The Princess and the Queen 15: Daemon I
Daemon sat facing the window, away from the whore he had just fucked. She was cleaning her parts with a cloth and putting her sheer white cloak back on, as if it would protect her from the evening breeze. Some candles were lit, but not many, providing the chamber with dim lighting.
Probably to stop patrons from seeing their poxy cunts.
The whore cleared her throat nervously and squeaked like a mouse. "M-My..."
Daemon slowly turned and looked at the whore. She was still young, just recently flowered, and had the usual Valyrian look that he ever so desired.
"Yes..." Daemon grunted, reaching into his satchel and throwing her a coin.
The whore scrambled across the floor to pick up the gold coin before remaining stood by the bed. She shivered some more in the cold but still didn't leave the room.
"M-Misstr-" she stammered.
Daemon rolled his eyes and chucked two more coins at her. "I shall have the room."
The whore rushed out with a sigh of relief, which sent the silk curtain fluttering as she blew by it. Daemon was left alone with his thoughts in the chamber. It was wider than the whorehouses he was accustomed to in King's Landing, and the pillows and draperies were made of fine fabrics instead of straw. Despite the air now stinking of sweat and seed, Daemon could also sniff floral tones, and the floor was clean of any mess.
Lady Misery seems to have upgraded.
Even before Daemon was exiled the first time, Mysaria's whorehouse was one of the best in the city. It had many private suites, as well as open rooms if people would prefer (or had not enough coin). They also had girls of every age, from old hags to young maidens, and the palest Lysenis to the darkest Summer Islanders. She even had some boy whores for those who preferred that. Regardless of what customers preferred, the prices were steep, and the quality was high. Of course, price didn't matter for someone of such high standing as Daemon. Most whorehouses would let him take his pick of the girls for free because of their respect for him, or, conversely, their fear. But in Mysaria's houses, Daemon always left a small amount of payment because he liked the Lyseni woman.
This new whorehouse was even larger than the previous. It was three stories high and wide enough to have many rooms on each. It was even in the most expensive part of the city, just under the shadow of Maegelle's Sept, whereas the previous was on the Street on Silk, which was still better than those straw brothels in Fleabottom. Outside of it were two foreign guards, and there were some inside, too, guarding the madam who took the coin as well as being posted on each floor. Some yards away from the whorehouse were six Gold Cloaks, three on either side of the street, watching the house at all times. Once, some peasant tried to run out without paying and was stopped by the Gold Cloaks, who dragged him back to the manse before he was beaten by a large Volantene guard.
Daemon sat there for what was likely an hour, thinking about Saera and Maegor, until his eyes started to close. He quickly snapped awake, took the large satchel by the bedside, moved it between his feet, and tucked it underneath the bed in safety. The satchel was slightly warm, heated by the egg inside, which had a dragon still incubating inside. It was the same egg he stole from Dragonstone around ten years ago and also the egg that was to be placed in the cradle of his son. Maegor died at birth, however, along with Saera, so Daemon promised that it would go to his next son.
Maegor and Saera...
For the days after they both passed, Daemon went on a rampage, executing those around his manse that aided with the birth. Even the other servants did not escape his wrath. The cooks, the guards, and the pages all faced the pointy end of Dark Sister. Nobody cared, however, since they were all common born with no titles or ranks. It still didn't bring either of them back. After brooding and destroying every inch of the manse, draperies and ornaments included, Daemon flew on Caraxes. He flew and flew and flew until his body ached and his rage had quelled, which was quite some time later. All of that, and they still did not come back.
He had some sort of affection for his brother, Viserys, and he certainly liked his niece, Rhaenyra, but neither of the respect and admiration he bore them came close to the love he felt for Saera. The daughter of that Pentoshi Prince had fallen for Daemon after seeing his prowess in some mock-up tourney at Pentos. Caraxes certainly helped too. He liked the young girl too, with her pale white hair and bright purple eyes. She had recently turned ten-and-eight then, and claimed that she could trace her lineage back to Old Valyria. All of that made Daemon admire her even more. The admiration grew and grew, even after Daemon killed that Braavosi boy, and they married in a Valyrian-style wedding.
I still remember how that Braavosi child squealed when I drove Dark Sister through his heart.
Not long after, she was with child, but Maegor came too soon, and they both passed within minutes of each other.
Daemon then did the funeral rites for both of them, let Caraxes unleash his blood-red flame onto their corpse, and scattered their ashes in the garden of the manse. He kept the grey egg, however, since it was still hot, just as hot as it was now, so he could gift it to his next son, whomever the mother may be and whenever that may be.
