wanted them to.

The septa was rather pleased and left you alone with the books and as soon as you were sure she was well and truly gone, you got up to grab the books you weren’t supposed to touch. Day after day you came up wit excuses, pretending to be slow and stupid and people talked, rumor spreading that you were dim but at least you were hard working.

And each day, you taught yourself the things you weren’t supposed to know, connecting things you had read about with the things you heard your father’s council discussed. Matters of politics and war and famine and money, matters of trade and law and what made and broke loyalty and trust.

You brought those stories to your mother, doing your best to bring the outside world into her little cage, to try and brighten her days. To bring color and song and knowledge. To give her a taste of things she had once more freely been part of.

She loved you for it, praised you and whispered secrets in return, how to count the guards on rotation to slip past them, how to use the rumors spread about you in your favor. And she shared with you a little legend, passed down among her family.

"It is said we carry an ancient legacy," your mother whispered. "I made the mistake of telling your father as much, trying to gentle him, but it was not to be and sometimes I see him staring at you because of it. Touch the flame on the candle, child."

You hesitated, but in the end you did as she asked, preparing for hurt and burns, but…the flame was warm. Just warm.

"Are we Targaryen?" you couldn’t help but whisper with a gasp. Everyone knew the rumors, how the Targaryen’s could not be burned by anything but dragon fire - and some not even then, stories said. How they had fire in their blood.

"No, sweetling," your mother said softly. "None in my family ever had pale hair or lilac eyes, but…in Old Valyria, before the Doom, the Targaryen’s weren’t the only dragon lords." Her smile was a tired, disillusioned thing. "In my family, we love to tell the story that one of them abandoned their family to come live here in our lands just before the Doom, to marry the lady he had fallen in love with."

Love was not something most noble folk married for, but if they were lucky, love could come afterwards, like it had for your grandparents. You knew not to expect love from your future husband, but you hoped to at least find…a friend.

Your mother cupped your cheek and kissed your brow, whispering, "Those are just stories, my sweet girl. I’ve seen plenty of people capable of touching a flame without blistering immediately. Never share what I told you and never forget, we are as ordinary as everyone else. Even the Targaryens are, for we all die if you pierce our hearts."

"Yes, mother," you whispered and she pulled back, sad and tired and diminished, like your father’s rough hands had worn her down like a river rounding pebbles.

Your mother taught you what her parents had taught her, before she had gotten married to a terrible man. Her parents regretted ever giving her away. The last time she had seen them, years ago, they had told her as much, her father with helpless fury and her mother with tears and bitterness in her eyes.

You saw the marks on your mother’s skin whenever your father sought her out. How sometimes her belly swelled, only for it to vanish again, leaving her desolate and weeping for days and your father furious. But even the swelling of her belly had been a while back and despite her praying for more children, despite the maesters visits, so far there were none.

Now, however, your mother slowly came more to life as she taught you of household matters, how to manage money and feasts and celebrations, how to choose loyal servants and reward them well, to keep your eyes and ears open for deceit and betrayal.

"That knowledge has not served me well," she murmured as she sat beside you, teaching you how to write ledgers and keep track of everything. "But they will serve you, I just know it."

And so you carefully crafted your life between lessons all noble ladies got and carefully gathered knowledge as you attended the council meetings, in shared whispers with your mother and bent over books you snuck out of your father’s library. No one ever missed them, not when you chose them carefully and you only ever took one or two at a time, bringing them back as soon as you finished them.

You hid those books in your room, along with the notes you took as you read them and when, eventually, someone did ask where they were, no one ever suspected you. You were merely asked if you had seen someone take something, but when you shook your head, quiet and eyes big, people moved on. 

You were dimwitted in their eyes after all. That rumor, as much as it had made you uncomfortable at first, was truly a boon. People had loose tongues around the stupid, slow lord’s daughter, thinking you unable to understand what they were talking about. 

And even if you did tell your father about what they said - you knew to keep your mouth shut, though - they could always say that you had merely misunderstood something. You were just a foolish little girl after all who had no idea what proper, smart people and especially adults were talking about.

You grew older like this, small and plain even as you got old enough to get married. This was where your true value laid, at least in your father’s eyes. A marriage was the only way you could bring honor to the family - and by squeezing out heirs.

A part of you was terrified of the marriage bed. By now you knew what it meant when your mother was bruised after father’s attentions, but she soothed your fears. She told you of the sweet love shared between your grandparents, how gentle her father had always been. How her home had been one of warmth and respect and laughter.

"You will have the same," she whispered as she kissed the crown of your head. Her words sounded like a promise, like a prayer and like a plea all in one. "You will be happy, sweetling."

You had met a number of other lords and ladies and many of their children over the years and you quietly thought that some of the sons might be good matches. Even though they all considered you dimwitted, for everyone did, there had been some that hadn’t been unkind about it. 

There had been one boy, two years your junior, who had sat with you to read you stories and he told you all about the tournaments he wanted to be part of when he was older. That he’d be a big, strong knight and then he’d come visit you again to tell you more stories.

You had liked him, he had a bright soul and dimpled cheeks when he had smiled and there had been an earnestness about him that had been charming.

When your father mentioned his name among his list of potential suitors, you couldn’t help but be hopeful. You wouldn’t mind a lord knight for a husband, someone bright and earnest, who was willing to sit with you and tell you stories. Hopefully he would keep doing that even when he realized that you were no dimwit at all.

Maybe, with him, you could have what your grandparents had. Something warm and sweet and respectful and full of shared laughter. Something happy.

And then your father left to join one of the king’s hunts and when he came back, he came back with such a swollen chest and such a smug proudness that you knew immediately something good had happened.

Indeed it had, for he had been able to save the king’s life from a boar getting loose from the hunters. Your father had thrown himself in front of the king and ran the boar through with his sword and the king had offered him a boon in thanks.

"I will be sure to use that wisely," he said as he called for a bottle of the good wine to be brought up from the cellars. A smile was on his face that you knew no one else ever got to see. Hard and cold and edged in viciousness. He glanced at you, something dark dancing in his eyes. "It seems you might just be of true use to me after all."

