Ｓｅｖｅｎｔｅｅｎ
𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓀𝑒
╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝
The first time Rhaenyra had sex with Criston Cole, he had woken her up with little kisses along her back, trailing up her spine. His lips against her naked neck, dawdling to her ear and whispering how beautiful she looked, had been what originally caused a tiny spark of affection in her twisted heart. He had made a succulent breakfast, and picked her a small lily from outside, near the little cafe where he bought her an oat milk latte. She had turned toward him, where they had locked eyes and he had stared down with his entire soul, baring into her.
Rhaenyra had been frightened by it, fundamentally and absolutely terrified by this kindness that no man had ever given her before. She had wanted the lack of eye contact, for him to fuck her into the mattress until she lost all sense. In a senseless world, she could picture another man.
The morning had been filled with Criston's fingers trailing along her nude figure, his mouth against her neck, and the whispers had been so dulcet that Rhaenyra never felt worthy enough to hear them.
So, when she awoke alone, reaching across an empty bed, the morning dim and the windows covered in frost, she laughed. She sunk into her pillow, her heartbeat in her ears and laughed. The sound was muffled into her own pillow, so as to swathe her own breaking voice. Or maybe she wanted to go straight through the feathers and down, awaken in a new bed, and one where he was next to her. When she finally sat up, sheets dripping off her naked body, she hugged her knees to her chest, searching for clothes on the ground, any sign that he hadn't put them on in haste. Shoes, pants, socks, all gone.
She dragged her legs from the bed, not minding her nakedness as she walked around the canopy, not even remembering having moved from the floor. Her memories were a treacherous path to tread, but she still walked past it, remembering his lips against her head as she fell asleep next to him. He must have taken her to bed sometime into the night, after the haze of sex had left her deflated against him.
She walked, vulnerable, around her penthouse, all signs of life now stricken and bare.
But Rhaenyra was never one to cry when the emotions became too much, overflowing from her bare hands, cupping them and watching them spill. She merely slipped on her black silk robe resting by the door. She vaguely saw her hands trembling as she felt the material slide over flesh with remarkable slowness.
She felt it against her, her cheeks pale, her body numb, as she walked through, room after room. Her bare feet slapped against the hardwood floor as she spotted the brown groomsmaid dress, situated over her pale couch. The dim light touched it, turning it a lighter shade of chestnut from the peaking blinds. She walked to it, fingers brushing along the fabric as she slid them down with thinning lips. Her jaw was clenched when she felt her hands fisting over the material.
She let out a sound, like a choked gasp as she brought the material closer, both hands pulling the fabric apart. Her muscles strained, but the adrenaline coursing through her was both liquid courage and added vigor. She heard the fabric rip, heard the seams attempt to keep a hold on one another as she tore it straight down the middle. She let out a piercing scream, ripping it to sheds, stitch by stitch.
By the time she was done, she was on her knees, and the fabric littered the ground around her. She stood up, her hands bracing her naked thighs as she felt the skin, still warm with the memory of his touch. She shook her head, her laugh coming out strained.
She made it to her phone, resting in her coat near the door. She pulled it out, but her Face ID couldn't seem to recognize her blotchy, reddened, and make-up-smeared skin. It felt like she were a balance, emotions stacked on each of the scales, sadness on one, anger on the other. It had been steady, stagnant, but her phone was the tipping point to cause the throbbing pain to finally overflow, mutilating the last shreds of sense.
There were tears streaming down her face when she finally tossed her phone into the wall, where it hit the picture frame she had up. It had been one she framed of her family, of her and her mother and father at the beaches in Dragonstone. Every time she searched through her memories, all the good ones and the ones that lightened the burden, all took place on that island.
She watched it fall, bounce and break against the ground. She knelt down next to it, eyes on the bandage around her hand as she reached for the glass. She watched shards fall from the photograph as she grabbed it, stroking her cold fingers across the image of Dragonstone in the background. She could still remember the high towers, made to look like many dragons, flying over the thrashing sea. In the background were the small dragon forming gates and claws holding the bright torches.
It was a mark of gorgeous, grotesque architecture with the great gargoyles on the doors and dragons upon the crenellations. The walls in the towering backgrounds were wrought with black stone with designs of basilisks and demons etched onto the very brick. Rhaenyra stared at it, her fingers stroking down, remembering the armory and smithy, the dragon tails that form archways and staircases. She felt tears burn her eyes. It was the last memories of a time her family had been truly happy, before New York came about, before her father had been obsessed with the creation of a male heir.
In Dragonstone, her parents had been perfect, never fighting, never arguing, and always attentive. New York brought about her father's rise to power, but also marked the doom of the perfect family she had thought they were. It exposed cracks in the ceiling where the light caved in, making her wonder if the foundations had always been built atop the rubble. She always missed the salty air, the smells of smoke and brimstone that made Rhaenyra feel as if she had gone back in history.
She always thought of that place as being stuck in time, so long as nobody stepped foot there, so long as she didn't go back, those happy memories could stay intact.
Now, here it was, broken and forcing her to remember the strain on a marriage Rhaenyra chose to look back on as happy.
Rhaenyra grabbed the photograph and her cracked phone, leaving the glass as she avoided stepping on it. She made it to the lounge, spotting a box that had been placed on the table. She felt her heart freeze in her chest, something icy and cool settling over her as she lifted the little package of Planned B.
She watched her hand shake, trembling and causing the contents of the box to rattle. "I have an IUD you piece of shit!" Rhaenyra tossed it with all her strength across the room, watching it hit her bookshelves, knocking over her snowglobe and causing it to shatter in glass and glitter over her floor.