As he was about to fall asleep in his thoughts, loud cheers and the sound of hooves shook him awake. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes and walked to the window. He gently moved the sheer white curtain away and peeked out. The window was carved out of wood, swirled into floral patterns and made of birch. Coming from the direction of the Lion Gate were a fleet of Gold Cloaks on horses, then the Red Cloaks of House Targaryen, and a horse-drawn carriage. The carriage had two Targaryen banners flying above it, and the black steel of the carriage reflected off the torches and candlelight. After the carriage came some more Gold Cloaks and Red Cloaks, along with a Kingsguard knight on a white charger.
A crowd trailed after them, shouting cheers and begging for favours. Daemon could hear the calls of "the Realm's Delight!" and "Princess of Dragonstone!" as the peasants followed, like rats running towards a chunk of cheese.
Now that does change things...
That gave Daemon some motivation to leave the bloody whorehouse. Lazily, he put on his black breeches and black doublet. He then placed his cloak on his back, fastened with a golden dragon brooch. The cloak was a thick sable and had his personal coat-of-arms on it, which was usually the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on a black field, but Daemon's was bordered with gold, and the dragon had a golden outline too. He then grabbed his satchel containing the egg and attached Dark Sister to his hip before leaving the whorehouse.
On the way out of the whorehouse, he passed by a Gold Cloak, who nodded at him whilst fucking a boy half his size, as well as two Dornish women in each other's arms, whilst Summer Islander and a Braavosi were exchanging a garbled mess of insults at each other, and a Crownlander taking a Volantene whore from behind. The madam shouted her thanks at Daemon as he exited into the cool breeze.
The crowd had already somewhat dispersed, following the carriage all the way to the gates of the Red Keep. Daemon could follow, too, as he had no doubt a good portion of the Gold Cloaks would safely escort him into the castle gates. Besides, Daemon was welcome in there anyways. Otto Hightower and some other weasels would no doubt give him angry stares, but Viserys had hosted a welcome feast just two days ago for Daemon, and he had designated quarters within the Red Keep. Daemon still preferred to spend his time in the city, in the taverns with whores and drinking with Gold Cloaks he commanded so long ago.
I have only entered the Red Keep for that welcome feast in the past week; it would raise eyebrows if I were to try and enter it now.
So, instead of following the crowd up Aegon's Hill or back to his own manse, he took a turn into Fleabottom and to a certain manse belonging to a certain Lyseni whore. Daemon was familiar with the tunnels of the Red Keep, built by Maegor almost a hundred years ago, but did not know how to access them from outside the Red Keep's gates. Lady Mysaria, however, had spies all across the Red Keep and supposedly knew how to access the Red Keep from within the city.
Outside the manse, a dozen Lyseni soldiers, every one of them taller than six feet, stood guard by the gates. They all wore the same uniform, a bright silver armour that could almost pass as white, with red and purple surcoats over it. When Daemon walked up to the guards, their commander snarled at him and barked something in Lyseni, the unintelligible bastardisation of High Valyrian. After that, Daemon reached for the hilt of Dark Sister.
"Gaomagon ao gīmigon qilōni iksan?" Daemon laughed, pulling out the sword and pointing the black and red steel at the gangling soldier.
Do you know who I am?
Before the other soldiers could also draw arms, a shout came from inside the manse. The shout was sharp and shrill, and was a voice that Daemon recognised. Rolling his eyes, the guard sheathed his steel and opened the gate to the manse. The iron gates creaked open, and Daemon walked in. Following a small yard, which surrounded the entire building, followed by eight feet tall walls, was the actual building. It was not as wide as Daemon remembered due to needing to turn the outer perimeter into a wall protecting it from the angry peasants of Fleabottom, but it was taller. Much taller, in fact. It was raised four stories off the ground and towered over Fleabottom, like a lighthouse in the sea.
The large wooden doors swung open, and Daemon walked in. He followed Mysaria as she walked to a set of cushioned chairs at one end of the manse. Her body was thin and lithe, and her long white hair fell down her back. She wore pale white robes that covered all save for her shoulders. Her skin had the usual complexion of a woman of Yi-Ti, but her eyes were a bright Valyrian purple. She sat in one of the chairs, poured two cups of Arbor Gold, and gestured for Daemon to sit.
"Why did you come?" she asked, rather bluntly.
