Ｎｉｎｅ
𝓉𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓈 & 𝓂𝑒𝓈𝓈𝓎 𝓅𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓈
╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝
When you grow up, you dream of the perfect wedding. You see the fairytale lights, the long rows of chairs, and the flower arrangements all lined in white. You picture the rows of family as vividly as you would the love itself. Rhaenyra had seen all of it in her dreams as a child, had planned for each flower and each gown and who would wear them.
She used to make vails out of the bedsheets, walking down the manor back in their second home or back when they stayed in Dragonstone. In Dragonstone, she had been a princess, and a true one at that. She had everything she needed to fit the fantasy. The castle, the help to wait on her, the ocean waves slamming against the stones and the cliffside below. She had the doting king and queen, her parents who spoiled her rotten with gifts and all manner of praise.
The only thing she did not have was great love.
She thought she found it with Sebastian Duarte, a musician who'd serenade her wonderous melodies on her beauty. He had the voice, the looks, and all else of a prince. The only thing he did not have was money, but she was Rhaenyra Targaryen, and she had excess amounts. With Sebastian, she had the castle, the doting parents, and the great love.
Certainly, a couple of grand to support her love was of little sacrifice. This was not a strong argument to her father when he found out about the missing 40k from his bank statement. "I love him, dad," was also not a pleasing argument, and in the future, the entire ordeal made her feel like a fool. At the very least, it was now an amusing tale of naivety and heartbreak, to which Rhaenyra had much experience.
At 18, fresh out of high school, the king and queen had cut her off.
At this point in the story, we would have another handsome prince save the day, and rescue the princess from her horrid parents who would make certain their daughter did not run off to find the traveling musician in Paris. Or in London. Or in Germany, if his snap location was anything substantial to on.
And there was a handsome man who enters the story at this point, and yes, he might be a prince, but save the day? Daemon Targaryen had never done that.
He had laughed at her when she told her tale of heartbreak and woe, to embellish the story at points and to emphasize that Sebastian was just a lost artist. Sebastian hadn't used her for money, he had been trying to make himself worthy of her. Rhaenyra had been so certain, until her uncle had patiently sat next to her atop the white cushion and wicker bench. She had taken two buses and a train across New York.
At 18 years old, she had typed 'Dumb question but how does one use a bus?'
Then, because the world was a tragic thing, someone had thrown themselves in front of the 4 pm train, splattered against the glass. From there, she had to walk all the way to Noho, successfully irritated that the suicide hadn't taken place an hour before or after her own train. Once she had gotten to his penthouse, she had to finesse the doorway man into letting her inside, into opening the elevator, where she took it to the roof.
There he had sat across from her and she told her tale, growing more and more self-concious as the minutes passed while he listened. She didn't feel much like a princess when she recounted it, and rather like an insolate child who stole money from her parents. The insecurity concentrated into a finite blade, only apparent when he looked at her like she was ridiculous.
"So, let me see if I have this correct," Daemon said, elbows resting on the back of the wicker portion of the bench atop his balcony. The shade mostly obstructed them with the towering archway of stone. The sun, however, glistened from the sparkling blue pool that must have been cleaned early morning to look so clear. Her Jimmy Choos were near the the stone firepit, which she was considering lighting since it was growing colder with each passing second. And maybe, if he continued to look at her like that, she'd toss herself in. "I drove all the way down from Hobokin because you stole money from your father to support a douchebag musician who promptly used all of it for a free vacation with his friends."
Rhaenyra's nose wrinkled, rubbing her feet in a light massage as she sat criss-cross on the bench. She clicked her tongue in frustration.
"After stealing from your father and believing an idiot, how are you the victim here?" Daemon asked, now turning his head to look at her with a smirk, always giving the harshest of truths. Rhaenyra's lips thinned.
"I love him," Rhaenyra said, now embarrassed by the words as she finally broke the eye contact, her brows drawn in, before she let out a surprised laugh. "Oh my god." She covered her face into her hands, bringing her knees to her chest as she heard Daemon snort. Her cheeks were red, and her hands were not big enough to cover the entirety of her face. "Oh my god."
Daemon shook his head, as if he were listening to a child or as if he had not done stupider things when he was her age half a billion years ago. "Now that you've realized this Sebastian Duarte is a moron with no talent, what are you going to do about it?"