Her chest was rising and falling violently, her eyes narrowed as she rushed to grab the next item, the vase she got from Ikea, and she tossed it against the wall next. She wasn't done there, ripping to shreds her books, and slowly unraveling the ball of anxiety and hurt, replacing it with violence that she hadn't realized could be so therapeutic.
When she was done, her bandage was soaked red, her cheeks were flushed, and her back was glistening with sweat. Her penthouse was a mess, the dress she loved in shreds, but she just stared at her ceiling, trying to control the rapid breaths that threatened to overwhelm her. It didn't settle, not when she avoided the mess, dragging herself to the cold water of her shower, settling into the freezing temperatures.
By the time she got out, she was too cold for lust or for sadness, and she just laid down on her bed, wondering how she could allow herself to be fooled again.
She rolled over, reached for her phone, and unblocked his number before she stared at the text screen through blurry vision. There was a long crack across her phone that had splintered off into many smaller ones that nearly restricted her from seeing herself in the tiny reflection. On the fractured glass, she began to write, to erase, to rewrite, and this process repeated until the first teardrop dripped down her cheek and onto her thumb.
Once the first one came, the next was close by, one after another in silent succession. She watched them cover her screen, caught in the splintered cracks as she stared at his name. She had many things she could say, such as 'I am not a one night stand' or 'I will murder you' or 'where did you go this morning'.
The last thought nearly divided her heart as she was reminded of that woman from so many years ago who had sent him the same thing. 'Where did you go this morning? I miss you.' Rhaenyra would never forget it and never forget how insignificant she had felt when she read it. Most of all, Rhaenyra had felt oddly superior back then, as though she had a such hold over Daemon that he was leaving another woman's bed in order to come back to her.
Where did you go this morning? Rhaenyra thought, watching her fingers clench the phone, hating herself, hating him, hating Apple products. I miss you.
So, Rhaenyra wrote nothing, but left his number unblocked, unable to help it.
And from the other end?
Silence.
─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────
Nine times out of ten, when Rhaenyra was in trouble from the gossip of a nefarious nature, she blamed Otto Hightower. Any discretion she was up to in her adolescence, any rule she broke anytime, it had been Otto to go running to her father.
"You didn't think I'd find out, did you?" Viserys said, slapping his hand against the desk and nearly making her flinch. It had been a long time since Rhaenyra had gotten chewed out by dad, a long time since she was caught doing any misdeeds, so her mind immediately went spiraling on lists of things she had done in the last two years.
She already struck Daemon's name off that list, since her father wouldn't be screaming should he have found out she fucked his brother. She imagined the room would be chilled, brimstone smoking in the background, and he would already have disowned her, disinherited her, or something worse that even escaped her own imagination.
"You're going to have to be more specific," Rhaenyra said carefully, lips pursed, and leaned back in her seat as she crossed one leg over the other. There were so many things that she thought he'd not find out about and the list was so long that she'd run out of paper to fit it. Drugs, stealing, and alcohol might actually be a problem. Or perhaps that night in Switzerland last year when she went hiking naked. She had been so completely fucked up by shrooms that she barely remembered it, but she and Laenor had fun, and that was how he met Qarl. However, she did remember the 100K she spent to cover it up.
Viserys had a very particular expression when so infuriated that he might just steam up like an engine. His lips would curl into a smile, as if he couldn't believe he even had to go into details. His lids would narrow until she could barely see the whites of his eyes, and he'd ask very mocking questions.
"Did you think you were being smart?" Viserys asked, one brow arching and leaving just the tiniest sliver of nerves in Rhaenyra's husk of a heart. She wouldn't bother going into the details of her numbness as of late, when she had cried herself into a half-naked sleep on her bed. Or how she would walk by the park, see an old couple, and have the strangest urge to toss her caramel macchiato at them. Those details only succeeded in making her feel bitter, ashamed, and pathetic.
"Generally, I do find myself rather smart," Rhaenyra said without pause to consider. It seemed somewhat reckless, again with all the terrible offenses as of late, to make a guess only for it to be wrong. Perhaps it could be the time she went out drunk bowling, throwing a pumpkin down one of the lanes. She had even paid handsomely for the replacement equipment and put the owner's son through college. Now, she even met up with him every month or so for cocktails.
Viserys finally slid the paper across the desk so hard that it nearly fell off the wood and into her lap. It looked like the Times, but was still in production, with half-done articles and clippings put together in a haste, all displayed onto newsprint. She stared at it without expression as she lifted the piece up, seeing her face on the front cover alongside Mysaria where they were currently lighting a building on fire. Unlike Mysaria, Rhaenyra was completely visible, and unlike Mysaria, Rhaenyra was holding the lighter.
Well, how about that, Rhaenyra thought with a growing frown, hating that she'd have to admit that she had been wrong about her recollection of the night. Just last night she even had an hour-long argument about both of their contrary memories of that night, four weeks ago.
"That's not definitive proof," Rhaenyra said carefully, staring up at her father. "I could have just been lighting a cigarette," she continued, pushing the paper back toward him, too exhausted to bother with reading the likely offensive slander of the New York Times. Other papers wrote positive words, calling her the New York Delight or the modern Saint since she organized charities on the regular. The Times, however, turned against her the same day she became heir. She went from a 'delight' to a selfish and spoiled whore, before she decided that she's become exactly that.
"Lighting a cigarette," he said with a chuckle that spelled her doom. "This building had been there since the early 1800s." His voice had lowered into a deadly calm that normally would have had her counting her days. "Do you even know what that means?"
"That age made it very flammable," Rhaenyra answered, glancing over at the paper. She already knew all the information regarding the incident, also conscious that it had been evacuated when the fire started. So, besides a very pissed of cat, there were no deaths or injuries and the guy's insurance handled the rest. At least, until now.