"My brother would have forgiven me by now, which he evidently did," Daemon replied dismissively.
"That's not what I asked," replied Mysaria, crossing her long, slender legs. "Why here, and now?"
"I came to visit my favourite whore," chuckled Daemon, taking a long drink of the wine.
"I am no whore, not anymore," she snapped.
"A shame..." he mused. "Not even if I offered you hundreds of gold dragons?"
"That is little and nothing to me."
"I presumed that, from that shiny whorehouse you have up by the sept," laughed Daemon. "Yet you remain in... this... next to the shit of Fleabottom."
"Says Lord Fleabottom,"
"Why not relocate? With all this coin you boast, I'm sure you could have bought a better manse elsewhere."
"The pillowhouse that was once here was the first thing I owned..." she sighed, almost frowning.
"Very well," Daemon replied, raising his eyebrows.
"You still have not said why you came," Mysaria whispered, crossing her arms.
"You know the answer, so just spit it out," he scoffed, irritated.
"You want a way into the Red Keep," she smiled slyly. "To see your dearest niece..."
Daemon continued to glare at her.
"I assume that is it, no?" she asked.
Daemon finally smirked at her and took another drink of the wine.
"So, do you know how to access the Red Keep? Or are you just wasting my bloody time?" snarled Daemon.
"Yes..." Mysaria laughed sultrily. "I do know how to access the Red Keep... see those big gates on Aegon's Hill High? You walk through them."
"Don't jape with me," he snapped, slamming the wine cup on the short birch table, spilling Arbor gold on the red and cream carpets.
"I do not jape..." she laughed. "Were you not present in the Red Keep less than a week past? Or have you been banished once again?"
She has not lost her wits since I last saw her.
Daemon had a strange fondness for Mysaraia, partly because of her sharp tongue but also because of her half-Valyrian looks.
"The tunnels," Daemon finally conceded.
"Of course," smiled Mysaria, taking a long, slow sip of the Arbor Gold. "I know that too... but I would require some... payment."
Sighing, Daemon reached into his satchel, pulled out a small sack of gold coins, and threw it at her. She caught it with her left hand and set it aside.
"There is some more in that sack, payment for the other... agreement," Daemon said. "Which was done as I had requested, I presume"?
She took out one of the coins and rolled it around her slender fingers before biting one and nodding.
"My men slit the throat of the Gold Cloak and the Dornish woman. Only if they decide to dive to the floor of the Blackwater will they find them," she said.
"Now, would you finally show me the bloody tunnels?" he demanded, tired of the mummer's farce.
"Very well," she chuckled before standing from her seat. "You asked why I did not relocate to another manse."
Daemon followed her up to the other end of the manse, which was once one of the most expensive rooms in the brothel, behind a locked door. The carpets, couches, and curtains were all changed, to a bright cream and white, instead of the pinks and scarlets of before. Torches brightly lit up the room, and it smelt of flowers and incense. At one end of the room, a large wooden chest lined with bronze covered a hearth, whilst dirt children's clothes covered in soot and mud littered the floors. She pushed it away and pulled at something within the hearth. The wall opened, leaving a small crawl space, barely big enough for Daemon to fit in.
"So, that is how you do your bidding," Daemon laughed.
"I provide them shelter," she replied.
"But when they grow too large to comfortably navigate the tunnels, do you just throw them back into Fleabottom?"
"When that happens, they can always find employment at my brothels, or as a cook or some other profession they enjoy. Regardless, they have enough coin to survive. I pay well."
"From that whorehouse up on Visenya's Hill, I am not surprised."
"Information pays better," she smirked before giving him a small piece of parchment that happened to be a map of the tunnels leading into the Red Keep. "Once you are within the Red Keep, I shall assume you know how to reach the Princess' chambers."
He peered at the map for a moment before returning it to Mysaria. The route was simple since Fleabottom was under the shadow of the Red Keep. All he would need to do was follow the tunnel until another tunnel opened from his right, and then follow that until he saw the light of the (somewhat) lit tunnels under the Red Keep.
"If she has not moved her chambers, then yes," Daemon said. "Yet I do not know you expect me to crawl into that."
"It widens out," Mysaria laughed. "And that won't stop you, would it?"
No, it won't.
Daemon crawled into the hole, still with his satchel around his shoulder and sword attached to his hip. It only served to stab into his skin and hamper his movement, but he would not leave it in the company of anyone, regardless of much he trusted the White Worm. Once he was some feet into the tunnel, the light from the manse behind stopped as Mysaria blocked off the entrance, as Daemon was left with himself and his thoughts.