She groaned, the world not opening to swallow her up fast enough. "What do you mean? He's in Paris," Rhaenyra said with another embarrassed groan. Daemon smiled, grabbing her hand and pressing her knuckles to his lips. His eyes were dark indigo, mostly black and open with wicked amusement that spelled violence.
"You are a Targaryen and my only niece. Say the word and consider it done," he said, and she was mesmerized by his clear complexion, the white hair, not yet cut, pulled back in clips. She admired his confidence, his low voice, never rising in anger, even when he was infuriated. "Well, my little dragon? Do you want to burn his life down or not?"
Rhaenyra's lips twitched up, and she felt the embarrassment slowly ebb away. "What do you have in mind?"
Daemon's thumb moved in circles on her hand, the action easing away the stress and the hurt and the way her credit cards were frozen. Her eyes fluttered shut, before she breathed in deeply, catching the whiff of his cologne that made her senses go hazy. "Here I thought you would want to claim deniability."
Rhaenyra placed her left hand atop his that cradled her right. Her smile spread over her face. "I would rather burn his life with you than without."
His lips pursed, his amusement a wicked thing and a mirror of her own.
─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────
Family gatherings usually ended with hellish affairs, brought about by misunderstandings and tensions finally imploding. Suffice it to say, there had never been a boring wedding when the Targaryens coordinated them. If it didn't end in chaos, perhaps a slap or a fight or two, it was a dull affair.
As was it to be when the first invitation for the wedding of Laenor Valayran and Qarl Correy began to circulate through their community of socialites. There was a certain excitement about a grand wedding, even amongst those still a part of the medieval times and did not support love of all kinds.
"We just want a cake with two men," Laena said, her ear to the phone as she tapped her pen against the binder titled 'wedding planer'. Easily, everything could have been done by a hired hand, but Laena was ever the romantic, deciding that she wanted to take care of every detail on her own. She wanted to pick out the flowers, the decorations, the food, the venue, and every other aspect of every detail in order to make this event more intimate.
Rhaenyra had once dreamed of Alicent as her maid of honor, but watching Laena in action made those wishes shift.
"Yes," Laena continued, her frustration slowly creeping in as her fingers let go of her pen in order to run her palm along her thin neck. "Well, then why don't you take two grooms off other cakes and put it on top of what I am commissioning."
The conversation was teetering in between frustration and politeness while Rhaenyra continued her work on seating arrangements. With so many family members, distant cousins, and the like, it was easy to forget who had drama and who did not. Or, worse than that, who would gain drama prior to the wedding.
For example, the Starks would not sit near the Boltons due to Alys Bolton's child being the likely result of Tomard Stark and not her husband, Alaric Bolton. Rhaenyra had one hand on her pen and another on her phone, messaging family and friends inquiries on if they hated the person they'd be with during a portion of the night as needed. Jason Lannister, for example, would be as far from Rhaenyra as possible, perhaps in the kennels so long as Laenor did not find out.
"You know what," Laena's patient voice finally grew icy. "I'd respect you more if you just admitted that you were in a lonely marriage with a partner who can't find your g-spot on a map. You can give my cake to a heterosexual couple for all I care, since it's likely as dry and crusty as your cunt." Laena hung up.
There was silence in the room while Laena rested her face in her hands. Rhaenyra nearly thought she'd start crying as her shoulders began to shake, but instead, a bright laugh began to emit from between Laena's fingers. Finally, the dark girl leaned backward and draped over the back of her chair like a coat.
"That went well," Rhaenyra said, scrolling through her messages on her phone to find Yana Lancaster and text her a photo of her table.
"Laenor loved that cake," Laena said, still hysterically laughing.
"Laenor loves dick more than cake. He'll live," Rhaenyra said with a shrug as she held the camera over the table and snapped a few photos. She had to go home soon and study for her bar exam, but school and life balance required her to help her closest friend and cousin.
"Maybe I should call them back and apologize," Laena said, reaching for her phone again, but Rhaenyra had already grabbed it before she could.
"And say what? You said she had a crusty vagina. Sorry dear, that is not something a 'just kidding' will fix," Rhaenyra said, tucking strands of hair behind her ear and untangling some of them from her hoop earrings. "No, I'll call Ryan, he owes me a favor. Hard to sell your conservative cakes if you can't renew your lease."