You had no idea what he meant, but you knew to whisper a soft, meek, "Of course, father." You made sure you sounded pliant and sweet and your father sat back, satisfied.

You managed to exchange a quick glance with your mother, who looked pensive and a faint bit worried, but otherwise she gave you a reassuring smile.

There was no more talk about your marriage and you couldn’t help but worry. You were well into adulthood now and everyone your age had been married for at least five years already. But there was a glint in your father’s eyes, something patient and steady, like a snake coiled in the grass. Waiting. Waiting.

You didn’t know for what, not until the news of Lady Rhea’s death reached your home and he immediately wrote the king.

"Prince Daemon is in need of a wife now," your father said, sealing the letter shut and handing it over to his fastest rider. "And the king owes me a life debt, I think we shall be even once he agrees to my proposal."

You had seen glimpses of Daemon Targaryen over the years, the last time you had seen him was at the tournament three or four years back, where he had jousted and won - and lost. You hadn’t much liked the tournament once knights had killed each other, blood getting spilled and your father looking unimpressed with it all. 

Your mother hadn’t been present and you had spotted your grandparents from a distance, their eyes full of hate and grief as they looked at your father.

Most fall, however, you remembered the dragons. Majestic and fascinating, you had felt a near irresistible pull towards them, your eyes glued to them the moment you spotted them soaring through the sky. You had only gotten a handful of glimpses but those had left you deeply fascinated with them.

Within a month news came that Daemon would be wed to you. Your father’s smile was a cold, slick thing and it all made sense now. Why he had waited, sitting both on a favor owed and your unmarried hand. At the end of the day, you were a tool to be used.

"Apparently, the prince has been angering your king of late," your father said with a smile on his face that was neither nice nor joyful. It was the smuggest, most self-satisfied thing you had ever seen, edged in something condescending. "So he agreed to my request, as I had hoped."

So you were a punishment. You made sure not to react, aside from sneaking a glance at your mother when your father waved at the servants to serve the good wine with their dinner. Your mother looked quietly worried, but tried to smile for you.

So, no dimple-cheeked, lord-knight for you, but instead a Targaryen prince. You tried to conjure Daemon’s face in your mind, but all you vaguely remembered were impressions of the royal family as a whole, hair like silver-snow and starlight and purple eyes, ranging from soft, pale lilac to dark amethyst.

You hoped Prince Daemon would not see you as a punishment - though he likely would. You knew your reputation, stupid and small and plain, meek and quiet. You hoped you might befriend him at least and maybe you’d get to see his dragon. Caraxes was well known, the rumors said he was winding like a ribbon fluttering in the sky, like a winged snake and red like blood. A fierce creature, as fierce as his rider.

Your father kept bragging about this accomplishment while you quietly started to think about how you might speak with Prince Daemon when you met him, if you ought to bring any gifts. If there was anything a Targaryen prince didn’t already have.

In the end you settled on something handmade, courtesy of a sketch you had managed to get of Caraxes. You embroidered the red, winding dragon onto the back of a black tunic, which was likely too big for your intended, but you could fix that easily and too big was better than too small for adjustments.

Your father had planned everything with King Viserys through letters, how you and Daemon would marry a month before Princess Rhaenyra was going to wed her King Consort, Laenor Velaryon.

Before you knew it you were whisked away to Kingslanding, your mother staying behind once more. She had spent the past weeks doing her best to prepare you for the reality of the marriage bed. Her words had been awkward and carefully chosen, her hands knotted and anxious as she had tried to give you courage, but fear had made her eyes shine with unshed tears.

You tried to reassure her, but you had to admit that…you didn’t know what kind of man Daemon truly was. There were a lot of rumors about him, about his skills as a warrior, about his temper, about his dragon, about how unruly and wily he was, doing only whatever he desired.

The Rogue Prince, many had started to call him.

"I cannot protect you from this," your mother had whispered the last night before you had left. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," you had whispered back to her. This was not her fault and she had about as much power as you did in this situation. "Besides, it is not in our blood to give up."

She had given you a smile, proud and teary-eyed and had kissed your forehead, whispering a fierce, choked up, "I am so proud of you."

You held those words knotted around your heart when you reached the Red Keep, the entire city ready to celebrate and the Red Keep decorated already, ready for the festivities. You would not stay here in Kingslanding upon your marriage.

Instead, you and Daemon would move on to the lands your father’s older brother was meant to inherit, but your uncle had passed away before the death of your grandfather. In his grief, the old man had not allowed your father to take hold of those lands and had adjusted his will that the firstborn child of his second son was meant to inherit those lands. If it was a girl, then those lands would go to the husband.

Your father had fumed about this fact for years and you knew that he had bled those lands dry, that he had bribed the council in charge to let him take advantage. He had only stopped when nothing else could be gained. He now likely hoped that, upon realizing the dreadful state of the Hills coffers, Daemon would be forced to reach out and ask for money.

Considering his bad relationship with his brother the king, your father clearly expected to be asked for aid instead. And if Daemon didn’t, if he was as proud as the rumors said, as stubborn, then your father wouldn’t lose anything either. He’d just keep his focus on getting onto the king’s council instead.

Upon your arrival at the Red Keep you were whisked away swiftly, for you were to be married that same afternoon. Apparently, it had to be done quickly before Daemon changed his mind or had a chance to flee. You hoped, even if he would not love you, that you might become friends at least.

You hadn’t had a friend in…far too long. You had people you were glad to see at gatherings and feasts, but there hadn’t been other noble children around your father’s keep. Siblings should have been your companions, but you had none, not for lack of trying, and servant children hadn’t dared to play with you for fear of angering your father.

There had been a friend for some time when you had been a little girl, when one of your father’s cousins had visited with his daughter, staying for a couple of months. You had found yourself growing bright and happy when his daughter had decided she liked you, taking you along to all her adventures, brash and loud and glaring in the face of the rumors about you.

You hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, but considering the stories you heard about her she hadn’t changed much at all and she had gotten married herself a little while ago, getting shipped off to Dorne, so she could not attend your wedding. You hoped she’d be happy.

