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𝕮𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕾𝖞𝖈𝖔𝖕𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖘
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𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 of the torch hung from a reluctant hand, one upon the cave wall, another tightly fisting the wood torch. The passing winds stirred the ends of white hair, teasing out strands of memory. The memories plumed into the air, releasing the sounds and scents of a life spent in love. One by one, those memories unraveled like the careful stitching of the dragon embroidery I had made for Visenya when she still had a heartbeat in my belly. A pillow, shared by two heads, bent close in conspiracy, that cradle that had I prepared for her first cry, forever empty. The table I imagined would sag with the weight of a full feast.
It was all just happiness, stolen from the edges of treachery and heartbreak. I could still feel her in me, moving around, kicking, and my hands went to cup the empty stomach that nothing could quell. I didn't care about anything when she was in my arms, cradling her still frozen corpse, the blood dripping around her, around me, none of it mattered.
The sound of breathing could reach me from this distance, the solid, burning breath, moving right past me. It scattered strands of hair right back, far behind my shoulders. The searing heat, the colossal waste of time, pining for a dragon that would not love me. Lately, it felt as if none could.
Vermithor could sense fear, or so they say. I felt deflated from fear, from even pain, after dragging a stillbirth from my body as one might tug a root from beneath a tree, screaming for a man who wouldn't come. Not that day or any day afterward. I had my sons, the only solace left to me.
Ah, I thought, and there that pain came. But I was a queen, and this was war.
I could sing the melodies, soothe the beast, as I did know them. Daemon had walked out alive, but the dragon would not let my husband touch him. I could see his great tan wings already, filling the entirety of the given space and it was a wonder how he could be so content in the darkness. At least, I thought as much once.
My lips remembered the melody, stiffly, absently, absolutely. It was enough to get Vermithor to move, to raise its head, the breath of his snout moving right past my hair and brushing it over my shoulder, fading out behind me. The heat of it lingered, the steam that came from dragon fire, for which nothing could burn hotter. But I was not afraid of dragon fire and I stood there instead, letting it brush over me, purify me, and perhaps, a part of me was grateful when he opened his wide, gaping jaws.
A red-hot glow erupted from the inside, a growing kindling that I saw brighten. I thought of Jacaerys, a son too good to have been born from me. That was how I knew Harwin burned bright in him, bright and awaiting. Waiting for me, my little heir who was as unready for it as I had been and who I could not allow carry my burnt corpse or whatever remains of stone and ash.
I allowed the melody to merge with memory, the memory of my father who dreamed he might one day teach another child the Song of Ice and Fire. He knew there would be both sadness and hope in it, and that it would always hold an echo for me. I wasn't looking to ride you, I said this in High Valyrian, knowing this majestic creature would understand.
Vermithor's gaping jaws closed, and the fire went cold. My torch was still held loosely in my hand when I relinquished my crown to him and bowed my head. I could hear his every move, as I remembered from a childhood so long ago. My grandfather Jaehaerys had been fond of this dragon, and since 100 years ago, more riders came and went. I raised my head when I saw he had lowered his back as it was, resting against the stone.
My steps echoed off the rock, bouncing around me in an endless cascade of noise that did not bother my grandsire's dragon. I raised my hand to his snout, and his dilated eyes watched my every waking breath, as if to say he'd rip me apart should I misstep. A dragon is not your friend, the Dragonkeeper elders had once said. "Zaldrīzo aōho syt āeksio sagon aō bēvilza," they had said. Mastery over a dragon was vital to both your own and your servant's survival, they had assured me.
Syrax and I never felt like master and servant, and this was a secret I kept from them in keeps. Not that I ever knew back then, but she always felt rather like a my child, now that I had children to compare her to. Vermithor felt like death, his hot breath upon me, as giant as the dragon who slew my Lucerys.
I sang melodies taught by long-since-dead elders, my fingers stroking down the rough scales, watching Vermithor's eyes close. In that silence, I knew that he'd never let me ride him. I removed the heavy weight of my father's crown, setting it beside me. In that silence, I sat with him, my back against his heavy talons, watching him breathe over the flickering torchlight that made him look as the dragons of old had in the tapestries back home.
Those tapestries were all gone now, stripped away as easily as they had my birthright. With each breath Vermithor took, I waited for his talons to rise, to slice into me, rip me into pieces, and yet they never did. Not this time or the next time or the next.
"Is this how you will spend the long nights?" His voice was one I did not recognize, even if he was no stranger. My feet were against the sand, where he blocked the entrance into Vermithor's cave.
"I am queen. I can spend them as I like," I said, watching him from across the sands. His hair was a match of my own, Dark Sister at his side, dark leather armor with gold trimmings, and his eyes far away. I didn't recognize his voice, just as he could not recognize mine, the day I screamed his name.
I walked past him, and he went to touch me, but I only stared at the ascent his hand made, as if daring him to try, just as I dared Vermithor to burn me alive. When I watched him lower it again, my lips twitched up, just a moment of clarity in the man I did not see, just before walking past him. The darkness swallowed me up, and even if the dragon fire met me at the end, he would not hear me call his name.
I felt rather like a husk in those days, staring up at empty ceilings from beds too big. There had once been a head beside me, two pillows in sync. Now, the bed was an empty one, just littered with promises we could not keep.