"Flammable," Viserys laughed, looking down and shaking his head. The temper was sudden, and he had flung the contents of his desk onto the ground. She attempted to look unbothered, but the flinch came about despite her best efforts. He didn't see it, already standing and bracing his fists against the wood as she let out a loud gulp. She always hated her dad's wounded affection, his loud rage, because it always simmered down to a poignant anger that left her feeling as though she were the worst daughter in the entire world.
"What's the problem?" Rhaenyra said, pursing her lips and looking away. "Just pay them off, we've done it before."
"Can't," Viserys said, the words uttered through clenched teeth as she watched his fists clasp and unclasp. "You think I can throw money at every problem you cause and it would just go away, don't you?" He raised his hand toward her, a gesture, but she didn't so much as flinch. She knew her father could be red in the face and screaming, but he'd never hit her. Even now, when she thought she rather deserved it.
Rhaenyra's jaw clicked together, not dignifying that with a response considering it wasn't far off base. The past had a way of prowling about, searching for her, and it was only a matter of time before she finally faced the angry mess considering it had been trying to fight her at every turn. She just wished it would make her meet it with something less damning than lighting a historical building on fire and burning the tail off a cat. She finally grabbed the paper and looked down at the article, incomplete and as offensive as she thought it might be.
She found his loud emotions a comfort. It was the quiet anger that was frightening, visible in the ones who consider what they were about to do, and plan how to inflict the most hurt. Those were the ones that cause true damage. Her father's rage did not frighten her, but his disappointment was what caused her teeth to scrape against her tongue so quickly that it drew blood.
"What next?" Rhaenyra asked, and this couldn't have come at a worse time with the bar exam around the corner. A lawyer with a criminal record hardly looked good for her. She could easily get her bar examination denied, and that thought alone had her gripping her knees and clenching the fabric of her jeans. Her mouth filled with the coppery tang that she swallowed down.
"Next," Viserys said, visibly trying to calm down. She could see it in his huffed exhales and constantly moving hands. His hair was a mess, and the bags under his eyes set into the fine wrinkles. It was a wonder how he was only four years older than her uncle and yet he had aged decades since Dragonstone. The lines, the bags, and the bits of falling hair, all took away some of the vigors he once had in his youth. Sometimes, looking at the visible signs of age made her so forlorn that she feared she'd never be able to meet his eyes again. "Next?"
"I can't have this on my record," she said with a slow perusal of the article that called her a 'billionaire heiress turns arsonist' and 'deranged pyromaniac with more interest in crime and fashion than law or business'. All of it was followed by a list of candidates better suited to take over the Targaryen legacy, and all far more worthy than her own name in the hat. One such name, the first one on the list, was Aegon Targaryen. She nearly ripped the paper in half.
"If you exhibited a sense of control," Viserys bit out, his voice chilling the space between them and making her grateful for the desk. "This wouldn't be happening. If you had a modicum of restraint or duty or-" He let out a sound, waving his hand and resting it on his face. She watched the anger fall away, settling into such disappointment that it had him flopping back into his desk chair like a dead fish.
"I could say it was an accident," she suggested, hearing his wheezing chuckle at that. Her mouth was filling with the coppery tang of her own blood and her fingers were itching to pick at her cuticles. She never understood Alicent's habit of that, but now, with the rising levels of anxiety, she was finally accepting that this was happening. When her father finally lowered his hand, revealing a sunken expression, as though he had drunk deep from his cup, only to find a dead cockroach at the bottom.
"Then you should have done so earlier," Viserys said, hand still upon his brow as his disappointed scowl deepened. "I have tried Rhaenyra. Tried to get through to you. Tried to get you to start acting like an adult. What more can I do?"
Just like that, as if she were a candle and he just blew her out, the light in her went dark. She had to grip her knees to keep herself from burying her further in his ire. "What would you like to do? Disinherit me?" She gestured to the paper. "Finally give the mantel to your son?"
She watched the fire ignite, instead, in her father who burned with it and reminded her that he too was a dragon. He showed little expression, despite the simmering darkness that now blanketed the room and made her nervous. "You think I would not? You think your position is secure?"
"No. I never have," she told him, now standing. "I have always felt like a placeholder." She watched his anger diminish, only slightly, before he too stood, towering over her.
"The Yarrows who own that building have refused the money offered out of spite, but the papers agreed to take out the article from their next printing in replacement of something better. The Yarrows, however, have fine connections with another of the families. If you truly knew a thing, Rhaenyra, about the balance of our houses, you'd know not to offend the Baratheons. How does one fix this, I wonder," Viserys said, palms against the desk and leaning over it. "How do you make anything right? Or must I once again break and bend spines to fix your mistakes? Your poetry or flowery language will hardly buy your way out of this."
Rhaenyra's smile thinned, already sensing the years at work, law, and studying, going straight out the drain. Her status, her reputation, and her existence all added up as a reason to publically make an example out of her. It made for a good lesson and solid entertainment for those who took enjoyment from seeing famous people fall. Especially, she supposed, if that same person deserved it.
"I will fix it and you can decide afterward how you will handle me," Rhaenyra told him, moving her hands behind her back, somehow finding her audacity. "Make me a spare or keep me as your heir, you'll find I don't much care. How's that for poetry?"
She tossed the half-finished newsprint back on the desk, and walked out of her father's office.
The fruition of the year, the culmination of her terrible choices, lead her to leaning her head against the wall of her father's office. A fool was too weak a word for her. A dollard, an imbecile, a cretin, and the worst daughter to ever exist. She didn't even know where to begin, and as if the world wanted to add a tipping stone to her ever-present foul mood, she was fairly certain she just started her goddamned period.
