Rhaenyra Targaryen had never given weddings much thought- much less her own. Knowing a princess and heir to the throne had to marry, though, she entertained the notion by the bare minimum. She imagined seas of highborn people from across the seven kingdoms she did not know. She imagined she would be wearing a white gown of silk, most likely her hair wrapped about her head like a crown of platinum blonde plaits. Most likely there would be wining and dining and lots of dancing. When she was forced to etch a groom into the imagery, she dared to imagine him handsome, smiling, and humble befitting a king consort to her. And more likely than the whole ensemble was a bedding ceremony that would officiate her marriage to any foes of the realm casting doubts on the union. Other than that, she always had time on her side to postpone learning about love, desire, and the forbidden pleasures; they supposedly came into life once the high septon sealed the matrimony.
When the princess discovered that she could learn about these delights before a fiancé was ever assigned, the rug was ripped from under her feet, leaving her stunned upon the ground. She entered a state of being that was deeply private, yet could not be kept to herself. The man responsible for her stupor knew what it would do to her, but he opened that door with such nonchalance that his experience daunted her. He wanted nothing more than for her to run to him with her questions so he may provide her succor.
It was no other than her dear Uncle Daemon.
Reliving the memory of that night always began in the eerie silence of the pleasure house. When they found a niche occupied only by the two of them, it seemed frustrating to be only spectators when everyone else there had a partner. Why did everyone in the entire realm get to partake in carnal delight while vehemently excluding her? It had nothing to do with her royalty, for she knew how princes and lordlings played their games with whomever they chose. She was going to rule the seven kingdoms someday, yet everyone and everything was off limits specifically for her. After the morbid play she was made to witness, she became enraged over how people who evidently hated her guts were calling all the shots on who she was. Quite simply, she would never be the princess they wanted regardless of what she did.
She was about to rant of her realizations to her uncle, but his touch on her arm seemed to reassure her that he knew everything she was about to say and agreed with it. What he did next left her dumbstruck and tingling. His fingers traced a path up her arm, over her collarbone, then up her throat and to her chin. If she did not know better, she would think he wanted to kiss her. When his fingers raised her chin and their eyes met, she was dead certain.
It was not her that initiated it first, nor him, and their shared reluctance led to a sheer abandon of it. She had kissed a few squires before, but it was an abrupt game that ended with embarrassment and laughter from everyone involved. With this kiss, there was no desperation to pull away; Daemon let his guard down towards anything she wished to do to him. His body belonged to her to touch, press against, and explore in a way that would expire if she broke away from him now. She was made aware that the arrangement was reciprocal when his hands rested on her hips. She gasped slightly when he pulled her into him like he would never let her go.
"Daemon…"
She never called him by name before and could not say why she did so then. It wasn't a question or a reprimand of any sort. It was just a word her careening mind told her to say that would reward her somehow. The passion intensified when he pressed her against the wall and started undoing her buttons with precision. Unable to consider what would happen once he was finished, she kissed him again and felt dizzy when he used his tongue. She was enjoying herself immensely, but seeing how her actions could make a man weak with lust was all the more salacious.
Daemon sighed deep in his throat in an exasperated way Rhaenyra wanted to hear again. He turned her away from him and dropped her page's pants. She tried to steal a glance to see if he was naked from the waist down as well, but he pinned her hands to the wall. She easily felt how there was no clothing to separate them from the inevitable. She knew generally what he was going to do, but her hysterical mind also had no idea and wanted him to show her from the beginning. Looking back, she never knew if she was truly ready in that moment, but she was for him.
As quickly as he started, Daemon's possessive hold on her weakened and he withdrew. Rhaenyra presumed it to be part of the lovegame, turned around, and kissed him again. He kissed her back, but without much fervor. When she tried again, he winced from her touch and took off down the alley.
"Daemon!"
He might have hesitated for a moment before he was lost in the crowd. She had been through the scene so many times that she knew something was not right when she kept hearing his name as an incessant echo. It was so piercingly loud in her head that the very cobblestones of King's Landing were shaking in the boom. This time, Daemon stopped and turned back to face her. When their violet eyes met, she saw a fire in them that promised their torrid romance was merely beginning. They were connected far deeper than by blood or by fate.