As you got washed and dressed, feeling uncomfortable with all those hands on you, you did your best to ignore the murmuring of the servants. How you were too plain for their prince of starlight and blood and fire. How you were too simpleminded.

It was clear they too thought you too stupid to understand them, for at one point they did not bother to conceal their whispering much at all. You kept your gaze down and averted, trying not to shrink into yourself.

Usually you were good at ignoring such grumblings and your father had always said worse to your face. You had grown up knowing you had been born without your mother’s gentle beauty or your father’s aristocratic handsomeness. 

You weren’t ugly either, which was just fine in your opinion. People paid less attention to those who were plain, which had allowed you to listen to many interesting murmurs and whispers over the years, your presence going either completely unnoticed or utterly ignored.

Only, this time, today of all days, such whispers cut you in ways they normally didn’t. You wished to be at least a little pretty for the prince, to not make him feel like he was getting punished by having to take you as a second wife.

So you did your best, you held still as your hair got braided, coiled and pinned in a traditional, popular style. Your mother had packed the heirlooms she had inherited from her mother, who had gotten the wedding jewelry from her mother’s mother in return. It was the most expensive thing your mother owed and now, by tradition, it was yours.

You thought the jewelry looked gorgeous, shimmering and glittering in the light and you liked to think that it made you look nicer too. By the time you were ready, smelling of roses and skin still soft from the bath and the oils, you felt quite nervous.

And then it was time. Your father was at your side as he led you to your intended, guards accompanying you and then you saw him, waiting for you with an impatient air. Prince Daemon was indeed quite handsome and his hair truly looked to be made of spun starlight. He was tall and dressed in Targaryen red and black, a dragon winding up his cloak that he was meant to put on you.

He also looked less than pleased. If anything, he seemed to dislike you as you were handed over to him, his touch barely brushing your hand and as soon as the ceremony was over, he let go of you, his cloak haphazardly draped over your shoulders and there was no kiss.

He had a sharpness to him, you thought. Something fierce and barely leashed, gaze watchful and intense, something in the tilt of his head that reminded you of a dangerous predator currently deciding to play nice.

Rebel prince was not a fitting name, in your opinion. Not quite, at least. For someone who was supposed to rebel, he went along with his brother’s wishes quite a bit, despite his obvious displeasure.

You tried to not take it to heart, that perhaps Daemon hadn’t wished to get married or perhaps he had already been in love with another. Or that he was mourning his dead wife, though everyone said that he hadn’t seen her in years. 

Still, how awful it would be if you were the reason he and his lover could not be together, if he had one? You hoped it wouldn’t be so, that maybe he was just temporarily upset to be forced into this marriage. You had no idea how to even bridge the chasm between the two of you if he hated you for ruining his life.

The feast at least was rather lovely even if you were nervous and Daemon did dance with you to get the festivities started - in your opinion, the traditional dance of the Targaryens was kind of silly, not that you’d say so, but it was fun and that was all that mattered - but then he seemed eager to be away from you.

You kept your head high like your father demanded and your gaze carefully attentive like your mother had taught you. Watching quietly, people getting progressively more drunk and lost in their cups, snickering at how simple you were, that you didn’t even speak much, that surely it wasn’t because you were shy but because you were dull.

When the time came to head towards the prepared suite, you endured the jeers and shouts and the hands reaching out to tug your dress loose, to make you ready for the claiming as though you didn’t have countless pins in your hair that ought to be removed before any bedsport took place.

Daemon wasn’t there yet when you closed the door behind you, so you tried to be quick, removing enough pins to still keep the hairstyle in case he liked that, but to avoid poking pointy ends all over your scalp at the same time. 

You couldn’t help but wonder if Daemon would be like your father, harsh and cruel and unforgiving, or if he would be different. If he’d be like the knights in songs, gentle and kind and loving.

Or if he’d be like the dragons you had glimpsed in the past, fierce and hot and intense. Maybe a bit of everything. Maybe none of your attempts to imagine him in bed with you would come close to reality. You tried to clear your head and not succumb to your nerves. And then you waited. And waited.

The hour grew later and later until at last, you got up to ask where he was. The last thing you needed was for something to have happened to him. The guard outside your room was willing to accompany you and soon a maid crossing your path could direct you to where the prince currently was.

He was said to be in the courtyard, along with his dragon, who had landed just minutes prior and apparently, the king was quite upset with him.

You indeed found him in the courtyard, in a heated conversation with his brother, anger in his voice.

"I did as demanded of me out of respect for you and because you ordered it as my king," Daemon hissed. "I married the ugly wench, but I will not sully myself with someone not of Targaryen blood, do not expect this of me, not again."

You stilled, only half listening to the rest of the argument, of Daemon storming towards his dragon with no intentions of ever joining you in the suite and the marriage bed.

I will not sully myself, rang in your mind as you carefully stayed out of sight and then you turned and left, the guard silent behind you, his expression caught between awkward and uncomfortable and yet, like he couldn’t wait to gossip about it later.

It seemed you would not have a friend after all.

It seemed you wouldn’t even have a husband, at least in anything but name.

*.*.*

The month you stayed in Kingslanding until Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding was…a lot. You heard more rumors than you cared to, people’s tongues as loose around you as ever. Even after years of knowing no one paid you any mind, you still found yourself surprised sometimes at how much people believed you to be too stupid to understand anything they said.

Then again, if there were two things you considered infinite, it was the starry sky and people’s potential for stupidity and hubris.

You did meet with the royal family a few times during your stay. King Viserys seemed kind if a bit…stooped, under the pressure of the crown and he spoke to you with a soft voice, so different to your father who’s voice had only ever been cold and harsh, even when he didn’t raise it.

The queen was…young. Too young, in your personal opinion, for a man of the king’s age. It was utterly baffling and nonsensical to you, but you had learned quite some time ago, that you’d never understand how many men were enamored with taking such young wives they looked half like children to your eyes. All gangly limbs, not yet done growing, eyes wide as they took in the world, their youth clinging to every part of them.

Daemon and you had a bit of an age gap as well, but nowhere near as much as the king and his young, little wife. It was one blessing, you supposed, of your father waiting so long to see you married. 