Eventually, the tunnel widened enough so he could stand hunched over, but there was still no light. He went on for a while, until his throat ached from the dust and his neck and back hurt from the hunching. He made the right and followed it some more, until he reached the light. When he was there, he breathed a sigh of relief since the tunnels were now large enough to freely walk and run and stretch. He wiped off some mud from his red cloak and continued through the tunnels, towards the underneath of Maegor's Holdfast.
A tiny child scurried past Daemon at one point, which even shocked him. When he reached the underneath of the Holdfast, he went up those stony steps, gripping onto the rusted iron railings for support, until he reached a hallway, which he jogged through. Behind the walls, he could hear the faint chatter of servants and the sounds of the Red Keep finally going to sleep. The air was damp and cold as he went down the hallway until he came across a tall, spiral staircase. He ascended the steps, his knees aching with every step until he reached where he was looking for.
He pressed his head to the wall and could peep through the bookshelf, just as he used to do so long ago. Inside, Rhaenyra was changing from her riding leathers into her nightclothes, but was startled when Dark Sister smacked onto the wall.
"Who's there?" she asked nervously.
Quickly, Daemon pressed the bookshelf, and it slowly opened like a door, dusting getting kicked up as it did. Rhaenyra grabbed a small meat knife from her table to point at the bookshelf but quickly dropped it when she saw Daemon come out of it.
"Princess?" A Kingsguard, probably one of the Cargyll's, shouted from the other end of the quarters, behind a door, and quite far away regardless.
"I am well..." Rhaenyra replied before turning as red as a berry.
Daemon smirked at his niece, whose purple eyes widened in shock as well as happiness.
"Uncle Daemon..." she whispered, trying to contain her shock.
"You have grown so much..." whispered Daemon, putting his hand on her chin and gently pulling her up so she could stare into each others' eyes. Her cheeks flushed redder than before, and her breath became heavy.
"Where were you, all those years?" she asked, switching her tongue to Valyrian. "You abandoned me. Left me alone. My life became a droll tragedy without you."
"And what of mine?" Daemon asked, still staring into her sad purple eyes.
"I know little of it... were you happy with that Pentoshi woman?"
"She had a name..." grumbled Daemon. "And I was... much happier than you were with Jason Lannister."
"I was happy enough."
"Happy enough to have a son with Harwin Strong?" he scoffed.
"Happy enough that I regretted the whole bloody affair with Ser Harwin when he passed..."
That was a shame.
Daemon had the inkling that she would not take it well learning of her husband's true cause of demise. Still, it perplexed him why she chose Harwin Strong of all people.
Not even a Valyrian.
"And now both are gone... some cruel jape by the gods. The Curse of Harrenhal is said to be even stronger-" she laughed bitterly.
"The Curse?" chuckled Daemon. "A children's story. It was more like to be a dirty ploy by the scheming weasel that whispers in your father's ear."
There were many suspects for that fire in Harrenhal. Daemon heard as such, talking to drunken men at inns and hearing about the latest court gossip. He heard accusations levied at Corlys Velaryon, for it would remove the grandfather of Rhaenyra's son from the council, but also toward Tyland Lannister, as revenge for cuckolding his brother. Some even went as far as to brazenly suggest Viserys, but Daemon thought the culprit was most likely to be Otto Hightower.
"Whoever it was, both Jason and Harwin are gone, and I've been alone in the city since then. My enemies sit around the Small Council and undermine me... mine own father even preferred to bring back Ser Otto rather than my goodbrother," she frowned.
"You have allies..." reassured Daemon. "Houses Celtigar, Mooton, the Westerlands, mayhaps even Stokeworth and Rosby... soon even more... as you are still young enough to remarry."
"And who do you suggest I marry?" she scoffed, barely realising what Daemon implied.
He didn't reply; he only continued to stare at her and smirk. Soon enough, she realised.
"Take me, then," she whispered, her voice as low as a whisper. "Is that not what you have desired for all those years? So, take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife..."
Her lips were wide in a smile, and her eyes squinted like she was daring Daemon to do it.
"If you have the balls..." Rhaenyra continued.
"Very well," Daemon simply said, leaning his head closer to hers.
She quickly pulled away from him, and her smile was wiped from her face.