In the air, with Syrax, there were bits of clarity, bits of who I was once. A girl who did not feel qualified to be queen, but would do so against what she believed was right. Parts of her arrived again when I stared down at the page Alicent had sent me, a peace offering, a reminder of love before her spawn slew my son and all but ripped open my womb to steal Visenya's breath.
"Rhaenyra," Rhaenys was the one to speak the first words I cared about at the war council, discussing allegiances of Storm's End, the traitors who turn toward my usurper of a brother. I wanted to burn down King's Landing but had sense yet for restraint. "We have yet to receive word from Winterfell."
I knew my sons had gone to personally persuade the great houses for my cause and I had been the one to sanction it. I had told them not to fight, but it hadn't saved one, so why would it aid the other? Jacaerys didn't even know.
Daemon was sprouting his need for war, and retaliation, as he had for days following my young son's death. He said he was to go persuade the Eyrie of their alliances, as they were my mother's kin. Would they turn against me too? Of that, I could not be certain. Why is that? I might have asked my king consort, even as kindlings of old rage, old Rhaenyra, stirred inside me.
Why would house Royce turn against me? Why else but not my murdering, lying husband? He would treat with them, despite public calls for justice for Rhea Royce, who he was rumored to have slain. Mindless rumors, one might say, but I have learned long ago to imagine the worst of him, yet only recently, to believe them too.
"House Stark is not as fickle as Baratheon," I said carefully, and Vhagar was seen in the southern lands, in the Eyrie, so it was doubtful that they'd meet. I didn't say this aloud, already inexplicably exhausted with talks of blockades, pushing for the embargo with Kings Landing. Hours we have been in this room, and yet, I hadn't been able to find new soldiers to match the forces of the Lannisters alone.
"Perhaps I might send a raven," another of my maesters suggested, and I allowed it. I wanted a raven to disclose Lucerys's fate, but not only did words escape me, but I could not allow Cregan Stark to know that I was down one heir and a dragon when so much rested on his support.
"Only to inquire, but not divulge," I ordered, and it was done. With the crown, I had expected the obedience, but only imagined the weight. Yet, even now, with all my council gathered around the burning map, they looked to Daemon and he to them. I watched him relish in the power, in the madness, and in the chaos, urging the burning of cities with no mind to the boiling bones of innocent lives.
I couldn't inquire about the fate of my son and I had nothing of my other to burn.
I could only ride Syrax into the night, looking through the mountains for a piece of him. Daemon had brought back a wing from Arrax, to which we held a proper pyre to send off the brave dragon who could not outfly the great beast. It was reckless, that much I knew, but here I was, with the sense of a grieving mother.
Syrax let me down, atop the cliff where the fog had set in, rolling clouds across the horizon. Deep white, matching the haunting landscapes not far from Dragonstone. "You were so close," I couldn't help but whisper, my grief a potent, living creature. I had a burning sorrow, a harrowing rage, and nowhere to put it. I could burn the trees, or the children sitting in their beds, but it wouldn't bring me any closer to those that betrayed me.
The traitors who bent the knee to a usurper. They chose death over me. They chose to trust those who could not be trusted, bastards like Otto Hightower, plotting to overthrow me from the moment Alicent gave birth to a son. They chose to live and bend to a false king, but they would burn and die before me in the end.
But not today, not now. I had to find something of my son, a piece of his cloak, the stitching of the Targaryen emblem I had sewn myself. Anything at all.
My shoes crunched across the dead grass, finding bits of dried blood on the ends of yellowing weeds. I traced it with my long fingertips as I knelt down near it. A thrum of pain traveled up the pulse of my wrists, through my chest, piercing my lungs. It was hysteria, it was maddening, but I would not stop. I would not rest. If Vermithor would not be my ending, it would come another way, but not here.
I hadn't gotten naught but five more steps when I heard the vibrant current of slapping wind, so loud that it caught my attention, turning towards the horizon. I was already reaching for Syrax by the time I heard the first screech of the Blood Worm. My fingers were still clutching Syrax by the time Caraxes and his twisting, crooked neck came out like a hurricane from the clouds.
I clutched the saddle, but let it go, Syrax looking to me and I could feel her breath from her great snout when I reached to touch it. The very heat of her singed my hand, but I didn't care. The flesh would redden, but ultimately, the Targaryen skin outlasts.
I heard his footfalls, becoming aware of the emotions I didn't understand, clinging to me like rainfall, when I finally looked to him. Daemon Targaryen was not smiling, as he had not done since the usurper's grab for power. Since Visenya.
Thoughts of her fueled me with bitter betrayal, wounding me more than the marks on my neck from his callous grip. I doubted he realized he had done it, had squeezed tight enough for the air to go out, and even when he let go, he still likely did not know. I had been unexpressive, numb to feeling, and vindictive even perhaps when I purposefully mocked him. I knew, more than anyone, his love and wounded pride for Viserys' ever slight against him.
But I didn't care, just as he proved he did not.
"You are a queen," he told me, his first words reestablished his bended knee when he vowed obeisance to me. He can say it all he liked, but obeisance did not equate to perpetual obedience. He had disobeyed me many a time before and would, likely, in the future. Thus was his nature. My father had tried to put him under his thumb as well, and my father had not only been a man, but actually sat upon the iron throne before it killed him.