If you had thought that your wedding to Prince Daemon had been a pretty affair, it was nothing compared to the grandness that was prepared for Princess Rhaenyra. You had spoken to King Viserys’s heir twice in passing, the girl watching you with sharp eyes and a faint puzzled frown to her brows, like she had no idea what to make of you.

She was a pretty young woman, truly deserving of the nickname 'The Realm’s Delight', you just hoped her husband knew to treat her well - and if he didn’t, that she had all the right and opportunity to remind him that he ought to.

You were glad to see at least one girl growing up without clipped wings, stuffed into a tiny cage, the key tossed away. You had learned to pick the lock in your cage years ago, but you could never leave it for long, for someone would always come looking and you had to be back in that tiny little space once more.

The day of the wedding, you saw more dragons, staring at them in fascination. They were such wonderful creatures, you truly wished Daemon wouldn’t loathe you so, you would have loved to get a proper look at Caraxes. 

To watch him fly, instead of a vague, massive shape, the dragon carefully perched along the Red Keep’s walls until Daemon got into the saddle and the dragon that took flight, vanishing into the dark night sky. But it was not meant to be and you were glad to at least get glimpses of other dragons.

The king soon had the residents of the Red Keep gathered for the wedding and you found yourself awkwardly placed at the main table. Prince Daemon’s stupid, ugly little mouse of a wife, so clearly out of place. And your father among the seated nobility, his polite smile on his face, but you could glimpse behind it, you could see the dark joy curling there.

And then your husband unexpectedly showed up, an awkward silence reigning and a chair was hurriedly brought out so he could take a seat beside you, perched at the short end of the long table. The king barely got a few words into his speech before his wife showed up, dressed in a beautiful, dark green gown.

The implications of it all did not escape you and you couldn’t help but think that your father and you should have stayed away. Whatever trouble was going on with the royal family could not be worth whatever gains your father intended to gain. But it was not your decision and you were already married and so you kept quiet and you watched carefully as the king finished his speech.

Princess Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon opened the festivities with the traditional Targaryen dance - you still thought it was silly and fun and then the music chased away the last of the lingering tension in the room.

You found yourself glancing at your husband, who was staring at the princess dancing with her husband, something unreadable and…almost regretful to his gaze. You resisted the urge to sigh and for the first time you wondered if you getting married to Daemon might not be more punishment to you, rather than him.

"Why don’t you go dancing," Daemon suggested a few moments later and you cast him a glance, but he was already staring across the hall, after his niece.

Well, you had no desire to keep sitting up here, getting stared at by anyone not embroiled in the festivities. So with a nod you got up and stepped away. You did not join the dancing - you would not know who to ask, you had to admit - but you found yourself waved over by your father, who told you to go around and introduce yourself.

You decided to start at the end of the hall, just to stay out of your father’s sight and get a few moments to yourself, maybe chat with some friendly people instead of trying to approach everyone high and mighty. When one of the nights, suddenly, went after one of the guests.

The people around you jerked away, startled, stepping around you when you stood still in surprise until you had a clear view. Your heart was sharply beginning pound very fast when you saw the knight punch the young man again and again, with such force and unbridled, blind rage that you knew immediately this would end badly.

A sudden heat flushed across your skin and you moved without thought, grabbing one of the heavy stone bowls from the table, a carved, pretty thing holding sweet summer fruit. You lunched forward, bringing it down over the knight’s head with all your might.

Fruit spilled everywhere and the knight collapsed without an almost soft little, squeaky exhale. You inhaled sharply, jerking back when you saw the blood beginning to soak into his dark hair. The injured young man was wheezing, struggling out from beneath the armored knight and the bowl fell from your suddenly numb fingers.

The chaos, as quickly as it had broken out, fell silent again, people staring at you, then glancing at the knight. Ser Laenor came rushing forward, elbowing people out of the way to help the young man up, fear and relief bright in his gaze as he grabbed the young man’s arms as though to make sure he was alright, gaze darting over the injuries on his face.

The knight groaned the next moment, shifting to get up and you hurriedly fumbled to grab your bowl again. Everyone just…stared as the knight got to his feet, staggering, gaze dazed but clearing quickly and then an expression settled over his face like he had just realized his immense rage. What he had done and had been about to do. He turned and left, no one stopping him. You exhaled heavily, sagging.

The festivities were cut short after that, the wedding vows getting spoken to a silent hall and then everyone was sent on their way, blood still splattered on the ground where the young man had gotten his nose broken and one eye beaten so black and blue, it was swollen entirely shut, a lip busted and thick.

"I heard you knocked out a knight," you heard Daemon’s sudden, quiet voice as he sidled up to you, his sharp gaze watching the guests filter out. "Didn’t know you had it in you."

You hadn’t either. "He wasn’t going to stop," you found yourself whispering back, your gaze fixed on the leaving guests as well. "I moved without thinking."

"Hm." Daemon was silent a moment longer, then he asked, "Would you be terribly upset if I took a second wife?"

You blinked and glanced up at him, meeting light lavender eyes. He offered one of his smiles, sharp and barely tempered, a fierceness and fire to him even now.

"I won’t object," you ended up saying, looking away from him again. "So long as the other person is willing and treated well, feel free to stick your dick into any hole you like."

He laughed at that, the noise half surprised, like he hadn’t expected to find something you said funny. "You have quite the mouth on you," he said, leaning in a bit and you resisted the urge to inch away from him. For all that you had been married to him he was still a stranger to you, unpredictable and wild. "I’m learning all sorts of things about you tonight."

You would be glad to leave it at that and call it a day. You frowned the next moment, "Who do you intend to wed?" If his choice was going to cause trouble, you’d rather know in advance.

Daemon opened his mouth like he was going to say something else when the king stepped towards you, looking tired and almost gray.

"Your Grace," you spoke softly, curtseying as expected of you and the king waved at you to stop. There was something inherently kind to his face even now, even though he looked like he was in dire need of a good nap.

"My apologies, that you had to witness such a spectacle," the king said, his voice soft and his smile a wavering thing like he had to work hard to keep it on his face. "Would you allow me to speak with Daemon here a moment?"