Rhaenyra awoke suddenly and clawed at the traces of the fantasy for more details. It dissipated to leave her with the same irresolute agony she felt since the day it happened for real. That was also the night she tried in desperation to figure it out with her sworn protector, Cristen Cole, and was left feeling more bewildered than ever. Cristen had made her first time pleasant, but that answered nothing for what her night would have been with Daemon: her first choice.
This night had been her last chance to figure out her outstanding romances. By sunset, she would be forever wed to Laenor Valaryon of Driftmark. This tryst with Daemon would be reprehensible to keep in circulation when she had a new husband and duties to think about. She needed at least twenty years of incessant thinking for a chance at finding closure over this, but there were three ladies in waiting looming over her bed at the very moment saying, "Time to wake, princess. There is much to do on your big day."
She sat up complacently and grumbled, "I have no need of you so early. But if you must help, you can start drawing me a bath. Extra hot please!"
A bath seemed like the smallest challenge in a day that could never come to pass. If she could get through one peaceful soak in the tub, then she could push through the next task and the next until her vows would be spoken in completion of it all. It worried her that she had procrastinated writing Laenor intricate, one-of-a-kind vows, but growing up together as cousins omitted the need for laborious formalities.
I grew up knowing Daemon my whole life too…And I know a hopeless nothing about him!
The ladies prepared her tub- and would have stayed on point had she not dismissed them. Rhaenyra smirked at how her easy-going nature was freaking them out. She decided she would sit in her tub until she had Daemon figured out. She had always been clever and told so often. Whatever he was about and why he did what he did that night, there had to be an obvious explanation. In order to understand the uncle with which she shared her dragon's blood, she had to consider the side of him that was never discussed with her openly.
Rhaneyra sank into her steaming tub and began. Her thoughts were so loud she began whispering them aloud to the statuettes adorning the cabinetry.
"The men of the City Watch call him Lord Flea Bottom. They say he has caroused the realm's lowest taverns and brothels since he was my age and never outgrew it. They say he is lascivious and sneaky and never holds back from pleasure. He is a loyal man, but an unpredictable one. He is technically married to Lady Royce of Runestone, but their marriage has been a falsehood since the engagement. I can't fault him for not making it work with someone he clearly had no affection for…"
She trailed off with a bitter sigh. Maybe he hadn't finished with her because of lack of affection? Daemon was an enigma that agonized her because he wasn't supposed to be. He was supposed to be open to her in a way he wasn't for anyone else because he belonged to her. Her feelings for him were so strong they made her dizzy with longing.
"I still got what I wanted that night," she reminded herself. "Daemon doesn't get to decide when and if I have my needs met….Cristen….He fell for me, and even asked me to run away with him! I really broke his heart."
She knew he was required to be at her wedding tonight, so she made a mental note to smooth things over with him best she could. She knew their secret was safe and he would tell no one of their dishonor, but it still did not sit well with the princess to know she played him while her heart was taken with another. Since Daemon could never apologize directly for the damage he caused Cristen, she would have to do it in his stead.
When the water turned tepid, the bride to-be knew she was out of time. It was hopeless to understand Daemon and make peace with who he was. She settled for a different course instead: one much easier to follow since it was fueled by resentment. Daemon had a chance with her and selfishly blew it. He didn't deserve to occupy her thoughts or have any second chances. It was his loss, and she was going to move forward as though his little theatrics meant nothing. She was getting married to a wonderful man tonight to secure her claim to the Iron Throne. What did he have besides his wine sinks and prostitutes anyway?
See you at the wedding, Uncle, she thought scornfully.
With that, the ladies re-entered to whisk her away to her next preparation. As hard as she tried to wash Daemon down the drain with her bath water, she could practically see his violet eyes staring her down as they had in the accursed dream.
Breakfast on Dragonstone was always a solemn affair the prince put off until the plates were near to being cleared away for lunch. The fruit was always soiled by the time it was shipped in from Dorne. The wind whipping in from the skylight windows staled the bread into croutons, and the poultry raised on the docksides produced eggs that smelled like fish. There was nothing that escaped the stench of fish and salt, truth be told, and Daemon's hunger strike meant to stand against being prince when he could be the king in the lavish Red Keep instead. His present hangover dictated a need to feed himself, however, so he begrudgingly ambled down to the solar. He almost growled audibly when he saw his "lady wife" Mysaria awaiting him.