"As I know it," I replied, already knowing the words he was to utter beforehand. A stranger's voice, he might be, but I knew him well enough by now to echo him.
"And yet, you risk your kingdom on a mummer's face?" Daemon said this callously, as if that was what Lucerys was to him. Nothing but a grievous joke to be moved on from the moment the laughs rise and fall. "First the reckless endeavor for a dragon who will not be tamed by you and now, risk of attack to look for a-" Daemon cut off, wisely so, as he stood so close to Syrax by now that a single word would end his breath, should he move me that much to anger.
Could I do it? The word that had reduced my mother to ash and would eventually lead me into a war that left thousands dead.
Sometimes, I thought I could. Today, I could not.
"Say it," I ordered, but he did not, showing the restraint that Vaemond lacked.
"Your sons aren't ready to fly your mantel or seek out your retribution," he said instead, but I had already turned around, following the trail of dry blood. It could be anything. A wild bore, a wolf, a slain deer. It was a violent and wicked world, but I would follow the blood regardless.
His steps followed me, but I wanted him to go away, to leave as he had proven eager to do every time before.
"You would settle well in my stead for my retribution," I said instead, hearing his steps falter as if my comment had thrashed against him. It got me the steps further down the cliff, Syrax finally nesting herself to rest. I was searching the bushes, grazing down bits of burnt grass.
The blood could have many causes, but the fires near the sea, where the wet winds chased away wildfires, so were not so easy to start. That signified, at least, dragons. Yet, there were many on Dragonstone who could have done this.
I examined the blood, praying to old gods and new, but for what, I could not say. It took a moment, hearing his trailing footsteps when he finally deigned to speak. "You think I would be well?"
I didn't look at him, moving to the next tree, examining the broken branches that would have come from a variety of sources, but had to have hit hard against the ground. "I think you watch every closing door with your hand upon your sword." I knelt down, brushing against old roots where splatters of red lingered. I couldn't look at him, he couldn't see the tremble in my hands, just as I wore high collars so he would not see the bruising on my neck.
"I am a soldier," he said carefully, stiffly, nothing like the memories of him. The memories of a lying child. The ache of Daemon's presence struck my heart again, and I felt it in the entirety of my body, a frantic pulse that very nearly overwhelmed me with feeling. It scared me, as loud as the waves crashing against the cliffsides just down below. The weight of it could be felt against my entire being, but it rejoined the ocean soon after, no shape to be see. If only I could describe it, maybe then, the dark void would shrink until it was something I could hold in my palm. When it was within the reach of my fingers, perhaps I could tuck it away, or toss it back into the ocean, casting it out forever. That way, I could feel nothing for him.
I laughed and said, "Go back then, soldier, and continue poisoning my council with your excitement for war."
He finally tugged on my arm, forcing me to turn to him, to face him. The nerve of his touch left me filled with vibrant fury. His eyes weren't stricken with rage, as I had seen many men get, even kind and loving king Viserys, in all his wisdom. With Daemon, I hadn't seen it coming, even if I always knew it was there, brimming beneath his armor.
"This was why you brought me back to Westeros, when I was content in Pentos," he told me, voice calm, despite his rough clutching of my arm. "You needed me to keep you fighting against the Greens. You brought me into this, and now you loathe my enjoyment."
My lips formed into a mocking sneer, but most had faded into the drumming rage. "If I bent the knee to my brother, end this war before it began. If I told you that I'd do that," I whispered it, getting in his face, provoking him as I knew how to. "Would I end up on your list of disappointing wives? The Bronze Bitch who you loathed, the cousin who had not borne you a third child, and me, the one who refused you a war? Would you have me end as Rhea Royce?"
Daemon's brows were drawn, lips parted as he finally let me go, adding another bruise to the skin. I sneered once more, the hatred and hurt so potent that they overpowered the love I once may have burned with. I turned away from him, continuing my search, and he did not follow. I knew he would not, that he would leave me on my own, and yet, the hurt at his absence still stung.
"Go to the Eyrie. Fix what you ruined with my kin, treat with Yorbert Royce. Come back with soldiers or not at all," I ordered, swift in my words.
Was it I who had changed, or had he? Or perhaps the both of us had stayed too much the same in a world that had suddenly shifted, spinning faster and farther away. Maybe things were too broken and we were too old to be what we had been. Whatever we were now, I wasn't so sure.
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The bed was empty when the call came for my voice. A woman sat at the base of my Dragonstone throne, her dress a tattered thing, face pale and eyes aghast. "She tells tales of dragon fire on her people," the maester told me, whispering it in my ear as if she would be listening, should the words be shouted. As it was, the woman was older, with gnarled veins and silver-streaked hair, given by age rather than by dragon blood. The woman was cradling a head in her arms, and it was leaking over my dais.
I watched her cradle the head as one would a child, murmuring softly into the ear. I watched them for moments longer. She wasn't crying. She clutched him tighter, this old head, and her hands trembled. I wondered if she could see that his life was already unspooled, far away, and also coating her dress.
"Which dragon?" I felt myself ask, unable to look away from the scene, bits of me coming back until I could speak again.