"Of course," you answered and with another little curtsey you stepped away, leaving your husband to talk with his brother.

You returned to your guest chambers, but just like in past nights, Daemon did not show up. In the morning, you had learned that he had left to travel to Essos. The king made excuses, but you could see the dim disappointment in his eyes and yet no surprise over his brother’s actions.

You soon left Kingslanding, your father heading away to return home and for the first time, you traveled alone, aside form a small escort of knights.

*.*.*

When you arrived at the keep you were supposed to call home now, you did so without a husband in tow. In fact, your husband seemed more than intent to be as far from you as possible. You had no idea where Daemon was in Essos or if he intended to show up at one point. 

Either way, you were not going to sit around and twiddle your thumbs, not when you knew the state of your family’s lands and what your father expected. There was an almost sharp viciousness rising within you, now that you were away from him and no longer had to play an endless Mummer’s dance to keep him pleased.

You were going to ruin his plans regarding your new home and you’d rebuild it. Your greatest advantage was that you knew some of the names of the traitors already and that they had been putting money into their own pockets. If they hadn’t spent it all yet on things that couldn’t be sold, you would get it back from them.

It was here that the rumors about you being simple and dull became a true boon. You had always known that people underestimated you, first for being born a girl and secondly because your watchful quietness and your well-placed lies had ensured they considered you too stupid to understand things.

It made people careless, it always did. It didn’t take long at all for you to sniff out the rest of the rats that had made themselves comfortable on the small council leading your new lands until the firstborn grandchild married and came here, their smiles failing to hide their condescending stares.

There were two men, however, who you could trust, so one evening you called them into the lord’s office - your office now, truly, for Prince Daemon had yet to show his face.

To them you presented your finds, about stolen money and broken laws and the maester’s crimes, who had poisoned the last steward of the keep to have his distant cousin fill his spot instead. To get his hands on even more money.

You had agonized for days over how you might get rid of them, what clever plans you could come up with, who to give some nudges to have them act for you, where to leave the evidence you had collected, until you had remembered a crucial detail. 

Without Daemon here, you owed no one anything. You could govern your lands as you liked, so long as Kingslanding kept receiving its taxes, they were not going to care if a few people got tossed out of a council, especially since the people here were commonborn.

"I shall have them fired," you said and the two men, named Harryk and Bylon, not of noble blood but noble hearted all the same, tried to protest, worried about potential repercussions.

But what repercussions were there, when everyone considered you a simpleton? They would only see the foolish actions of a very, very foolish woman and they would gossip their black little hearts out and feel better for it and sit back and wait for you to come crawling back to them. 

And by the time they realized it would not happen, that they had gotten removed without a way back in, it would be too late to try and turn their misfortune into leverage against you. No one would care anymore, would see them as jealous and resentful instead of righteous and justified in their outrage.

Harryk and Bylon tentatively decided to go along with your plans. They had been surprised at the evidence you had presented and they had reservations, but they were loyal to your house - or well, your husband’s house, since you were now a Targaryen.

You had the men who would ruin your home - who had been ruining it quietly and little by little over the past years - sent on their way. You knew how to temper your father’s rage, telling him how helpless you were to stop your husband’s rampage through the council, Harryk and Bylon willing to support your lies when you revealed how your father had been a driving force behind the slow, creeping ruin of their home.

There was nothing your father could do, after all, to stop a prince of the crown and soon he stopped asking, turned his gaze away to focus on getting a seat on the king’s council.

Only the maester’s fate you handled differently. His crimes you revealed to the citadel and as you had hoped, they were ever so apologetic, offering to make up for his transgressions.

'Send me two maesters,' you wrote back. 'One for me and one for my people and you will cover half their expenses for the next ten years. Afterwards they will be paid fairly by me alone.'

After some arguing back and forth, they acquiesced and the two men who arrived were not the most experienced, clearly a slight against you, but they were determined and bright eyed and eager.

In the meantime, you got as much of the stolen money back as you could. You sold jewelry and silk and large, lavish homes and you found quite the amount of gold coin in hidden vaults. Enough to keep going, to start rebuilding.

And then a sickness swept across your lands and those two dedicated, determined maesters were the only reason that your people managed to defeat it faster, managed to survive better, managed to get out the other side thin and crawling, but still alive.

There was not much money left in your coffers after that sickness, not with how they had been drained before and the mismanagement that you were still cleaning up. Even with new people hired for the council there was still so much to do.

You did not touch the money that had been sent to the keep in Daemon’s name, your dowry and gifts of his family among the coin. Those things were not for you, they belonged to him and you were not going to take any of it and be called a thief afterwards. You did not trust your husband and considering his great disdain to have you as his wife, you were not going to risk anything. The last thing you needed was to get divorced and send away in disgrace.

So you sold your possessions, your jewels and finery and all you kept were two fine dresses for feasts and the wedding jewelry your mother had given to you. Even then, it nearly wasn’t enough, sleepless nights plaguing you as you had to consider the thought of reaching out to your father, if only to spare your people from suffering.

And then, a miracle. The news that in the two mines on your lands, rubies and gold had been found respectively was a godsend. 

"We will not tell anyone," you told your council, a council that had been handpicked by Harryk and Bylon along with you. They had learned over long months that you were not dull and simple. Plain yes, small and quiet, yes, but not stupid. 

It had surprised them, just like your servants had been surprised when you had asked questions when you had first arrived. When you had listened to them and had made sure their lives were better as a result, not only because you wanted them to have good lives, but also to secure their loyalty.

The maids had been the ones who had given you the evidence on the maester’s crimes, one of them saying it had fallen out of a book when she had cleaned his office. It likely hadn’t, she clearly had snooped, but you had rewarded her either way, requested her silence and sent her on her merry way.

Your servants and guards had kept your secrets and your whispered requests close to their hearts, proud to be trusted, proud to do something important, to know their actions influenced the world around them. Made things better.

Your council was skeptical about keeping silent on the finds in the mines, but when over the next months, you used the gold to first rebuild your lands and your people and then to hire goldsmiths and silversmiths to polish the rubies and make the most beautiful sets of jewelries, to take apprentices among your people to have more skilled craftsmen, they saw the sense in it.