Rhaenyra began to laugh, her shoulders shaking with every light bit of sound as she finally turned back around, facing the hallway, and muffled the hysterics as she rested against the wall. Her back nearly slid down, her face buried in her hands as she went through her list of contingency plans should she ever decide to commit murder. She swallowed all of them, not even know who she was supposed to kill.
She slowly raised her phone, both cracked and shattered and not recognizing her face, which was fine, because she could barely recognize it either. She entered her passcode, scrolling down her contacts until she reached Brya's name. Even as she stared at it, pursing her lips at her hostile cousin's number, she still didn't press. She began to pace, feet moving back and forth, back and forth, as she tapped the corner of her phone against the space between her brows.
Finally, she braced her head against the wall and slid her thumb against's Brya's name.
Of course, her cousin was determined to make it hard for her as it went straight to voicemail. Almost immediately, her phone pinged with a text message.
Bad Bitch Brya: new phone. who dis
read 1:35 pm
Rhaenyra stared up at the ceiling, her anxiety so heavy that she felt it in her steps as she carried herself back downstairs, past the elevator that lead to the lower level of her father's offices. The tower was extraordinary, filled with different displays of nepotism with cousins constantly vying for positions to up their status in the Targaryen's eyes. She couldn't even remember half of their names most of the time, but they waved at her as she passed.
She pointedly did not wave back, leaning into her own resting bitch face as she made it to the subsection and to the garages where her little Mercedes waited for her. She practically yanked the door open and slammed her face against the steering wheel.
Rhaenyra: answer the phone or imma watch you burn
Bad Bitch Brya: lin well miranda?
Rhaenyra: listen up coke whore
Bad Bitch Brya: ohho look at you cuz. finally moved up from using a raven and quill
Bad Bitch Brya: you harry potter drafting cunt
Rhaenyra: Those were owls, not ravens. Maybe you'd know that if you ever got your bf's dick out long enough to press the still watching button on Netflix.
Bad Bitch Brya: it's not even on netflix you cranky turkey necked crusty bitch
read 1:50 pm
Rhaenyra was clenching her phone tightly when she redialed, hearing Brya finally answer the phone. There was a very deliberate pause on the other end, one that came about from a lifetime of despising one another. Rhaenyra dragged her tongue across her sharp canines, attempting to come up with something to make the call slightly less hostile, and perhaps calling her a coke whore had not been an idea built on shrewd judgment.
"You must be calling about the Yarrows," Brya said, and her voice was a chilly frost on the other end. Rhaenyra clicked her tongue, biting into her thumb as she attempted to come up with something that did not end with her on the front page as a disinherited arsonist. All that time spent wanting to be exactly like Daemon, and here she was, about join him on the outskirts of her stupid family.
"You certainly made your rounds," Rhaenyra said with a careful pause. "Who told you?"
"I overheard a very interesting phone call," Brya said with a smug laugh, and the sound grated on her every singed nerve. Her cousin had been an extremely unbalanced person all Rhaenyra's life. She was both extremely hostile and misanthropic. The softness she had was always exclusively for her sister Lucy, but other than that, her intimate relationships had always been limited. Even when Rhaenyra tried, initially, to get closer to her and build a familial relationship, it often ended with more of the same offensive banter. It amused Rhaenyra most of the time, but it also made it hard in moments like this.
Her malicious feelings were first exposed to Rhaenyra when Brya had been invited to a dinner party with extended family back in Southampton. It had been years back, when Baratheon and Targaryen finally tried to mend fences after years of tense drama that divided them. At times, a lacking sense of social behavior could be its own sort of charm, but when paired with Brya, it had been alarming. Brya deliberately grabbed one of the candelabras and slowly tipped it over atop the table, setting fire to the tablecloth. When the smoke arose and the room filled with its singeing aroma, Brya only lean away and blamed the entire ordeal on Rhaenyra.
Due to Rhaenyra's reputation, not a single person believed her. Brya had been only 12 back then, and the evilest little girl Rhaenyra had ever met. Years had passed, but here they were, and Rhaenyra was at a loss for what to say.
"Which Baratheon must I appeal to for this to go away?" Rhaenyra finally asked, wishing the nepotism could extend to her now, as it had her entire life. She only had the numbers of four Baratheons in her stupid phone, and one was Lucy who was, quite frankly, an idiot. The other two were twenty years her senior and hadn't taken her seriously before being named heir so wouldn't look twice after.
"You do not know my family," Brya said, despite that family being something they shared. The Baratheons were cousins in name only, the divide having nearly severed in half when the great debate of succession had ruled in favor of Rhaenyra's father. Their wounded pride had made them versatile enemies, and when Viserys had froze them out of the Targaryen business entirely, they had grown as vicious as they were spiteful.
"I'll do anything," Rhaenyra said carefully, hating that she was sitting here, begging. It was humbling to say the least, and the words felt like charcoal in her mouth. She was practically choking on them.
Brya paused, but only for a moment before the silence was discontinued. "Rhaenyra, I hate you. I truly do. I dream, often, about bashing your teeth in. It gets me through particularly difficult days." Rhaenyra's eyes were heavily lidded, her scowl deepening as none of the words came as a surprise. "You are given everything and you still found a way to fuck up. You had the love of my life and fucked that too."
"Oh my god," Rhaenyra said, rubbing her fingers down the bridge of her nose and squeezing. "Is this seriously about Criston?"
Brya was silent, but that cold chill on the other end was telling. "It's not not about him."
"Brya, are you fucking kidding me?" Rhaenyra asked, losing a bit of the grip she had over her temper. "He's so much older than you. Bitch, he's older than me. You have got to be kidding me."
"Age is only a number, you buck toothed bitch," Brya replied, her temper flaring.