"I guess that makes me feel a bit better," Laena said, now staring over at the seating arrangement. It was a decorative whiteboard, filled with magnets shaped like tables and a little magnet name for each of their 600 guests. "Okay, that's pretty funny," Laena said, referring to the little magnet of a trashcan where Daemon's name rested atop it in the corner of the whiteboard layout.
While Laena did not know the extent of the feud, she knew what Rhaenyra was comfortable sharing. That Daemon was an arse who made a mockery of Dragonstone and humiliated her father. Rhaenyra vaguely remembered saying she was too busy to deal with Daemon's chaotic nature with her so focused on law school, and when she graduated a few months ago, she used the bar exam as a new excuse. After that, she'll just say that it had been years and she's not interested in attempts to rekindle the relationship that had once been so close.
She'd be nonchalant.
And all would be well.
"Oh, how did that get there," Rhaenyra said, grabbing the little magnet of Daemon's name and tossing it into her Shirley Temple. She watched it splash and float atop the ice, but she was still able to read his name.
"I know you don't want to hear it, but have you considered maybe burying the hatchet," Laena suggested carefully, and Rhaenyra's scowl darted to her with sharp intensity. "Jesus, fine. Hate him forever then."
Rhaenyra's scowl fell, and a pang cut through her. "I don't hate him," she said with a deep sigh. "He's just messy and we are still hiding his legal affairs from the press. Every time we cover one, he tops himself. How does an entire team bury a drug trade operation from the public? Very carefully." According to her father, Daemon is still saying he had nothing to do with it.
"Well, where did you put Rhea Royce?" Laena asked with a sigh, looking around her quiet condo. It was certainly a shame that Daemon was so close to the Valayrans, since Rhaenyra couldn't just uninvite him. Then again, since when did Daemon care? He'd show up out of spite with a cake of strippers most likely.
Rhaenyra pointed to Rhea's name from across the room layout, where she sat with her own family, since they were close business partners with Corlys Valayran. A wedding to celebrate Laenor's love was a given, but so long as it was Corlys's money, there was no denying the turn it made towards creating stronger networking connections.
"It would look strange to see the divide, Rhae," Laena said, digging into Rhaenyra's Shirley Temple and pulling out Daemon's name. She grabbed a napkin and began to wipe away the liquid. She sent Rhaenyra an apologetic smile and placed Daemon's name at the table labeled 'Targaryen'. The only solace was the name was at least on the opposite side of the table as Rhaenyra's, but it offered little relief to the anxiety that settled about her.
"I love weddings," Rhaenyra said, wanting to strangle him.
"What about your plus one," Laena asked, taking a closer look at the Targaryen table where Criston Cole's Name was nowhere to be seen. Rhaenyra gave her a sheepish smile.
"We're going good, really," Rhaenyra said, referring to the relationship that had been going on for three years. "I just haven't asked him yet."
"Ah," Laena said with a slow and deliberate pause that made Rhaenyra's apprehension grow. Stiffly, Laena glanced left, brows high as if to say 'good luck'.
By now, news of the wedding was buzzing, so loud and clear that even Criston would have heard of it by now. He was probably waiting for Rhaenyra to invite him, irritated and confused when she let that window pass on by without a word.
"Anyway, this is finished," Rhaenyra stated, gesturing to the seating arrangement as she stood up. She was already checking her phone when she said, "So long as the last of our dear friends find no problem with it."
Yana LancASSter: um why do I have to be near the Hightowers? Doran eats like a donkey ass bitch. try again
read 3:58 pm
Rhaenyra sat back down with a sigh and Laena's laugh.
Well into the late evening, until the sun had already set, Rhaenyra answered irritating messages from family who, quite frankly, sucked. She placed Daemon back on the trash when she started to absentmindedly set their magnets side by side. Once she noticed, she had stared down at her own traitorous hands in horror, as if they had allowed those stupidfeelings to resurface and bury her.
So, she walked home for the most part, down the streets of New York, after declining the offer of a ride from Laena. After graduating Law school, she spent much time in her New York penthouse, taking trains just to see where they went and when they stopped. She got to know the city again, learning the cobblestones of Soho, the nearly two-mile strip of the High Line, the records for sale at the markets in Brooklyn, and the kind old lady who taught her how to use a record player.
It was nice to not be behind the dark windows of tinted cars, where she had grown used to the sequestered life that made her lazy and spoiled. She learned that heels were not easy in Times Square, and adapted to wearing flats more often. She learned that nobody recognized her when she hid her silver hair in wigs, blending in like a chameleon instead of the richest heiress in New York.