With Targaryens on the throne there would always be a high demand for rubies and with you being in control of all parts of the production it also allowed you to control the prices set for your pieces.

You made sure the quality was the best possible, the jewelry so fine it slid through fingers like silk, shimmering like sunlight had gotten caught in gold and the rubies glittering like spilled, fresh blood.

And as your coffers started to fill, you turned towards projects you had been itching to take care of ever since you had gotten more detailed reports about the various towns and villages of your lands.

As the years passed, you had wells built everywhere, even in the smallest village and you had the harbor extended and partially rebuild, along with a functioning sewage system.

Your two maesters were all too willing to teach carefully selected groups of people the trade of simple healing, how to make salves and set bones, how to identify herbs and symptoms so they could take care of common ailments.

You got them all the medical texts they could want as well, from other maesters in the Citadel and from abroad. There were even a few visiting maesters and healers, bright men who had studied under various experts, you paid them all well so they stayed and shared what they knew.

The mining for gold and rubies produced a lot of stone, so you hired stonemasons to shape them and create roads, to lure in more merchants and traveling folk and all the while, the town outside your keep grew. How more and more artists found a home here, for your people were wealthier and could pay for many a lovely thing, be it a painting, embroidery or a song.

So you used more of your money to pour into the arts and before you knew it, color seemed to spill all across your little city and even down the roads, theaters built and always chock-full of people, traveling performers dropping by more and more often.

You hired more guards, ensuring they knew to protect and actually guard, that you entrusted your people to them. You were surprised at their eagerness and it was only then that you realized how much the perception of you had started to shift. 

How there were different rumors now, whispered and shared among your people, kept from strangers and traders as though your people knew what you were doing. That you were only acting the simpleton to trick the greedy and black-hearted. That you were the Maiden and Mother made flesh, come to liberate them of hunger and pain and suffering.

It made you uncomfortable, you had to admit. There was nothing you could do, after all, should a plague sweep through the land or should war break out. You had nearly failed them all before the rubies and gold had been found in the mines and only slowly, over time, had you been able to give back to them.

You would always try your best to defend and guard and guide your people, but you knew you couldn’t keep pain and death at bay. Even now there was suffering in your lands, though  you had starved it out where you could.

Your mother was the only one you wrote you monthly, though you also knew better than to speak frankly in your letters. Your father was sure to read them, so you told her about your embroidery projects, about the newest song you had heard a minstrel sing, about the pleasant chat you had had with the maester.

Your mother knew to read between the lines, to find scattered hints of your doings and your plans, your failures and successes, your worries and your joys. For you were happy. 

Daemon, in his contempt of you, had given you the greatest boon he possibly could have: You were free to be yourself. To do what you had always wanted, which was to use your position as a noble lady for something good.

To be more in life than a leech that sat upon a mountain of gold taken from other people because ancient rulings decided that they owed it to you. To put your mind to good use and see the results take shape in front of your very eyes.

Your lands had grown wealthy because of you, your coffers full and you poured the money back into your people, though you also made sure to set enough aside to endure famine and war should it come sweeping across your lands. 

It allowed you to build more orphanages and get the homeless taken care of, to try and help people back on their feet, to invest in the farmland to let them hire more farmhands, for a larger harvest and to tend to larger herds.

You wrote your father only as often as you had to, to ensure he would not come and visit. You told him of how Daemon ruled from afar, that he could drop by quickly and easily on his dragon, that the council was loyal to him. 

You spun all manner of tales, carefully crafted lies and how impressed you were by his governing of your lands, your letters kept just simple enough to let him keep thinking that you weren’t the brightest without making him suspicious that something was going on. It was a very careful, very fine balancing act, but so far, you had managed to pull it off successfully.

You did not mind letting everyone think that Daemon was the one behind all of this, to have lords and ladies think the Targaryen Prince had been such a large boon on your lands. So long as he didn’t come here to ruin it, you were happy to keep going as you were.

It was good, to be finally truly and actually happy. 

But happiness was a fleeting thing and you should have known yours was not meant to last.

You had received visitors ever since your wedding, important merchants who were rich enough to be lords in anything but name and actual lords and ladies. Among them had been the dimple-smiled lord-knight, who was just as nice and sweet as you remembered him being.

He had been the only one to bring you a book as a gift, a book on songs and tales and he had even sung you a few, his voice beautiful. You had to admit to being quietly charmed and you had, just as quietly, wished that he could have been your husband instead. 

You could have fallen in love with him, you thought. You would have enjoyed governing your lands together with him, to see what his mind brought to the table, what you could do to make things better together.

You loved being in charge, you loved being trusted and to guide the future of your people. To guide them to a prosperous tomorrow and have them as happy and fulfilled as they could be. But you wished you wouldn’t have to do it alone. To have at least a friend at your side, if not a loving husband.

Harryk and Bylon were lovely of course, as was the rest of your council, but they were still in your employ and under your command. They could protest all they wanted if they didn’t like one of your ideas, but ultimately your word was still law. It was different with them, there would always be a need for a careful bit of distance no matter how fond you were of them.

Of course the lord-knight had to leave again, as did all others, but he left you feeling warm and quietly yearning. You wouldn’t act upon such things of course, for you intended to honor the vows you had made, even if your husband hated you.

And then two lords visited, two cousins of Jason Lannister, with a trusted knight at their side. You hosted them, as was expected of you, but you couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable all evening. They kept staring at you, smirking and making comments and crude jokes that they thought you were to simple to understand.

They also spoke quite sharply about your husband, a sort of bitter jealousy coating their words even as they tried to act as though they were just complimenting a man you hadn’t seen in years. But their smiles were more like a baring of teeth, the glimmer in their eyes one that told you that Daemon must’ve hurt their egos so very terribly at one point.

They were everything you considered awful about nobility - about people in general if you were being honest - so you kept your soft, sweet smile on your face and internally, you prayed that they might be finished feasting soon. They had plans to leave again tomorrow, to only stay here for the night, so you wouldn’t have to endure them for long.