"Are you seriously going to watch my life get ruined because you caught feels?" Rhaenyra couldn't believe this was how her week was going. She only wanted to mourn her wounded pride, nurse her broken heart, eat an entire box of chocolates, and fall asleep atop her vibrator.
"I'm not interested in watching it, you narcissist. But will I help you? Nuh uh. Wanna know why?" Brya had now raised her voice, and Rhaenyra was currently tapping her head against her steering wheel. "Maybe you should ask your uncle."
And then, because she was 18 and had the emotional stability of a baby Aegon, Brya hung up.
Rhaenyra only stared down at her phone, the space between her brows narrowing, pulled together with her own dread and irritation. She let out a sound, barely a breath, as she realized that there was a lower level, past rock bottom, and she had just hit it.
─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────
The fruition of the year had come, reaching the last month, and the night was one that should have been magnificent, with the moon in the sky and the crisp frost in the air. It was not to be. Instead, it rained and little puddles of water shone out from under the many street lamps. The darkness of the drooping trees of Central Park had cast a large canopy of leaves and water. Rhaenyra was soaked to the bone, her trainers squelching with every step, and her legs burning with the force of her run that had now slowed to a shallow walk.
She had been jogging for the good part of the early morning, but now the moon had lowered and the sun that was supposed to come back up was hidden by storm clouds. The rain likely would chase away the press she had tipped off, which was a negative point for her since that meant she was freezing in the park for nothing. The calories she burned could have waited until the day was clear.
Rhaenyra was currently balancing on her heels when she spotted Criston Cole with an umbrella and a blank expression as it cast a shade over her, allowing the rain to blur around them. She had thought of many opening lines, should she decide to pick up her courage off the ground and actually talk to him again. Instead, it was to happen like this, where she felt the sinking in her gut, the loss of her nerve, and the guilt that rose so high in her throat that she might very well choke on it.
I can't do this, she thought, squeezing her hands into fists in her jacket, gripping onto the velvet box with a deep despair that only seemed to drag her under. She was an awful, unfaithful, selfish girl, who ruined not only a relationship, but a friendship that had meant more to her than she realized.
"I wasn't going to come," Criston admitted, his lips rising in that sardonic way that made her feel worse somehow.
"I wasn't going to make you," she replied, her hands fisting so tight now that the velvet box might just crush in her grasp. She was reminded of his loving affection, his light kisses, his gifts, and his constant displays of romance. He had been the one who organized an entire picnic in the living room during the pandemic's lockdown. He had made the living space look like Central Park, order five dozen roses, and they made love, sprawled atop the blanket. He always put his entire being into her, every last attention when she entered the room, even when she was cold or distant and made excuses not to see him.
They spoke now, as distant as strangers who had just met. If they were strangers, it would be easier than this, less uncomfortable and awkward as her eyes gliding past him to the little car with the camera peeking through the window. She immediately calmed her expression, morphing it away from the anxious one she had the moments prior.
"Still posing for your next photoshoots?" Criston asked, his voice cutting her. She forgot how well he knew her, and how well he could read her. He was enamored, at first, by the way she'd morph into a different person when the cameras hit her. Eventually, however, he grew cold when she pretended like they weren't in an argument in public, or 'discussion' as he called it, since Criston never liked to say they were fighting.
"It's easy for you to say," Rhaenyra finally said, hating that he could still say one word, one sentence, and the anger rose inside her so easily. "You're not in the spotlight like me." She refused to say more, since they had this same argument one thousand times already.
She bit her tongue and slowly opened the velvet box from inside the pocket of her hoodie before taking it out. It fell, open from her hand and onto the ground between them.
"Shit, I'm sorry," she said, but he had already knelt down, one knee resting in a puddle as she held up the umbrella for him. He picked it up carefully from the ground, and her expression morphed into a softer one as he finally forced his eyes from the diamond and back to her. "You must hate me," she whispered, and his lips sunk down, staring up at her.
"One can be very much in love with someone else without still delluding themselves to wishing they could spend the rest of their lives with her," he said carefully, and she slowly bent down down, dislodging the diamond from the velvet box. She stroked the ring with glistening eyes, feeling worse than before.
"I did love you," she said with a breaking voice as he now stood straight, taking back the umbrella from her fingers. His eyes scanned down toward the ring that she pressed to her lips with a kiss, before carefully putting it back into the velvet box, watching him close it.
"You think me a greater fool than I really am, don't you?" Criston said with a scoff, looking away before his eyes were back on her. "I had absolutely no illusions about you, Rhaenyra. I know you are selfish, beyond words even. I know you are frivolous, vain, and contemptuous. I knew you were vulgar from the first time I met you. Your ideals and your wants," he said this carefully, casting her a knowing look that practically speared straight through her. "I knew they were immoral and wrong, but I loved you. I loved you so much that they didn't matter. Even with my great understanding of you, I love you with all my heart."
Rhaenyra's eyes were burning, with both anger or an overwhelmed grief, she did not know. Perhaps it was even guilt. It was all just too much. She placed her hands over his, lowering the ring back down as she stepped in closer. One glance to the reporter, that was all it would take for Criston to catch on, so she did not look. She stepped in, and pressed her trembling lips to his. Once, to the corner of his lips and felt his hand against her arm, dragging up.
She didn't have it in her to speak, wondering how strange a heart was that made one thoroughly abhor a man just because he loved too much.
An awful, contemptuous woman, she couldn't help but agree.
They went their separate ways, and he would hate her in the morning, despise her even, as much as a part of her did him. 54 minutes she walked through New York, in the rain, feeling it upon her cheeks with terrible clarity that she was irrevocably fucked up. Where would she go when she makes such a realization? Past the rain and past possible pneumonia that had set into her very bones, she stood now in the elevator after finessing the staff. When she made it to his door, she nearly faltered. Nearly, because momma may have raised a stupid, dumb bitch, but she had not raised a coward.
