116 AC, King's Landing

It never ceased to amaze Daemon just how little he cared for matters of state.

They dulled the mind and made ones arse fat. But at least the wine was good, when the staff could be bothered to bring it, and the food was even better. The company could do with some improving, of course, for every day Daemon spent in the Red Keep not a-wife-ing was another day he had to spend with only his family for company.

Truly a punishment of the highest order, if there ever was one.

But he made sure he punished the others in return.

"Prince Daemon, surely you can remember the time of our meetings by now?" Hightower asked the moment Daemon sauntered inside, fifteen minutes late, just as he planned.

"Is that the time?" Daemon made a big show of placing his hand over his heart, feigning apologies. They did this little dance every single week and they had both all but mastered the steps. "Forgive me, My Lord Hand."

"Yes, yes," Alicent cut off her father before he could play his part. She was pregnant again, with at least triplets from the sheer size of her stomach, and had all the patience of a woman with twice as many children already. She rubbed the top of her stomach and grimaced. "Can we please dispense with this little game the two of you play and discuss the important matters at hand?"

"Agreed, dear one," Viserys agreed, doing them the great honor of actually turning up.

This was not, technically speaking, a Small Council meeting. Truthfully, Daemon was not entirely sure what purpose it served other than appeasing Viserys' need for both sides of his family to live as one. Rhaenyra would be the last to arrive and then they could commence with whatever asinine conversation it was that Viserys wanted to talk about.

Then they would all go back to their separate lives and dread each moment that led them back here the next week.

Viserys would return to his model of King's Landing – well done, although Daemon had never told him as such.

Hightower, to his scheming and the smell of his own farts.

Alicent, to spending too little time with her children.

Rhaenyra, to spending too much time with her children.

And himself, to figuring out how to get Ophaella a dragon.

It should not be so troubling, but nigh on a year he had faffed about King's Landing and he was no closer to finding his daughter a dragon than he was to finding out what his daughter's favorite color was. Perhaps, if he asked, he might actually find an answer, but that too proved to be an order just a bit too high, even for him.

Women were a mess of knots, especially little ones, and he cared very little for all the effort it took to try and unravel them.

"Where is-ah!" Viserys stood up, taking a little bit longer than he used to, and smiled brightly as Rhaenyra finally made her appearance. "Darling, you look well."

Rhaenyra was pregnant again as well and it suited as well as a cage suited a dragon. She lumbered inside the room, forced to weave her way through the labyrinth of furniture with a scowl on her face. When she finally reached her seat, she dropped down into it with a thud. She immediately leaned forward and grabbed a goblet of wine. A heavy poor should tide her over until the end of this weekly torture, but she would still be miserable long after they were done.

As was the effect of a loveless marriage.

Of course, a certain balm for that distinct burn could always be found in the bed of another.

If the rumors were to be believed, his niece had soothed her aches a thousand times over. Daemon glanced down at her stomach, burying a smirk behind his own goblet.

"Do we have something to discuss today?" Rhaenyra asked, making her dislike of these meetings quite clear.

"Yes, we do," Hightower spoke, cutting in before Viserys could speak for himself. "Lords and Ladies have started to send missives inquiring about betrothals. The Targaryens have been blessed with an abundance of children as of late. The noble houses have begun to express interest."

"Let them," Daemon said, fully aware that this conversation would not stay on the children for very long. "They will find themselves disappointed."

He could feel it, smell it, even, the desire building up in Viserys to talk about his own lack of prospects. Daughters and widows and nieces and sisters and mothers had been paraded in front of him and all of them had been turned away. He cared so little for his first marriage, he hardly held out hope for the success of a second. He cared even less for a second marriage brought about by the meddling of his brother. Monarchs should be in the business of a lot of things, but marriage making would not be one of them.

A girl was in need of a mother, Viserys had said.

But she had one and now she did not and she seemed no worse for this fact that the countless other motherless children that littered the streets of King's Landing.

His little Ophaella was of him.

What need did she have for a mother when he was there?

"I thought the matter of Jacaerys and Helaena had all but been decided upon," Rhaenyra said, shifting in place as her pains got to her once again.

"They would make a fine match," Viserys said, looking between the two women. Rhaenyra looked at Alicent, eyes narrowing just a fraction before she made her face appear pleasant once again. It was a remarkable gift of hers, really, and one that Daemon had admired all her life.

"They would. But their betrothal would also do very little to appease the other houses. A prince or princess is a prize above all else and one that inspires the utmost loyalty," Hightower said.

Daemon resisted the urge to ram a dagger up his ass and be done with it.

It would certainly do them all a favor.

And it would save him from having to listen to him prattle on.