"We think the big one," the maester said, and paused, as if not wanting to butcher High Valyrian names. "Vermithor." It was proper pronunciation, but the accent was unlike either mine or my uncle's.
I had feared as much. The dragon who grew restless in these recent months, as if he could smell war brewing before my father took his last breath. I wasn't even given moments to grieve him before the deaths stacked like the figures on the war table.
"Any survivors?" I asked, staring at the woman whispering to her husband, as I think I understood it. There wasn't much to be done about rampant dragons, especially not when the smoke was brewing from King's Landing. I could chain him, bind him, but a bound dragon could not fly to war.
Instead, I stared at the woman, at the head, the blood that would drench the countryside, should I allow the war to be fought and destroy everything. The maester had his answer for me, four out of the 90 occupants, and two were already awaiting the Stranger. One had lost his leg.
"We were supposed to leave this life together," the woman said, finally staring up at me, as if she saw through the very crown on my head.
"We have always been meant to burn together," the memory came, unwanted and unbidden, as sharp as the tip of my father's dagger.
"I was supposed to join him," she told me, now her voice rising in bits of desperation and anger. "I," she cut off, clutching his head so tightly that its deteriorating flesh peeled in between her fingers.
The moment she met a queen's eye, she lowered, bowing her head. She was beseeching me, but for what, I could not say. I would ask, but she was hysterical, and then my Queensguard was escorting her away. The only evidence of her left was the blood, reminding me of the body I had yet to find on a cliffside that hid him from me. I stood from the throne that could not cut me, tall enough to overlook the wide Dragonstone throneroom, but it was not my throne.
"Treat her as one would a guest," I ordered, the least I could do for a grieving widow. At the very least, it might ease some of the guilt. If I weighed the life of one husband so strongly, I'd never make it past the first day of war.
House Velaryon was closing the Gullet of shipping through Blackwater Bay, my son was in Winterfell, and Daemon was in the Eyrie. All were working to achieve a throne that wanted to spear me, a throne that I had never really wanted in the first place, but certainly not one I'd let my little brother sit upon.
I could barely ride my dragon, and at times, I'd awaken to blood upon my sheets, awaken to screaming cries that brought in the servants, attempting to aid me. In my delirium, I only vaguely remembered my screams for them to leave, wailing into the night as if I were still in labor. I'd awaken the next morning, drained, my voice gone, and I'd roll into my sweat-soaked pillows, reaching out my hand into the emptiness.
The room was grey, then a solid white, and the bed was cold and too large. There was a stillness in the air that frightened me perhaps. Targaryens burned their dead, possibly because we feared tombs. I spent days in venomous pain before I was once more able to stand, the fever dwindling, and my legs weak. I was given tea, told it would, "help you sleep, your Grace," and I held the glass in my hands. I could smell the milk of the poppy, wafting off in steam up to my face. My father had languished and died with it in his blood, but I would not.
The handmaidens jumped back, watching the tea cup shatter against the stone walls, the liquid dripping down as I ordered them away. When you love someone, and they vanish, both from death or into themselves, you are left nodding like some undead thing, throwing teacups at walls. I rose, rubbing hands up limbs, slapping them awake and trying to ward away that rising hysteria. This is what it was like sometimes, without him, when I forgot how he hurt me. I felt a wide-eyed tightness in my chest, like a scream, clawing out my throat. I wanted to scream, but I was a Queen now, not a child.
My descent through Dragonstone, every step towards Syrax, was met with hands attempting to help me. I brushed away every last one, ordering my peace and they all stood back, watching me struggle to rise upon Syrax, the nights having worsened the condition of my health. Clutching onto her, clutching her close as she flew us down to the shore, where sand met ocean, and where I nearly fell into it.
The land would not give my son back to me, but I had been waiting for the sea to heal the wound. Every night, I waited, and each night I was met with naught but salt and shells.
I'd come here every night for a week, thinking this time, it would give him back to me, this time, he would come home.
"Rhaenyra," the voice came, but it was my stranger, not my husband, so I did not rise to meet him. He sat by me, a distance away. I heard his dragon, heard his heavy footfalls against the sand.
In silence, we sat, as silence he gave better than peace. Daemon's handsome face was illuminated by the moon and her cool light, and perhaps once I might have called it the light of lovers. It still showcased his beauty, even if that beauty was singed in regret.
"How does one conquer a kingdom without spilling blood?" I asked instead, not even looking for his answer. It was likely something he'd never consider, ever looking for blood rather than peace. Even in our marriage, not that I'd known that when I cut across my palm and joined our blood.
"Rhaenys should beseech Storms End," Daemon said instead, and I looked to him, to his stiff posture, sitting beside me in the sand. I thought once more of that woman, clutching her lover's head, and thought maybe she had been asking me to take her own. "Lord Boremund Baratheon had supported her claim, his son might be inclined to do so again."
"Aemond gave him a marriage pact to his daughter," I said, my voice drained of emotions. Ever again, we speak of politics as a way to avoid talking to each other. "I am out of worthy hands to give in return."
I knew what Daemon was going to suggest, Joffery or Aegon, an eleven-year-old or a three-year-old, each broke my heart to consider. "The Royces spurned me, unwelcome as I am in Runestone. Harrenhal would be a worthy place to make base, a rallying point for the riverlords who have loyalty to the true queen."