She already picked the lock with the pins in her hair, silencing the alarms that went off when she entered her uncle's place. His passcode wasn't hard because Daemon wasn't original, despite how he might think he was.
She had barely begun to enter it into his security box when she heard his words, "I regret teaching you to do that."
His voice slid along her spine like a caress. The void in her damnable chest was filling with violence. It was a hushed, yet defeated rage that might have earned her, at least, the right to hurt. "I was going to call," she admitted, not looking at him as she entered the last number of Viserys's birthday, and the alarms all ceased. "But I had my doubts you'd answer."
She had wanted to scream at him, shout all the expectations she had for him the morning after. Yet, she halted, stopping herself when she realized that perhaps it wasn't fair to expect those things from him. She went into it, knowing who he was, yet life was not fair, and it surely didn't wait for her to grow up. It took her five years to give him all of her heart, so it hurt to watch him throw it away after one single night.
"Did you break in just to argue with me?" Daemon asked, breathing out as if the very notion was already exasperating. She now turned to him, dripping rain water onto his nice hardwood floors. She was reminded, once more, of that girl from three years ago who was as saddened, likely, as Rhaenyra was to see he left in the morning.
But that was who Daemon was. He was capricious and fickle and charming and he ensnares people into his stupid, tangled web. He always made certain that the balance of power was never even, never equal, so he could easily walk away, leaving others with the knots. She knew that. She knew he did terrible things and that she wasn't an exception to the rule just because he cared about her.
She knew that his dark webs ran deep, tainting her life and ruining it with vendettas that had nothing to do with her. She could bring up the Baratheons, but she couldn't get the words out.
Her unapologetic, mercurial, bastard of an uncle.
She didn't want empty words.
She straightened, wringing out her hair onto the hardwood floors. Her Lululemons were stuck to her thighs, her sports bra exposed as she unzipped her wet hoodie and flung it over his expensive suede couch. He watched it with a deadpan, but she caught the slight irritation as he rolled his eyes and went to grab it.
"So, you are angry," he said, with a sigh as he began to fold the wet brown hoodie with its high collar that she had once felt up against her chin as she ran. He draped it over the coat rack that she had skipped right over as she kicked off her one of her wet shoes.
"I'm not," she said, knowing that 'angry' was too small to describe it. She was cold. She was bitter. She was no better than a one-night stand, which would be fine if her feelings weren't so fucking strong. She was still dripping water over everything when she kicked the other shoe off, and nearly knocked over the standing lamp before her socks came off next.
He faced her now, lips drawn together as his eyes finally ran down her. Her nipples were peaked from the sports bra, too thin to hide it. Practically all of her stomach was exposed as she ran her fingers over her collar bones, in between her breasts, dragging down to the ties of her joggers. She wasn't smiling, her eyes intense upon his as she undid the tie. She watched him stare up at the ceiling, leaning against the back of the couch and gazing up at the wood panels.
"Do you have anything warm I can wear?" Rhaenyra asked, and saw his eyes close, chin tilted up, and his hands fisting the couch. She wasn't satisfied and she didn't think satisfaction was the point. She knew enough about him to comprehend all the flaws, but here she was, like a fool. But she wasn't here, seeking his 'love' and wouldn't believe it if he gave it to her.
"You've helped yourself to everything else," his deep voice hit her, and she shivered with unbridled lust as she was flooded with all her imaginations of it. She had pictured him in so many ways these last five years that he nearly turned into an incorporeal being, and one that wasn't even real anymore. She had pictured this too, but with less reluctance on his part. He wouldn't even look at her, and she needed him to. "Don't let me stop you."
"Do you remember," she said, now lowering her joggers off of her so she was just bare skin, dampened with the rainwater. It wasn't all she was wet with, but she didn't care about anything anymore. Her life was fucked and it was his fault. It was also her fault, but it felt better to hate only one person at a time. "When I called you the night before we drove to New Haven?"
"Yes," he practically had to drag out the word, and it came out as a guttural sound, his hands pressed into the couch as he squeezed his fingertips into the suede. She felt her lips twitch up, walking closer to him. She dragged her pointer finger along the fabric of the lounge chair, across his knuckles, up his arm and back down again. In her light touch, his muscles tensed, but he still wouldn't look at her.
"No," she said with a light smile. "Do you remember? The breathlessness in my voice. You asked me what I was doing. Do you remember?" He had frozen now, as she trailed her hands up his arm again, tracing the part of exposed skin of his forearm from the rolled-up dress shirt. He must have just gotten back from the office, but there were specks of blood on his collar. She had never seen that before, but oddly enough, the part of her that might have asked questions was shut down. "I said I was studying."
He finally let out a deep breath, his muscles stiff from under her touch as she slid her palm over his chest, feeling the grooves of his body from under the deep red button-up. She dusted her lips over his bicep, her naked knee against his leg, and she watched his shoulders sag as he finally turned his head to look at her.
His eyes were dilated, his patience thin, and his lips were parted. She was staring into him, through him, so aroused that she was practically shaking. "What are you doing?" Daemon's question was met with a twitch of her lips, her fingers nimbly undoing the top buttons. Her other hand soothed the burn down between her thighs, and he watched her with glazed eyes, fixated upon her as he had avoided doing from the moment she walked in.
She kneaded her fingers over herself, feeling the slight tingle of pleasure as she said, "Studying."
His breath hitched, scanning up her body as she waited for him to make the final steps. It made him feel better to think he had some control here, and she'd surrender him the illusion it. He had turned toward her now, facing her as she smiled and walked around the couch, sitting against the cushions as she spread open her legs. Criston had called her vulgar. He called her immoral.