Prize.

Insufferable cunt.

"You would have us dirty our blood?" Rhaenyra asked and Daemon was certain he was not the only one who picked up on that deep irony. But far be it from him to comment on it.

He buried another smile behind his goblet.

"I would have you strengthen you family through strategic alliances. There are several Great Houses with young children of their own. Marry them to yours and they would be hard-pressed to dishonor you or stray from the fold." There was a certain amount of wisdom in that, and yet Daemon would never say so out loud. "Rickon Stark has a son, two of you have daughters. The North is a valuable al…"

"There is only one daughter in the discussion," Daemon said, voice so harsh that he even surprised himself.

"Ophaella is removed from the line of succession, I will grant you, but she is still a Targaryen."

"And when she marries, it will be with my consent. Not with your machinations, Hightower." Daemon set down his wine and folded his hand together on the table, glowering at Hightower.

"Daemon, enough."

"What good is this conversation?" Daemon asked, still surprising himself with his own anger. "Ophaella and Helaena are still little more than babes. The boys, even younger still. Ophaella already has lands. What need does she have for an advantageous marriage?"

"What a curious thought, Prince Daemon. Given that you claimed those lands for yourself not even a year passed."

"When the time comes, priority must be given to Jacaerys and Lucerys, of course," Rhaenyra said, mouth twisting slightly just as she twisted her little knife. "They are to inherit the throne. As such, they should be given the best suitors."

"Indeed. But must still be open to the offers that come. Otto is right. We have been blessed with healthy children, all of us. We should not so easily throw their blessings away when the time comes," Viserys said. "Now, that that matt…"

"Forgive me, husband, but I am feeling unwell," Alicent said quite suddenly, face pursing up like she just tasted an overripe lemon. She stood up without waiting for leave and attempted to storm from the room, hindered only by the size of her belly and the ludicrous collection of furniture in the room. Hightower immediately stood up and followed after her, decorum be damned. Viserys stared after them, clearly quite confused by the sudden frostiness in the room.

Rhaenyra stood up as well.

"May I be excused as well, father?"

"Of course, dear girl, of course," Viserys said recognizing that whatever he hoped to accomplish with these tortures had failed for the week. He waved her off with a hand and turned to his models, not bothering to wait for Daemon to ask permission to leave. He knew he would die waiting.

Daemon caught up with Rhaenyra in three strides.

"Somewhere to be Rhaenyra?" He leaned down and whispered, smirking at the way her skin immediately turned to goose flesh.

"I am tired, Uncle. Growing life will do that to you." She turned towards the tiltyard despite her claims of exhaustion, trusting that he would walk with her. "I must admit, you still surprise me."

Rhaenyra turned again and the moment they were free of the part of the castle the Hightowers occupied, she collapsed in on herself even further. He held out his arm for her to take.

"How so?"

"You are quite protective of a daughter you spend no time with."

"Does quality time change the level of relation? Does knowing her favorite color, or how she likes her porridge, or if she has a fondness for fruits, or if she has night terrors change my dominion over her?"

"Dominion?" Rhaenyra scoffed and shook her head. "She does not like porridge. The maids offered it to her for three weeks straight and she refused every morning. She dreams nightly, and she tells them to myself and Laenor every morning at breakfast. She dreams of the sky and the birds. Most of all, she dreams of her mother and of Runestone. She loves fruit more than any other food. I am told she has a fondness for apples above all else, although I do not know why," Rhaenyra paused, coming to standing above the tiltyard. Beneath them, a pestle of white haired children and one brunette chased each other back and forth.

Daemon listened to the sound of laughter, mightily disturbed by the fact that he now recognized his daughter's without much effort. It was high-pitched and tinkling, like rain on dragon scales, and reminded him very much Rhaenyra's at that age.

"As for her favorite color? I am afraid you are going to have to find that out for yourself."

Rhaenyra touched his arm briefly before she turned and walked away, leaving him watching the children.

Aegon, already growing like a pale weed, tugged on Helaena's hair as he passed. He cackled and did it again when she turned around, little arms grasping for a piece of his hair. He danced out of the way and sprinted past his younger brother, practically skipping away from his sister as she tried and failed to catch him. Beside them, Ophaella held tightly onto Jacaerys' hands as she spun in a circle. Her hair flew around her head, short like a boys and heavily curled like her mother's had been.

It suited her.

Daemon scowled.

"Aegon, stop!" Helaena shouted when her brother pulled her hair again. She pulled back, slapping at her brother when he didn't let go. Ophaella and Jacaerys looked over at them, pausing their dance to watch them. Helaena tumbled into the pair, sending them both to the ground. Jacaerys immediately began to wail, as all children of that age were wont to do, and Ophaella immediately turned to him.