"When will you leave," I asked, numb to the ocean winds. I could feel his eyes on my face, on my cheek, lingering on my neck. I hadn't been wearing a high enough collar, and the bruising was mostly gone. In one place, high where my jaw met my throat, one print lingered. In two days, it would disappear.
"I never meant to return tonight," he admitted, and I felt my jaw clench. I was watching the waters lap, thrash, carrying with it fish that would never be seen again. Further and further away, I wanted to join them. Velaryon though he may not be, the ocean would still take him anyway. Was it punishment?
"You may go, as you see fit," I gave him my leave. We had discussed Harrenhal already, in detail. The castle where Harwin Strong had lost his life, and I hadn't been able to grieve him either.
"What are you waiting for here?" Daemon finally asked, and I only stared into the ocean.
"You may go," I repeated, my heart breaking in my chest, but just as I hid the bruises for so long, I'd hide this too.
He was to go to Harrenhal, where he would fight until I returned to health, we would speak battle strategies as we had the last week, or speak nothing at all. I saw it all, as if I were looking at the tapestries, strung up, our droll life together.
I stood, covering the pain that ran up my legs, in my stomach as if I were missing vital organs. I stood, without him, just as I could do everything else, without him. I heard him stand next, but I was already out of distance, not punishing him, but I didn't want his touch that would make me forget.
"I called your name," I whispered, and finally met his dark eyes, the sand and the beach between us.
"I know," he answered, and I felt my lips twitch up at my selfish, bastard of a husband.
"I see." I looked away, back towards the ocean, feeling the wet breeze upon my face, my tongue in between my teeth. I hadn't cried since Visenya, since holding her, cradling her alone. "At the pyre," I whispered, again, wondering what words would be enough to stop my eyes from burning. "The way you looked at me."
I shook my head, pressing my palm against my face, not crying. Was he even still there? Did I conjure him here in my delirium? Did I consume the tea, and was this the poppy at work? I was too afraid to remove my hand to find out.
"Do you blame me? For her?" I thought I might just die if he said yes, but I just heard his breath, his shaky inhale that made my heart split in half like a broken apple. I lowered my hand, staring into his unreadable face, so far away. "Won't you deny it?"
"I heard you," he said carefully, lips drawn into a pained frown as he finally looked away. "When you screamed," his voice broke off, and wherever he went off to, I could not reach. "Someone had to take charge, someone had to give direction." I heard it clear, words from a past long ago, 'this is our battlefield, Rhaenyra, that is theirs. Each fights it alone.'
"I needed you," I whispered, my vision blurry, but I would not cry. "I needed you then, and after, and-" I held up my hand, stopping him from moving closer, as if getting him to see I said then. "You come now, but now, this is not where I need you."
"Rhaenyra," he whispered, trying to get my attention, but he didn't touch me. It was smart, noble even, because violence had become wildfire in my blood and I just might try and kill him. He took a step closer.
"I lost my father, my crown, my throne, my daughter, and my son," I told him, shoving my hand into his chest. "When I couldn't fight, I needed you to fight harder," I told him, shoving his hands away, staring back into his eyes as if I could provoke back out the violence that he used on me before. I wanted him to strike me, I wanted it to sear into my skin, bleed me as one would a leech on a festering wound. "You were supposed to be stronger when I cannot be."
He was staring at me, his breathing cutting off, and I could see bits of guilt perhaps, but with Daemon, that was as fickle as his love.
He grabbed me, pressing my face into his chest, hugging me into it even as I tried to strike him. His lips were up against my hair, whispering, "Don't look."
My hands that were trying to strike him, claw for blood, froze.
"Don't look," he whispered as I tried to turn, to see what he saw from behind me. His hands were stroking down my hair, keeping me pinned to him. I understood that grief and wounds would haunt me, perhaps even the both of us, some days. Those waves would engulf us. But on some days, the sea gives us a respite, returning a Dragon with a sea snake's name, back home.
Tears welled into my eyes, and the sound that came out of him is choked and smothered, rather like that of an animal forced to bear great weight. It's this noise, akin to disbelief, perhaps anguish. I would never forget it, even at the end of my life, when my husband had been dead for months, I would still be able to summon its every timbre and pitch.
"Don't look," he whispered again, when I tried to pull away.
"I have to," I whispered into his neck as he held onto me. "I have to take him home." I felt his fingers stroke through my hair, his voice familiar, as he should have been the days following my usurped crown. But he hadn't been, and I wasn't in a forgiving mood.
He let me go, but he didn't let me carry my son alone. I watched him lift Lucerys, the nearly unrecognizable body of my second child. I was focusing on the stitching, the engraving of our house, that he complained about so venomously. 'You should have made it the Velaryon sigil,' he had said, always so uncertain about his place.
I could barely look at him, at his bloated skin, at his hanging flesh. Daemon's face was stiff, the pain etched onto it, frown so deeply engraved onto his face that I might never see anything else. He laid him against the sand and removed his own cloak, wrapping the broken boy and covering him with the cloth. I watched, through bleeding eyes, as Daemon draped it over him, his head lowering for the boy who was not truly his son.