She wandered the Flushing Meadows of Corona park, with the enduring mammoth steel globe and rolling green fields where she taught herself how to rollerblade again.
Today, she just wanted to walk and ignore his name in her jean jacket's left pocket. She may have taken it, but she refused to touch it. Certainly, no one has ever died from unrequited longing. Rhaenyra imagined, especially in her case, that should it be requited, then she'd be in real trouble. At that thought, her hand finally slipped in her pocket to hold his name, clutching it.
So what if she sometimes walked around Noho, picturing the grand piano in his penthouse, picturing the times they laughed and gossiped and where he always made her feel welcome? So what if she sometimes walked near his office and pictured how he always made her feel? Even when he wasn't here, and it was just his name written on a magnet, she was burning. The kindling had dwindled, and the anger had softened in the years, but fire was a tricky element. Fire was a liar. You'd grow complacent with the tiny kindlings, even thinking they went out, only for them to find something new to consume. You look away and it's burned you out.
So what if she stared at his contact number in her phone, imagining what she could say to fix the ruin and the hurt between them?
She kept walking, down the roads that forked, passed New Yorkers who would walk over her body in a stampede if she collapsed, and there was comfort in the anonymity. They would walk over your corpse, even as vultures fed on it, they would find irritation in a suicide that halted the trains and made them late for work. They would walk past a child screaming.
They wouldn't care that a niece loved and missed her uncle.
Rhaenyra halted that thought, letting go of the magnet as she approached the club with the bright lights and made her way past the crowd of drunks lingering outside. She walked past the girls waiting for their Uber, the boys hitting on them, and the line of people trying to get inside. Rhaenyra's lips quirked up, and it was no coincidence that her dress this evening had been so short and tight, just in case. She blended in with the crowd, but did not join the line.
Anomitity was nice. Nobody knowing who she was was a gift, but she was a chameleon and it was beneficial to be Rhaenyra Targaryen when it suited her. She took off her beanie, letting the loose silver waves fall over her shoulders, her indigo eyes visible as she approached the bouncer who took one look at the ID that she held in between two long fingers, red acrylics visible in the action. The two girls waiting to get in frowned as the bouncer nodded at her.
"Them too, please," Rhaenyra said, glancing at the two girls, who grinned back at her. Rhaenyra entered, feeling the music reverberate against her skin, the bright multicolored lights glide over her dress like dust, turning parts purple and blue and red and yellow. She forced her way through the dancing crowd, away from hands that gripped her waist to force her to join the grinding, and random brushes of skin on skin that reminded her how long it had been since she had sex.
When she found the bar, found the woman sitting there, surrounded by various men and women, Rhaenyra's lips spread into a wide smile. She called herself Lady Misery these days, now that she was no longer a random call girl and instead, a self-made entrepreneur who made her fortune on men who hoped their money would equate to her love.
Rhaenyra forced her way forward, and Mysaria almost immediately tilted her head and grabbed the drink she was holding, offering it to Rhaenyra as she approached. Rhaenyra didn't hesitate, grabbing the rum and coke and taking a large swig. She ignored the men asking for her number as Mysaria smiled, standing now from the stool, and brushing away hands as she looped hers around Rhaenyra's shoulders, steering them towards the back rooms where the private and exclusive guests could get away.
Rhaenyra was almost immediately ushered inside, not surprising since her dad was the one who owned the club.
"So," Mysaria said, grabbing the rum and coke still in Rhaenyra's hand. She sipped a small amount, her dress was asymmetrical with sequins that made her shine like a diamond. The cut-out o-ring front showed off her long, dark legs through the ruffle border. She always looked her best, with her hair and makeup permanently perfect. "What could you possibly want?"
Rhaenyra had never had a real chance to speak to her after meeting her three years ago, but morbid curiosity had made her perform a background check. Then, Mysaria's entire life was put on display. What life it had been, and Rhaenyra respected what she made of it and the number of rumors along the socialites that now called her a miserable whore. So, when she called herself Lady Misery, Rhaenyra had laughed.
"I would like to employ you," Rhaenyra said with a smile, walking around her as she sat upon the cushioned couches that made up the entire circular room. Mysaria watched her all the while, eyes following along the path as she pressed a hand to her hip and leaned on it.