Aemond moved to her side, touching her shoulder.

Daemon's scowl deepened.

"Ophaella!" He called, interrupting his nephew just as he leaned down to speak to her. "Come."

His daughter pulled Jacaerys to his feet and brushed off his little doublet. A year had only served to have the children grow close. Part of him wished that he could say the same. She waved at the other three and turned towards him, the bright smile on her face immediately dropping. Before she was even one pace away from him, Aemond poked her shoulder. She turned around, cheeks pink.

She was red as a tomato when Aemond tossed her an apple before he fled the courtyard, cheeks flushed to match.

Well, then.

He supposed that solved the little mystery of why she preferred apples above all else.

Daemon hated it.

"Ophaella," He said again, a little more force in his voice.

He should not be bitter towards his nephew. The boy was six. It was entirely stupid to be feuding with a practical toddler. But he could not help but feel angered by the simple fact that the boy had done what he could not. He had managed to endear himself to her with a fruit.

A fruit.

Daemon touched the top of her head when she came to stand beside him. She bit her lip as nerves overcame her.

He had no apples hidden away in his coat.

Finding the girl a dragon would just have to do instead.


116 AC, Dragonstone

Daemon was pleasantly surprised to find that Ophaella was far more comfortable on the back of Caraxes than she had been the last time. She clambered onto his back with only the slightest boost from Daemon and made herself comfortable on the front of the saddle, waiting for him to follow.

He climbed up behind her and grabbed the pommel.

"Ready?" He asked, tightening his thighs in anticipation of Caraxes taking off.

She nodded and leaned forward, practiced now after quite a few trips. She laughed now, when Caraxes got to his full speed, and even lifted her hands, trusting him to keep her from falling.

It was a short flight to Dragonstone, but Daemon made sure to take his time. It had been a long time since he flew on Caraxes just for the sake of it and it was hard to land when both his daughter and his dragon seemed to enjoying themselves so much. When they approached, Daemon leaned forward and raised his voice over the wind.

"There are three wild dragons on Dragonstone." He spurred Caraxes to fly lower so that they were skimming above the ground. "First, there is Grey Ghost." If he could have found the dragon himself, he would have. He would just have to settle for telling her story instead. "He is a little thing, with pale scales and bright blue eyes. The sailors who pass by swear he lives in the mist." He lowered his voice for effect, smirking when he saw Ophaella's back tense. "By the time you realize the mist has surrounded you, it is too late."

Daemon grabbed her shoulders for emphasis, letting out a below of a laugh at her frightened gasp.

"Next, is Sheepstealer. Stupid, as far as dragons are concerned and the ugliest little blighter you will ever see. Maybe it is because he so ugly that the people of Dragonstone never bother him."

Daemon removed his hands from the saddle pommels and let Caraxes fly where he would.

"The last is a great beast. Black as coal with emeralds for eyes. Some say he is the prettiest dragon that has ever lived and will ever live. But he has queer taste and the other dragons fear him above all others."

"What are his tastes?" Ophaella asked, leaning over the side of Caraxes to look at the ground.

"Dragon."

Ophaella reeled back and tried to squirm around in the saddle to look at him.

"Fear not, Ophaella. Like Caraxes, I do not believe he has ever developed the taste for little bronze girls." Daemon took the pommels again. Of course, he was lying. The Cannibal would likely view Ophaella as a nice appetizer before his much better feast. He and his daughter were one and the same in that regard. For just as quickly as The Cannibal would eat Ophaella, he would do the same to Daemon.

He would not take his daughter near that dragon.

He might be cold towards the girl and he certainly had not felt a great swelling of affection, but he was not cruel.

At least, not towards her.

No, Grey Ghost would do well for her. They were both small, secretive little creatures that valued their solitude and their places by the ocean.

"Now, we will make camp for the night and begin our search in the morning."

She nodded and he though he caught the sight of a small smile on her face as she turned back around to face forward.

"I would have already had a dragon," She said, voice barely carrying over the wind. "If my egg had hatched."

"More eggs stay dormant than not," Daemon said, speaking the truth despite his own simmering disappointment at that fact.

He was not so unaware of himself that he could not admit it. The longer she remained dragon less, the more Bronze she would become, and the more he would hate the contemptable woman he had once called Wife. Even after death, she continued to poison him. "Your cousins' eggs did not hatch. Aegon is the only one who has claimed a dragon for himself. Who is to say if the others ever will?"

"And if I don't?"

Caraxes slammed into the ground and Daemon winced at the uncomfortable feeling.

If she did not?

What then?

Daemon himself did not have an answer.