Daemon was shaking, hands trembling as they rested on his thighs, and I knelt across from him, running my palms over my son's body, covering him tighter in the cloak. I couldn't keep still, the cold, and the panic, and the hysteria creating a well inside me, scattering my organs.
He grabs my hands, holding them, cradling them, and I let out little breaths, not quite sobs. It was as if I forgot how to. We look at each other, two people bound and tethered by our own mutual sorrows and loss. I want to crawl to him and make a bed of his arms, staying there until the storm passes. Of course, I did not, I could not, for he had his own to weather. Wherever he went when we lost our daughter, when we lost Viserys, and perhaps my crown was too, his loss. Wherever he had gone, I don't know how to reach him, just as he didn't reach for me.
When we finally built a pyre for my son, and his son, as he would tell me in future years, he didn't reach for my hand. The backs of our knuckles brushed, yet another fire lit, yet another battle fought, but lost.
"He will be avenged," Daemon whispered to me as the last ashes swept away in the Dragonstone's wind. We watched it together, where he stayed, the most still he could be in the coming war. "A strike for a strike, blood for blood, son for a son," he assured me.
I didn't have an answer, too tired to speak of vengeance, but not so merciful to deny it.
─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────
I sat alone in my chambers that night, watching in a state of half dress, toward the outskirts of Dragonstone from my window. Before long, I would been making my way back toward Vermithor's cave, my hands dragging behind me, feeling the wind. Daemon blocked the entrance, as he had done once before.
"Do you mean to go as you are?" Daemon asked, and I only blinked at him, remembering that woman who clutched her husband's head once more. Behind Daemon, the dragon that did not rest, not minding the damage.
His eyes were on my neck, but the bruises were gone, so I didn't know what he was looking at. Slowly, his fingers trailed over the flesh, moving away when I subtly leaned back. It wasn't quite a flinch, since Daemon did not scare me. He hadn't when he had cut off the air, or any time since. Not now.
"I shouldn't have done that," he whispered, and I wondered if he meant that. I wondered, half the time, if he loved me, or if I was a way for him to slight my father. When he had me, when Viserys was gone, did that mean his affection for me slipped away as well? I'd ask this one day, but not today.
"Do you believe we can win?" I asked instead, and watched him lower his hand, wondering why that hurt so much.
"I believe that I'd follow you to whatever end," he said in return, his eyes piercing me, swallowing me up, and making my entire being burn. "Whether you want peace or war." I wished I could say that I completely believed him, but when the world grew hard, Daemon ran to battle.
"The only piece of Aegon that belongs on my father's throne is his head," I answered, the visceral hate that filled me was one that had been building for a week, since my 20-hour labor, since I had to pry Visenya from my very womb.
Daemon didn't look happy about it, as of now, only forlorn acceptance resided in him. "He has no rider," he told me instead, referring to the darkness behind him, where Vermithor rested on the bones of people I could not protect. "Do you intend-"
"I intend him to go to war," I answered, glancing behind my king consort. "As you have been urging. Do you intend to claim two?"
"He hasn't taken much shine to me," Daemon admitted, looking behind him. "We will find one that will, then we burn our traitors one by one."
Mourning was done, was what he didn't say, and war has arrived.
I only nodded, motioning to move past him, only for him to gently grip my arm, his head resting against my own. I could have spurned him, flinched from his touch, but the moment I felt him, it was as if I came alive once more. Bits of my skin warmed as his palm traced my cheek, cradling my throat.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, thumb dragging along the curve of my jaw and my eyes fluttered closed.
I don't say anything as I let him hold me, having forgotten how good it felt for his arms to lock around me closely, as if keeping me together. I had been holding myself, holding a baby that never had a chance, holding onto the son I lost, but all was slipping away.
I couldn't give him forgiveness, not quite yet, but he could give me this. These little moments that made us right, his arms wrapped around me, keeping me whole. I missed my father, having never gotten to tell him how grateful I was. I had always thought there'd be time, that I'd be able to come back and share with him how I wanted to make it work. I wanted peace with Alicent and my brothers, and he'd be so disappointed at what I wanted now.
Daemon's hand stroked down my shoulder, his lips on my neck, one kiss where he had wounded my skin far less than my pride. He breathed into my skin, as if he could project how much I meant to him, as if he could apologize for not showing it to me when it mattered.
I dragged my fingers through his hair, slowly bringing his lips onto my own, sealing the apology with a light kiss, melding into another. It was in oddity, or perhaps this was just the way life was, roots of something new could often lie in the decaying husks of something old.
I did not allow him to bed me that night, or nights after in the coming war. Even as my bed called for him, called to bring him back to me against the rushing tide, where sea met sand, upon the beach where we had first laid together.
Often enough, in between war meetings, outside the long looks of growing lords, he would look to me as he once did. My ever-moving warrior, always one hand on his sword. The council was away, giving us respite to discuss what must be done again in the oncoming storm that he wanted to go out and meet.
"I always knew you'd be queen," he admitted, lazily stroking the war table where the figures rested over the Vale. "And a judicious one at that."
I watched him with half-closed eyes, waiting for him to reach me as he circled the table. The crown felt so heavy when he wasn't here to help bare it. He had knelt to me, placing my father's crown atop my head, so it was only just that he be here to help me keep it.