And that was the last of Criston she thought of when she touched herself, her hips bucking into her own soft fingers as Daemon leaned over, hands bracing against the couch. He certainly was pretending very well to have restraint, but Rhaenyra wasn't buying it.
"You are insane," he whispered, his voice harsh in a way that cut deep into her. But he had always understood and accepted every intimate impulse and genuine thought, responding to them in a way that nobody else had. Not a lot of people could turn into such mirrors of one another.
"So you do remember," Rhaenyra breathed out, and his scowl went to her, eyes dragging over her again. He finally laughed, his palm racking over his face as he finally walked the same path she had.
She had spent many days on this couch as a girl, where they had talked into the long days. Often, those talks were littered with gold, where he'd gift her extraordinary pieces of art and jewelry or where he encouraged her to act out her worst impulses at school. It hadn't been her idea, after all, to take a bat to Deiron Velaryon's Maserati.
But now, those days as a girl and uncle were long past as Daemon practically caged her in. Her lips curled up as one hand rested near her head while the other trailed down to her thigh, where he tugged her down, off balance, and made her lay back. When she was flat against the cushions, he met her eyes as his other hand dragged back up the path of her body until he fully caged her.
"What's wrong?" Rhaenyra asked him, eyes half-lidded as he made a point not to touch her. "Now that you've fucked me once, you're bored? I wish I could get someone out of my system so quickly." He had a look of experience about him, deep in the indigo, as if he had been told far more scandalous words from more people than she could count. It was the dangerous invitation that lurked deep in his gaze, that told her that he wasn't thinking about any of them.
His confidence, even when she tried to knock him off balance, was alarming and potent, with charisma she could feel wash over her. His hair was bright silver and disheveled in the longing touch of the light that cast him in a glow. She was trapped underneath the gorgeous spread of his shoulders, from his hips that made her picture every thrust, and the ache was now settled in her belly.
"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he whispered, and she let out a sound when he pinched her thigh. His hands were as restless as him and the moment she went to argue, his palm was against her, fingers trailing and sinking into her, flush against her clit through her lingerie. She could only let out hot air, and she groaned as he massaged circles into her flesh.
His breath was against her neck, against the rain-soaked skin, and his tongue lapped against her thumping pulse. He pinched her inner thigh, and the sound that tore from her throat was half pain half pleasure. "What are you doing?"
"I thought we were studying," he whispered, dragging his teeth across her skin. She arched her back, her hand against his waist, clenching the material of his shirt into a fist. He began to move faster, then slow again, over and over in a way that had her clenching her teeth, bucking against his hand, and nearly in pain as he traced his lips across her jaw.
She gripped him by the neck, attempting to kiss him, only for him to pull away. "Kiss me," she told him, ordering it with a near bark. She watched his dark eyes for a moment longer as his touch against her quickened, causing her to nearly lose her breath as she dragged her free hand up his shirt, untucking it and dragging it along his spine.
"Would that get you out of my system?" Daemon whispered, and just as quickly his touch removed from her, leaving her breathless and needy. She traced her tongue across her bottom lip, and he watched it with such ferocity that it might have knocked her back four thoughts.
"You are such a coward," she told him, and his stare darkened with anger, and that was the anger he used to kiss her. It may have begun as a furious smacking of lips, but his hand quickly pressed into her hair, his touch sinking into her. They separated once, gasping for breath, only for his dark eyes to gaze down at her with a sort of reverence that had her sinking into the couch. His lips were back against hers, each brush sending her body ablaze. His leg was pressed in between her own, hips moving with perfect synchrony with the savage press of his lips. The thrill, like the anticipation before a great leap, filled her, pushing aside everything that burned her in fury.
The liquid heat pulled into her core, turning her body into an object out of her control. She was rubbing against his knee, her nails digging into his skin, and his kiss turned all tongue and teeth. The friction of his clothes against her own left her on the edge of madness and had her hands dragging to his hair, pulling on the strands by the roots. The guttural sound that escaped Daemon's mouth had her taut, had her moaning when his hand gripped her hips to adjust her, to stop her from rubbing up and down his knee and reaching a quick orgasm. He was grinding into her, his hand beneath the small of her back, arching her up into him as he practically bucked her back into the cushions.
He ripped his mouth from hers before she was ready, but she wasn't about to tell him that she wanted to kiss him forever. She may be a needy bitch, but she'd rather not voice to him how deep that need went. His lips were against her shoulder, where he bit down and made her groan at the light grazing that slowly elicited equal parts pleasure.
"Do you trust me?" Daemon whispered, and she watched him lower, his hands on her thighs, his lips upon her stomach, spreading slow kisses as his palms fisted the muscled flesh of her thighs.
"God no," she answered, earning his laugh.
"Good," he whispered, and his tongue swirled the circumference of her naval, tracing in a way he had the day Mysaria had interrupted them. The motions were slow and patient, even when his eyes fucked her. She was gasping, letting out sounds when the tip of his tongue, a feather-light caress, trailed to the molten sex that was covered in naught but thin, diaphanous, silk. His kisses that covered her inner thighs had her arching, had her growing delirious. Her panties were still on, but he wasn't perturbed, nosing them out of the way and tonguing her sex.
The sounds that came from the back of his throat were low, growling, like a great cat finally devouring its prey. His tongue circled her clit and parted the damp flesh. She reached for him, attempting to bury her hands in his hair, touch him until she no longer wanted it, but he gripped her wrists and held them to her sides. Her legs had wrapped around his neck, some time into the assault of his wicked tongue, and now they were clenched around him, shaking as he released one of her wrists to sink his fingers into her, reaching deeper than she thought he could. She felt herself clench around them, shaking as she felt the heat bubble in her stomach.