Perhaps he would send her back to the Runestone and be done with it. A dragonless dragon was no use to him.

A strange feeling settled deep in his gut at the thought, but he tamped it down, depriving it of oxygen before it could grow any stronger.

He had had enough sentiment for the day.

They would find the girl a dragon and that would be the end of it.


Their camp was meager, but serviceable, and kept them hidden from the worst of the weather. Caraxes stayed close – an unusual action for the normally free-spirited mount. The dragon kept their back to them and curled into a tight ball, leaving their back protected as they faced out towards the ocean.

There were no bedrolls or fire to keep them warm, but Ophaella did not seem to mind.

In fact she seemed positively ecstatic by the very idea and had spent the better part of the last hour sitting by his side, staring out at the rolling ocean.

"I have something for you," Ophaella said after a prolonged silence.

Daemon raised his eyebrows and turned to look at her, half-expecting her to pull a blade from her cloak. Her mother certainly would have. She would have slipped it between his ribs just for the fun of it and asked him for apologies for all her troubles. She always had excellent taste in blades and had given him one for their wedding.

Sentiment.

Daemon balked as the feeling came back even after he forcibly banished it away.

Rhea Royce had a pig face and small tits. She always smelled of dirt and rarely smiled. She never once offered him comfort.

She gave him a daughter.

Daemon shook his head.

"What is it?" He asked, clearing his throat. Ophaella dug around in the pocket of her cloak and pulled out a small rock. She gripped it tightly in her hand, knuckles turning white as she held it out to him. She turned it over and dropped it into his open palm. Her hand shook as she pulled it back and hid it underneath her leg.

Daemon turned the rock over in his hand, trying very hard not to show his surprise at the rune carved into its back.

"And what does this do?"

"It's for protection," She said softly, as if she was embarrassed to speak it out loud. "For you."

Daemon turned the rock over in his hand, feeling something quite strange beginning to build in his chest. "What brought this about?"

"Mother always made me carry one."

"More than the one on your hand, you mean," He said, poking the side of her hand sticking out from underneath her leg.

"Yes," She said.

"Where should I keep it?" Daemon asked, holding the rock up to examine it in the moonlight.

She made the carvings herself, that much was clear. The cuts into the first layer of stone were deliberate, made with just the right knife over hours and hours and hours. It must have meant a great deal to her, to toil for so long. The strange feeling returned and Daemon fought the urge to fling the rock into the ocean and be done with it.

"By whatever you value the most."

Why?

Why with that simple phrase did he suddenly, fleetingly, consider giving the rock back?

Daemon tucked the rock into his breast pocket – right next to his heart.

He did not understand them. He did not understand their belief in the Old Gods, or the little scribblings in stone, but he understood how much it meant for them to share it.

"Do you have a favorite color?" Daemon asked, whatever strangeness blooming his chest now turning to pure madness as he realized he truly desired to know. Ophaella's eyes widened.

"I do," She said, scooting just a little bit closer to him. "There's a fish that comes to Runestone to lay its eggs in the middle of winter. It has the most beautiful blue scales."

"A Gawper fish," Daemon said, knowing the fish well. It had sweet flesh and could almost be considered a desert food.

They did have the most beautiful blue scales. They practically glowed. He never knew where they came from, only that they were a rare treat down in King's Landing.

"Yes!" She said, holding out her hands. "Mother used to mash the scales and make it into paint. It was beautiful, but it smelled awful." Her little nose scrunched up as she remembered. "What's your favorite color?"

"Red."

"Like Caraxes?"

"Yes, just like Caraxes." Daemon relaxed ever so slightly as he looked down at the girl. She really was such a little thing. How had it taken him a full year to notice that her nose turned up at the end? To notice that she had freckles? Or that she had a small gap between her two front teeth? "And the red of the Targaryens, our family."

"And the red of apples," She said, tilting her head up to look at the night sky.

Daemon was thankful she couldn't see the way he instantly scowled. But he did not scowl for long, because she scooted a little bit closer and leaned her head on his shoulder.

Perhaps he did not need a fruit or a dragon after all.

Who could have known that something so simple as speaking to his daughter could have done the trick?

He lifted his hand, letting it hover just over her shoulder before he dropped it again, unable to bring himself to touch her arm. But he made no move to push her back or remove himself from her embrace. He followed her gaze up to the sky, allowing himself just the briefest moment to enjoy it before his worst instincts kicked in and he extracted himself once again.

"Best get some sleep, Ophaella." He stood, smoothing out his jacket. His hand paused over the lump just next to his heart. He pat it only when she had turned away from him. "You need to have your wits about you. Tomorrow, we're going to find you a dragon."