"My bannermen whisper that it is sense that I lack," I told him, just as he finally reached me. I was reminded of the Valyrian necklace he brought me, had made for me, so many years ago. It had been years since I last wore it, finding the metal rather tainted now with his ill intent.
But sometimes, when the nights were especially long and I was especially alone, I would drag it out and miss him. As I did now, in this land so far from Dragonstone, so far from King's Landing, where we would reign fire as he had always wanted.
The tent flaps from outside when he traced up my arm, dragging his fingertips finally to the exposed skin of my neck and tracing the crown. I had asked before if he'd wished he wore it. "Beautiful though it is, its weight upon my head would mean you no longer breathed to wear it."
He did not thirst for my crown, of that I knew. He thirsts for the battle come the red rising sun in the morrow. With how his dark eyes were set upon me, perhaps I, he thirsted for as well.
"The bannermen follow you, sense or no, for their opinions matters none to dragons," he assured me, and now his hand was against my cheek, cradling it. I no longer flinched from the touch that made me feel alive.
I was reminded of that day on the beach, where our hearts connected in a way he had never allowed years before that. After Visenya, he had settled into a state of grief that made him a volatile being that I could not recognize. His voice had even changed for the sudden stripping of a daughter he never got to hold.
And a wife he hadn't held since.
I pressed my palm to the black leather of his armor, feeling the pulsing beat beneath my skin as my eyes locked on his. It drummed so hard that I might just feel its echo in me. His breath hitched as I reached toward him, stroking the height of his face and his fluttering lashes.
Half the time, he believed me to hate him, and half the time he was right. Right now though, of that, I could not tell. The voices outside were loud ones, soldiers readying for war, clamoring of shields and spears. Inside, between us, a sizzling silence.
His fingers were pressed against my cheek and mine to his, but somewhere in the middle, we met. As we met, his breath to mine and mine to his, I thought of who we were back then. Both of us had to adapt to this ever-changing world, but right now the world stopped.
"I missed you," he whispered, and I wondered if that was true. He seemed content enough with his dragon riders at his side, the beat of Caraxes and his wings, dragging him ever farther and farther away. Rumors of Nettles swayed in between us, be her like the wife who would not touch him or the daughter he lost. I did know, had yet to see Nettles, only her whispers that followed loud men who held no sense for their queen.
I did not know. I did not know how to ask. If there was a new body to warm his bed, she was far from his mind now.Would he strike me if I asked? His temper was an explosive fuse, and once I thought his hand would not extend between us.
His eyes narrowed as if he saw it, that unspoken slight between two dissociated lovers, lit up only by his avoidance. His hands traced my neck, and the heat in his eyes magnified. It was pointed and straight fast, as he always seemed to be when focused.
"I could swear a new oath," he suggested, and I felt his fingers slip down my arm, to the groove of my elbow, to his sword. Slowly, he withdrew it, getting on one knee, and balancing it out for me.
"What are you doing?" I asked, although a part of me already knew. His sword was resting flat in his hands, glinting out at me, glinting for me.
My father had never so much as struck my mother, never so much as gripped her tightly, at least, as far as I could see. But I knew the world that I lived in was wicked, and where women were expected for subordination. Even as a queen, I wasn't above it.
"I swear, on the old gods and the new, by the steel of which I hold, I give you my fealty and my loyalty. Should this hand ever rise to you again, then these hands I will lose. May then, only by death, the vow last in perpetuity." His voice, no longer that of indifference, reached over to me when I stared down at him, lips parting. It was earnest, as the vows I'd seen from Kingsguards past, so long ago.
My tongue ran over my dry lips, the water rations low, as were food that I refused in excess amounts. This tore away the weight I'd gained after Visenya's birth, that which had stacked upon me. Despite that, I had heard the songs that were meant to mock me. Stocky and cruel, ugly as well as vicious. The Bitch Queen, as my usurper brother had called me.
Yet, Daemon looked up at me, as both his queen and his wife, swearing fealty and begging for my favor, despite never using the words. I doubted he even knew how to anymore, and I would never ask, already knowing the pride of the man I married.
"Is it not enough?" Daemon asked in response to my silence. What would be? He might have asked this, but he did not.
Our marriage had been stagnant, dry without life, as if we forgot how to do it. After Visenya, after both of my sons had left me, the family was a broken thing. This war had taken it all, but it had committed me to fight in it.
"I called for you," I whispered, reminding the both of us of the pain. "And I needed you."
He lowered the sword, his eyes staring into mine, perhaps as a man begging would. His head dropped, resting against my belly. His hands pressed to my hips, holding me closely and bringing back the heat with his touch.
"I couldn't do it," he slowly admitted, voice nearly breaking, but Daemon was fighting. I could not, so he was fighting harder than I. "When Laena-" his voice cut off, and I could feel his breath in my stomach, filling me, filling me with life. "When she died, I could do nothing. Tell me what foes to cut down, what enemies to strike, what vengeance you seek," he whispered, and I could feel his grip tighten against the soft material of my dress. "I am your hand. Should you ask me to fall upon my own sword, without hesitation, I will."
There were his shaking hands, the grief he had kept in for all this time. Slowly, my palms went to rest upon his shoulders, as if I could fight too.