And just as quickly, he had pulled away, tongue darting out to lick his lips in such a way that had her panting. She felt her head slam back against the cushions, not remembering when she had lifted it as her chest rose and fell before her eyes.
She barely got another gasping breath before he had flipped her over, his touch somehow forceful, yet gentle all at once. "How far would you go with a man you do not trust?" His whisper was against her ear, harsh and cutting and making her so hot that she couldn't breathe.
She went to reply, say something smart, say something cruel, but his palm slapped against the flesh of her arse and she went slack.
"Finally," he whispered, kissing her neck. "A way to shut you up."
"There are lots of ways," she breathed out, feeling the hard length of him, digging into her back. She reached behind her, undoing the buttons of his slacks with a single flick of her fingers.
"You might be too good at that," he said into her ear as his breath hitched.
This was true, she thought with a slight smile, and also an unmarketable skill. He didn't know the half of it. She didn't even have to look at a bra to undo the latches.
He groaned when she reached out into his slacks to caress her fingertips up the length of him. "Will you make me beg?"
He laughed, but cut off into a tone of molten heat, "Maybe a little."
"How about you fuck me before I change my mind," she whispered, and his hand had snaked around to her front, fingers against the wet bud of her clit. She cut off, face digging into the cushions until she was suffocating in them. His teeth were at the back of her neck, her hair parted for his tongue to slide up the length of her spine. She was about to beg when she felt his cock at her entrance, but her thoughts ran out when he thrust into her.
Every motion bucked her deep into the cushions, the sensations traveling up her veins as she let out gasps. She met each thrust with her own, his fingers still circling her clit as she lost all sense. She was begging, begging for him to stop, begging for him to slow, begging him to go harder. Her mercurial wants were limitless, and yet he met each one as if they were duel pianists, each traveling along the same note.
He whispered something in her ear, something low, and in high Valyrian. In time, she'd ask what it was, the word that was drowned by her own moans. In time, she'd ask many things, but the time was not now.
His teeth dragged to the lobe of her ear, biting and sucking and bringing her to the heights of pleasure that had her quivering. She felt him in her stomach, felt him in her blood, just as potent as the first time. She vaguely remembered begging him not to stop, vaguely hearing his breathy laugh in reply. "I couldn't even if I wanted to," he whispered, for once not sounding as if he even wanted to. It had her undone, it had her finished, flooded with sensations as vibrant as ecstasy and as potent as heroin.
Her lungs were burning, his hand clenched around her neck, just enough to cut off air, but not enough to hurt. The orgasm that took over her body had her shivering, had her gasping out his name, had her insane, clinging to his touch as it bucked her forward again and again.
More Valyrian was uttered against her skin, as warm as his tongue on her shoulder.
She turned back to him, allowed him to stare at her, dragging his hand through her hair as they laid side by side. Their limbs were entangled as if they were made as one or as if they were trapped in webs together. His thumb trailed over her bottom lip, tracing it and filling her with more sensations that had no outlet, no air, so they could only expand her and fill her until they popped right back out. Slowly his thumb rested at the corner of her lips when he reached forward and gently pressed his lips to her own.
The new sensations that filled her were unwanted, untrusted, and not at all like the violent lust she tried to replace them with.
She could only trail her hands up his face, kissing him back. And because she respected herself just enough, she dressed herself in clothes that were not her own, and left him first.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I'm like 100 shades of exhausted!
We have Rhaenyra about to take some true accountability in this chapter, more family feuds, and Daemon being toxic. This man is a messy mess. Now, I realize that right now, their relationship might seem a bit back and forth, perhaps even unlikable. It will get worse before it gets better. Sorry!
When I watched House of the Dragon, I personally didn't see any real instances that showed me that Daemon was a particularly good husband, love interest, or the like. That being said, I held nothing back here. Sure, he can obviously kiss and have the chemistry that made my TV precipitate, but this man had no scenes where I was like 'oh yeah, he's so in love with her, it's so obvious'. In fact, half the time I was like, 'what are you doing?' or 'why did you take her hat off, it's like you want everyone to know she's in a brothel' and then I was like 'oohhhhh'.
So, yeah, not a great guy, but I'm a SIMP. Obviously, he cares about Rhaenyra, I think that's not even in question. So, I hope to continue to make amendments to their relationship to show his gradual 'okay, fine, I give up' stage. Rhaenyra is much more patient than I. If I woke up to an empty bed and a box of planned B, I'd probably lose my literal mind. Like I would NOT go to him and have sex. He'd be roasty toasty with my trusty flamethrower.
EDIT: On AO3, I'm noticing a few people not catching onto where the Baratheon feud comes from, specifically between Brya and Rhaenyra. It was actually mentioned in the last chapter, in the 'Targaryen family tree is a circle' article. It was a Baratheon by the name of Tamar Baratheon who leaked that as a way to cripple Viserys before the succession vote was to begin. Daemon meets up with Blood and Cheese for this entire reason. I didn't go into details about what he actually DID to Tamar, but it was bad cause Daemon is a dick.
Anyway, that was Brya's oldest brother, so it goes to show that she and her family won't like Viserys Targaryen's family.
I was rewatching GOT earlier and dead ass, super lucky I don't have a dragon in real life. A minor inconvenience would equal Westeros being air fried. Anyway, I decided to finally post the second daemyra story I had in my drafts, this one is still AU, but it takes place in the real House of the Dragon setting. Check it out. Only one chapter so far, but if you want to see Rhaenyra fuck some shit up (and fuck Daemon in a new setting) I'm sure you guys will like it.