"Good morning, Daemon," she said in her accent that struck every first syllable unevenly. "Glad to see you survived your cups last night."
And what was that supposed to mean? This ruse where his paramour chastised him like a wife infuriated him- and it was all his own doing. He was tempted to take her aboard Caraxes and dump her in the sea to avoid the consequences of his own decisions, but it wasn't possible after the show me made of her to Otto Hightower and his coterie when they came for the dragon egg. At least for the time being, he was stuck with her.
He made his way to the table and inhaled a flagon of water. He caught his breath, eyed Mysaria up and down, and asked, "Did we have sex last night?"
She shrugged nonchalantly. "A little bit. But you got too drunk and we couldn't finish."
"I see," he mumbled.
It was halfway coming together. He saw himself mounting a woman's body, but he thought it was a dream and that the woman was someone else. Mysaria did not seem surprised, for she asked no questions about the encounter. Daemon had a feeling there was more to this than he remembered. Was she testing him to find out? Deciding he didn't care, he started gnawing on a crumbly heel of bread.
"No butter. Again," he commented idly and kept chewing. "They can make it at Winterfell, but they can't make it here?"
Mysaria sat there and took nothing for herself. She seemed to have been waiting there all morning just for this opportunity to spurn him like this.
"What? Whatever has you so troubled, my dear?"
"Last night," she said after a deliberate hesitation, "you called me your queen while we were making love…but I do not think you were speaking of me."
"Oh? Then whom was I speaking of? My first wife Rhea is dead."
She scoffed. "I'm not that dumb. I know you were making love with the princess when you were making love with me."
"Rhaenyra? Don't be ridiculous."
He caught it too late, and Mysaria's brown eyes glistened at the way her name dripped off his tongue. He underestimated how clever she was at times, for now he recalled that in his drunk stupor last night he had tried to finish what he started with Rhaenyra. When he realized it was not her, he was unable to satisfy and passed out on the rug.
"Everyone can see it how you feel about her. They all saw it on the shore when you backed down from her and gave her the stupid egg. You are in love with her."
Daemon knew any attempt at denial would make him twice the fool. In a moment that demanded no clemency from Mysaria, he lowered his bread and asked her what he should do.
"Marry the princess. Unite your claims and rule the seven kingdoms through her. It is all you ever wanted, is it not?"
So it was ambition for the crown for which Mysaria mistook his affections. Understandable. He would accept that answer himself were it not for some rogue emotion taking hold of the rogue prince. He wanted Rhaenyra not because of the throne, but because he was drinking himself into a coma every evening over the thought of another man claiming her till death did them part. As it stood, that very hell was taking place tonight- and he was supposed to witness it as the doting uncle!
"Damn it all…"
He quit the solar and left Mysaria content in believing she was right. She knew Daemon was wasting his time. Once the prince got over his hotblooded infatuation, he would return to her as he always did. Never had he felt so cheated, although no one specific was to blame. He rolled the rage into a memory that made him uncharacteristically bashful: in that dark hideaway where he had Rhaenyra pinned before him. He was confident in his caliber to make the experience worth the risk. It was all he could do not to take her right there while she called his name. Had she ever used his name before? No, and that was what made it so delightful to hear.
The more his feelings deepened for Rhaenyra since the occurrence, shame cast an omnipresent shadow. He knew he initiated a scandal for the sole purpose of manipulating his brother, the king, into betrothing her to him. He loved her at the time he did it, or he never would have proposed yet another marriage to a perfunctory wife. Looking back, however, he now realized his love for Rhaenyra deserved leagues above the ploys he used to obtain it. He was at least grateful his niece remained a maiden, but he would be damned if Laenor the Queer did the honors.
He realized he was outdoors and marching towards the Dragonmont before he taunted himself over what this mission was. Was his plan to burst into the wedding on Caraxes, snatch Rhaenyra from the grand dais as the feast was beginning, and ravage her innocence so Laenor would be honor-bound to refuse her?
He smirked. It wasn't the worst idea, but never in seven winters would Rhaenyra allow herself to be stolen like a salt wife of the Ironborn.
If eloping was her own idea, then sure. I would do anything for her if she asked me to.
But she wouldn't ask- nor was she dwelling on a petty sex scene that decelerated her expectations. Daemon conceded to tell himself that Laenor was luckier than he would ever be and then decided he would get amply drunk come the ceremony