"But when you screamed," he said, and it was hard to remember back to it, to remember past the haze of such devastation, pain, and sorrow. Those hours felt like a blurry nightmare, and often I'd awaken with the chill of it, reaching for my belly and resting a hand upon it. "I could not come, as weak and cowardly that I am, I could not watch you die."
"So you would have me die alone?" I asked after careful and chilling silence. Slowly I lowered, feeling his hands drag up as I faced him, on my knees, staring up at him. My father once said that when you are missing someone, they are very likely feeling the same way, however, I didn't think it was possible for Daemon to long for me as much as I did him.
The most beautiful man I'd ever seen, gentle when he wanted, kind when he wanted, and he loved me, when he wanted. Sometimes, he loved me even when he did not.
"I would die first," he whispered, just against my lips that burned for him. "I long for you," he said, his voice in a furious whisper as if the words were pried from his very being. He who usually longs, without longing, who does it unconsciously whilst being absorbed in his own apathy and neutrality. It was why the confession nearly brought the backs of my eyes to fire, burning and prickling me. "Utterly," he said slowly, perusing me, studying me, and perhaps even loving me. "For every bit of you."
I was reminded of that woman, old and gnarled and undead. It was at battle with the man before me, the one who'd go to such heights to avoid facing what he feared, rather than obtaining what he desired. "Have you forgotten?" I whispered, feeling his hands curl into my hair, spreading heat low into my belly that had felt so cold for so long. "We burn together."
He laughed, a light chuckle that I had not heard directed at me for so long. I was still tracing it with my eyes when he kissed me. His lips touched my mind as well as my lips, as though they were a vestibule of some vague speech, leading to me, and leading through me. Between us, I felt this unknown and timid pressure that was darker than the swooning sins or more graceful than music, softer than sound.
He held me hard against him, without speaking. I could hear the pulsebeat of his throat, echoing, hammering as my own. His hands dragged to my shoulders, the material of my dress separating us as he met my gaze, lips dragged against my own before I felt cold without him there. I could still feel his pulse beneath my palm that rested against his neck, the beat of it as addictive as he was.
He looked to me, his large hands warming me, and I felt dizzy with him. "I need you," he whispered to me, hands sliding to cup my face, dragging me closer so he could press his lips to mine again, softly once, then again. It had been so long, even my own touch was few and in between, and he never asked, despite his husband's rights that claim he owned me.
A reprieve, I think, as I might have killed him before.
"I've been here," I told him, hating myself for having waited for him to find me again. I hated him as well, for making me wait. His face softened, tinged with regret as his hands trembled in his touch. I knew what it was like to quiver like that, just before touching someone. A desire so acute that it became not so unlike sorrow.
I didn't have the slightest doubt of the solidity of his flesh when he pressed me down upon the makeshift bed, nothing like the empty one back in Dragonstone, but I couldn't feel it from under me regardless. He travels his soft lips over mine, kiss by thorough kiss, his sharp jaw under my fingertips, suffocating me with each second before he separated, his lips dusting over my cheek, sliding the fabric of my dress from my shoulder.
Lips against skin, slowly dragging, refamiliarizing himself with every reaction as his hands explored the skin he exposed, bit by bit. Sounds escaped, to which he swallowed in his mouth against my own, hands dragging further and further down until I was wanton with lust and wonder. His eyes were open, languid, wonderous, watching my flushed face as he touched me, fingers inside, holding my cheek with the other as his fingers nearly brought me to the edge, only for him to draw them away.
His hand went to cup my thigh, resting it to his hips as he stared into my eyes with lazy slowness, dark and set on me. I only let out a gasp, a breath, as he entered me, filling me with one thrust as we both shared a combined sigh. Head against head, we stayed like that, adjusting to the world spinning backward.
"I am trying to be gentle," he whispered against my lips, breathing quickening as my hands dug into his back. It had been so long since I had him, so long since he wanted me as I did him, and perhaps he truly had his fill of others since then. Men in war did it all the time, and he swore me fealty, not abstinence.
"I am not glass," I whispered right back, lust melding with the jealousy that extended irrationally, slighted by rumors with no truth to back them. "Even broken wings heal," I told him, the intimacy filling us both as he finally moved, slowly at first, but it wasn't enough. I could never get enough of him, never satiated with what he gave me, and always selfishly wanting everything.
His breath was hot against me as he thrusts again, harder enough to buck me forward as one hand encompassed the back of my head, the other holding my thigh to his hip. Each thrust brought us closer, before he pulled back to do it again, and again. Gasps turned into moans, each of us clawing at one another, animals in heat, lovers attempting to reconnect, husband and wife instead of a Queen and a consort.
"Harder," I begged, not wanting his gentle love, for it wasn't him. I wanted his violence, I wanted his chaos, and I wanted it all inside me. His grip tightened, and the force of each pounding thrust had me holding onto him, lest he lose his grip. Each motion was met with my rolling hips, the moans that had me undone.
I dragged his lips to mine, already feeling the haziness cloud me, leaving me bare for him.
He stared down at me, lips parted as if he didn't want to leave, as if he wouldn't go off tomorrow and fly far away. Then he kissed me, assuring me he'd return, he'd return and we'd find each other again.
Again and again, kissing and whispering as we once had long ago, finding each other once more.