"And where is your darling husband anyway?" one of them asked. He had a pretty enough face, and both he and his brother were Lannisters through and through, considering their sun-blond hair and shimmering brown eyes and the roaring golden lion stitched on their brick-red doublets. 

Lord Edgar was the older brother’s name and his younger brother was called Lord Jallen and their knight was named Ser Cordell.

"Prince Daemon is currently traveling," you answered. Last you had heard he had returned to Kingslanding after visiting the Free Cities, but since he was on dragonback, who knew where he was by now. 

While he did tend to stay in Kingslanding the longest, sooner or later he was on the move again, though you had no idea if it was out of choice or, as the rumors said, because his brother kept sending him away.

The three men before you grinned at each other and you didn’t like the glint in their eyes at all. The wine had their cheeks flushed and you were glad when they were done eating at last. You excused yourself and let them take the uncorked bottles to be emptied at their leisure. A small price to pay to have them drunk and asleep and gone the next morning.

You had no idea what did it, if they had planned it from the beginning, if they thought you nicely meek and soft and sweet or if the wine gave them the courage for vile acts, but Edgar and Cordell found you, Jallen already asleep, an hour after you had gone to bed.

A hard hand muffled whatever shout for help you had tried to release, ugly laughter surrounding you that was kept quiet and low to avoid drawing attention. You fought back, but Edgar and Cordell were far strong and well trained and you had never felt frailer and smaller and weaker in your life than you did beneath them.

You hadn’t wasted a thought about Daemon and the wedding bed in years, but tonight you learned how it was done when a man bedded a woman. What your mother endured whenever your father visited her at night. It was brutal and painful and a tiny part of you was glad that it was only Edgar Lannister doing the deed, that Cordell was only there to hold you down and not partake.

Your pleas got ignored, your begging only made them laugh, made them all the more eager. Trying to bribe them, to promise giving them things had a hand cracking across your face and Edgar leaning in, hissing, "I have my own wealth and if I want yours, I will take it."

"Daemon’s really missing out on his little wife, ugly as she may be," Ser Cordell joked, all ugly greed and jeering vengeance. All at once, you realized even this was about Daemon rather than you. This was about power with pleasure only being an afterthought.

They were delighted, gleeful about the fact to take something from Daemon, to ruin something of his. To conquer something of his while he was gone. To somehow feel like they had one-upped the man and torn a victory from him.

When he was done at last, Edgar leaned in as he hissed, slurred and vicious and sated all at once, "Just try to tell someone about this, we will all deny your claim, even my brother, and then you will be ruined."

They stumbled off, still drunk and laughing, leaving you shivering and sobbing and then you were throwing up, your body littered with bruises and blood on your thighs. You couldn’t move, shaking and feeling like you had gotten clawed to pieces, body, mind and soul, horror and pain coating your veins.

You didn’t sleep, or if you did, you weren’t aware of it, until dawn crested at last and you heard a maid shriek out in the hallway. That was when you remembered there should have been a guard and as you struggled to sit up, the door getting thrown open and the maid’s eyes immediately growing wide and horrified as she spotted you, you saw the guard behind her, crumpled to the floor, surrounded by cold blood.

By the time the maester had finished tending to you, your guests were long gone and it was only then that you managed to get some of the truth out.

"No one will believe me," you whispered staring off into nothing and the maester, the once so bright eyed, determined man who had come to you with ideas and determination and a hunger to keep learning, to be the best he could be, sat beside you, silent and horrified and grim.

You both knew you were right. You had no witnesses and two reputable lords, especially Lannisters, and their trusted knight would easily be able to discredit you. 

You, the dimwit, plain and simple and small, abandoned by her husband. It would be so easy to say that you just wanted attention, that you had thrown yourself at them and they had rejected you and out of hurt pride you had then started to accuse them of something vile.

You had no proof, not when bruises could be made by anyone, when you could have ordered your own guard killed, your maester bribed.

You were too hurt for the moon tea, but in the end, it proved unnecessary. Nothing grew within you and you couldn’t help but be deeply, viciously glad about that.

That night changed everything. You found yourself unable to sleep much, even with two guards now stationed outside your door. When you managed to rest for a little while, it was fitful and you had nightmares, jerking awake with a gasp over and over again. 

'It is not in our blood to give up.' your mothers words kept echoing in your ears in these first days and weeks and they gave you the strength to pick yourself up, to pull your wounded, shattered pieces close, so you could piece yourself back together to keep going.

You did the only thing you could think of doing to rebuild yourself: You worked. You worked until late at night, you designed and plotted and shuffled money around, you bartered and sent pretty letters with pretty jewelry as bribery and you kept improving things for your people.

It was the only thing that made sense, that gave you a purpose, that didn’t make you feel like you might fall apart again. You had no idea if you healed, but…you at least got better at pretending.

You lost yourself to it and you barely slept and you ended up looking ever more plain for it, greeting visitors in simple dresses and no jewelry. The unsmiling lady they called you now. The joyless dimwit.

Your council worried, even your people worried and you found yourself plied with more gifts.

And then a dragon was sighted in your lands. Sheepstealer, people called him and you sent out riders with a decree to spread among your people: To leave the dragon be and keep children close. To write to you about any sheep lost to the dragon’s hunger and you would see them repaid.

For weeks the dragon hunted in your lands and while most were truthful about their lost cattle, some lied and presented charred bones that they themselves had burned. Thankfully, you had a very sharp eyed tax collector who never allowed anyone to shortchange you - a fierce bit of loyalty you had no idea when exactly you inspired it - and he ruthlessly sussed out who spoke honestly and who wished to steal from you.

And then there were sightings of another dragon. Huge and black and green-eyed. The Cannibal, the largest of the three wild dragons. It wasn’t hard to guess what had brought him here when he usually resided on Dragonstone, clearly he was hunting down the other, far smaller dragon.

Either that or he was just traveling, stretching his wings and getting a chance of scenery. Who knew. You certainly didn’t, dragons were not your forte even if you knew all you could about the ones both currently living and dead. You had studied up on them in your childhood and later upon your betrothal to Daemon Targaryen. Until now that knowledge hadn’t found much use, however.