"Well, you'd be surprised how many rich ladies have bought my time," Mysaria said, sitting down next to her, the back of her dress riding up as she sat on her hip with her legs folded behind her. The bottom of her shoes was dark, a sign of a woman who walked and worked to look that good.
Rhaenyra snorted but turned to face her on the couch next. Mysaria handed her the drink. "No. I'm actually looking for a plus one at a wedding. We could pretend this is the plot of Pretty Woman without the shopping montage and the frisky hotel sex."
Mysaria hummed, "shame. Those are my favorite parts. Why? You know it will not be well received."
Rhaenyra sloshed the drink in circles, watching the ice cubes click against one another. "Because, be it a Targaryen wedding or a Valaryen one, they are never dull. And with both Daemon and Rhea there, why not?"
"Ahh," Mysaria said carefully, no doubt remembering how her name became synonymous with Rhea and Daemon. The homewrecking whore who fucked a married man within days of his wedding. Rhaenyra didn't know the details, but she knew that he had been drunk when he married Rhea Royce since he publically used very beautiful words to describe her in an official statement.
"I was smashed enough to marry a broom. Just so happened she was there and I woke to a bronze bitch. I'd have preferred the broom," Daemon had said to a passing microphone when he was exiting his limo with a gorgeous Mysaria on his arm, just days after his wedding.
He truly was a romantic.
And now he was going through a grizzly divorce since Rhea had refused the annulment out of spite, instead choosing to use her endless wealth as heiress to the Runestone estate in order to financially burden him with legal battles. As Rhaenyra had said, he was messy.
Knowing that did very little to quell the want because Rhaenyra was starting to think she was too.
Mysaria laughed, and the sound was delectable enough that she rather understood the appeal of a confident woman who did not care what anyone had to say. She did not care how she made her millions or worry about the gossips and the snakes who called her a slut. Rhaenyra was actually rather enamored with her and her broken Valyrian that told Rheanyra she had grown up in Lys, where they spoke a bastardized version of her ancestrial language.
"Well, if it's about causing drama," Mysaria said, and the heiress snorted.
"We won't be doing anything. Rhea and the other Royces will consider it an insult to them when I seat you next to Daemon himself," Rheanyra said with a smile as Mysaria opened up her clutch bag to pull out a small paper tablet that she ripped from the rest. She popped one in her mouth with a sultry smile.
"Ah," Mysaria said, pressing her fingers across Rhaenyra's chin and pulling her forward with a featherlike touch. "So everyone will think he brought me?"
Rhaenyra smiled, opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue. Mysaria placed the tablet on the wet surface, and Rhaenyra motioned to slide it beneath her tongue. She felt the woman's soft hand slide up the height of her cheekbone before Mysaria twisted a strand of silver hair in between her fingers. "You said it, not me."
"Well, you are certainly vindictive," Mysaria said, and perhaps Rhaenyra liked how she didn't ask why or attempt to pry open details like an amateur detective.
Rhaenyra spent the majority of that night out of her mind high, fascinated by Mysaria's lighter when she used it to smoke a cigarette as they stepped outside. The two girls hung off one another, giggling over the street lights in the back alley, leaning against the bricks of the club just to feel them against their skin. Rhaenyra had lost her jacket sometime in the long hours, but laughed when Mysaria reminded her that she had it tied around her waist.
It all mixed terribly with rum and coke. The soda, of course, not cocaine.
"Wait, again," Rhaenyra said, ordering Mysaria to light the torch again, realizing late that she was the one holding it. Both girls laughed, watching Rhaenyra ignite the lighter again. They would argue on later days, over whoever had the bright idea to want to see a bigger fire.
Both girls watched the dumpster light, igniting like a bonfire. Someone was holding the lighter before whoever had it chucked it into the burning dumpster. Again, in later days, they would argue about who that had been. Instead, they were mesmerized by the fire rising higher and higher in the sky. As it turns out, the ivy clinging to the walls behind the dumpster was quite flammable.
They would scream at one another on later days that Mysaria had tried to grab her, that Rhaenyra had wanted to stick around to watch the pretty lights. That Mysaria was the one who hadn't said anything about the sirens or the cars, and just ran off, joining the crowd. They would scream that each of these things did not happen, that they were remembering the night's middle differently.
It didn't much matter, because both of them remembered how it ended.
With Rhaenyra Targaryen in jail.