When the two dragons lingered longer in your lands than you were comfortable with, you decided to ride out and see them for yourself. From a distance of course, you weren’t foolish.

Sheepstealer was a sort of mud-brown dragon with a silver shimmer to it’s scales, a strangely pretty color all things considered. And then you saw him, large and black, with wicked horns and huge wings. He looked massive to you, even from a distance, easily dwarfing the smaller, swifter dragon.

Each wingbeat sounded so loud as though someone was snapping gigantic sheets right beside you. For a moment you could only stare, that same deep fascination that had gripped you as a little girl taking hold of you once more. You could watch dragons forever, you thought, a quiet longing unfolding within your heart.

But you were no longer a little girl, full of carefully hoarded dreams and thoughts, learning how to navigate your father’s temper and his heavy hand and how he wouldn’t hesitate to bruise you if necessary.

A roar drew your attention once more. Sheepstealer had banked sharply left, heading in the direction of your group now and you could tell that he was intent on escaping the massive black dragon that banked to follow.

And then Sheepstealer zipped up into the grey clouds, vanishing among them and it looked like the Cannibal would follow, only for his head to turn towards you and your group instead. Where before that distance had seemed like more than enough, all of a sudden you realized that you had been foolish after all. You should have stayed so far away the dragons were nothing but distant specks.

Your breath felt like it got stolen away and all at once, as guards shouted and Harryk and Bylon ordered everyone to keep hold of their horses, you knew the Cannibal would hunt down anyone he pleased. He who hunted everything, be it in the sea, on the ground or in the sky.

"Go," you ordered sharply and it was a testament of the trust your council had in you, of your level head and your careful decisions, your investment in the people around you, for they obeyed.

They obeyed and you gestured for the guards to do the same and they did and when they noticed that you hadn’t followed, it would be too late to turn back. Because you sensed that vicious, green gaze on you and if you stayed, if you were a distraction, everyone else had a better chance to make it.

Peripherally, you were aware of the group of advisors and guards slowing and Harryk ordering everyone to keep going, even though his voice sounded stricken - smart man, you had kept him on the council for a reason - but then your attention was swallowed up by the dragon before you once more.

You felt drawn towards him still, even now as he was death made flesh, heading right for you. At least your lands were well taken care off, your council would keep going as you had and you had plenty of ideas and projects lying around in your office should they have no ideas of their own.

Even if Daemon came back or your father decided to govern in the prince’s stead, it would take years to undo what you had built ever since your marriage. Years you had poured yourself into this land, doing everything to guard and protect and guide.

Your people would be safe for quite some time to come and even if things went back to how they had been before your arrival, they would still be doing better than before, their futures not as bleak.

And then the dragon landed, ground shaking under his weight and oh, oh he was truly massive. You had heard once that he was suspected to be the biggest dragon after Verminthor, or perhaps the fourth biggest - not that it mattered, he was massive either way, especially compared to you.

And then you met his eyes, green as gras, green as poison, green as spring and emeralds and air rushed back into your lungs.

*.*.*

He was the predator to everything that lived, from hunters in the sea to all that walked and ran and even to his kin in the sky. He ate what he pleased, killed what he pleased and he was free.

Others had tried to tame him in the past, flickering flames, hot blooded and ancient smelling, but he had made sure each and everyone didn’t live to regret it. Once, he had felt a pull, his soul noticing something kindred in a boy of silver and amethyst, fire in the child’s blood.

He had turned away immediately, had refused the chains he could sense in his future, the orders and obedience even if he would be respected. Even if he would be loved.

The sky was his domain and he had been younger and quite ferocious then, unwilling to give up anything even for love. Especially for love. His freedom was not worth it and he had more hunting to do, had been hungry for it in ways he doubted others could ever understand.

But now he felt it, stronger than ever before. His soul was not gently guided, tugging him towards someone, no, it was yanking and demanding and he found himself following out of curiosity. He knew it meant there was a special human somewhere nearby, he saw a group fleeing - what a laughable attempt, did they think they could outrun him? - and he noticed her.

Small, but all were small before him and then he sensed her soul. Fierce but so wounded, so lonely and abandoned and yet still protecting those around her. Sheltering them beneath her, sharing her warmth and care and love freely.

His biggest mistake, even if he couldn’t bring himself to regret it the next moment, was to meet her gaze. Fearless but grim, accepting of whatever came next, for it meant she would have protected her territory once more. One last time.

But no one was protecting her, he could sense it as he slammed to the ground, his soul igniting with a yearning that would have been foreign to his very blood if he hadn’t found himself searching fruitlessly again and again over the years for someone who fit him. For someone who would not flinch from everything he was, murder and viciousness and ruthlessness, unforgiving and brutal and unwilling to change or bend.

She would be first rider, for he could not sense chains in his future with her. Could not sense being used and commanded. Only respect and love and care and protection, extended even to him, he who didn’t need it.

She would give it all if she ever thought he needed it, without expecting anything in return. Would put her hands over him, shielding and guarding, would have him safe behind her, willing to face whatever the world threw at her, making herself a shield if that was what it took.

As he leaned in, scenting her, her steady determination, her quiet fierceness, her loneliness and her terrible pain, he knew all at once that she was his. His first bonded, his only bonded, for he wouldn’t want anyone else afterwards, not when he had finally found her.

She was his, he thought as he leaned in with a gentleness he had never displayed before, with a care never shown anyone or anything else. He ever so softly nudged his snout against her, breathing heat across her, holding her gaze with one eye by tipping his head ever so carefully to the side.

Mine, he snarled in his mind, his body rumbling with delight. His to guard, his to protect, his to heal, his to take into the skies, towards freedom and joy. He would devour her grimness, he would hunt her loneliness and kill her pain. He would delight in murdering at her request, in using his fire and his claws and teeth to destroy what threatened her. If anything even dared to be so foolish with him around.

As the soul-bond settled into place, he pulled back and roared up into the sky, where he knew that little dragon still lurked, far enough to escape him but not too far to no longer hear him. 

Let him know, let everyone know, that this was his human, his fierce-hearted rider. His.