"What... you... were..." she spluttered. "I need to marry another, to get the support of Westeros. A Tyrell, or a Stark, I need more men and armies if I want to fight my claim."
Still a child at heart, and too craven to truly do it.
"More men?" scoffed Daemon. "Another Great House's support shall not bolster your strength. Dragons will. What are ten thousand men worth when Caraxes swoops over them and sends them to hell? Have you forgotten who you are, Rhaenyra?"
"I need... allies..." she whimpered, almost as if she was a younger girl again, conflicted about what she wanted. "And my father... and Ser Otto... would they accept..."
"Very well," Daemon plainly said. "If you do not want to, then I shall honour your wishes."
He turned away from her and slowly walked back to the bookshelf door.
"If you wish to find me, I'll be in a whorehouse somewhere in the city," he said, walking into the secret door and slowly closing it behind him.
Instead of entirely shutting it, however, he waited by the side. It was quicker than he accepted. Mere seconds later, she ran back to Daemon.
I knew she would.
"We shall marry then," she said exasperatedly. "But where... and when... what septon would agree to it. Eustace is a Hightower puppet. Mayhaps some Fleabottom drunkard would-"
"A sept," laughed Daemon. "You have spent too much time amongst the Andals and Westerosi... no... we marry in the style of Valyria of Old, and we do it now."
She only sultrily smiled at that, signalling her approval.
Rhaenyra put on a large black cloak to protect herself from the night chill before she left, as well as to hide her face from the masses. Daemon pulled her by the arm, and off they went, together, into the tunnels of the Red Keep. They were both familiar with it by now, and they navigated twisting corridors and steep steps and dark, cavernous paths until they came out underneath a postern gate just outside of the castle since the tunnel leading to Mysaria's manse would have been blocked off. Daemon was not disguised, however, so they could sneak out of one of the "real" exits, compared to that time so many years ago.
When they were finally in the city, it was a short walk to the Dragonpit. Whoever noticed Daemon simply nodded at him, being the Lord of Fleabottom that he so famously was. People hardly even batted an eye at Rhaenyra, assuming her to be a new paramour or common whore that Daemon had taken a liking to. Luckily, the night was mild, and the sky was clear. Fleabottom was as busy as it usually was, with hardly enough room to walk.
Eventually, they finally reached the Dragonpit and all its glory, with its tall doors and massive domed roof. Outside of it, two of the dragonkeepers stood guard, long wooden staves in their hands. Both had the customary shaved heads, as well as the long red silk robes slashed with black. They both also had necklaces of black iron wrought into the shape of dragons on their necks, and their burnt skin would have originally been pale. But most importantly, they were some of the last scions of Old Valyria in Westeros.
As Daemon and Rhaenyra walked closer to the dragonkeepers, they did the same, moving their staves in front of them defensively. When they realised who it was, they calmed and called out in High Valyrian to open the doors. They opened instantly, the tall door of bronze and iron slowly creaking as it did. Daemon and Rhaenyra entered and were greeted by half a dozen more dragonkeepers, all bald and clad in the long Valyrian robes and had burns on their heads and arms.
"Ñuha Dārilaros. Ñuha Dārilaros," Laekorys, the oldest keeper, nodded, which amused Daemon since "prince" and "princess" was the same word in Valyrian.
My Princess. My Prince.
"Voktys Laekorys," Daemon replied. "Iksis se dīnilūks issaros rudhy?"
Acolyte Laekorys. Is the marriage priest present?
His eyes widened at that, and he nervously nodded.
"Skoro syt would emā jorrāelagon hen zirȳla, ñuha Dārilaros?" he asked.
Why would you have need of him, my Prince?
"Se Dārilaros se nyke issi naejot dīnagon," Daemon curtly responded.
The Princess and I are to wed.
"Sȳrje," Laekorys replied and went off to the living quarters of the Dragonpit to find the wedding priest.
Not long after, they spoke to the wedding priest and arranged for the wedding to happen there and then. The priest was a big, burly man with thinning silver hair and light purple eyes. He wore a long cream robe that dragged against the floor. It had red Valyrian etchings and stitchings of dragons along the sleeves. He wore a headpiece that looked like an upside-down golden boat, and on his neck was a chain dedicated to Meleys, the Valyrian goddess of love and fertility.
Daemon and Rhaenyra also were clad in Valyrian garb. Daemon wore a long black and silver robe, which looked a bit like a Westerosi woman's dress. It had no sleeves, however, and his shoulders had pads that resembled glimmering black scales. The silk of the robe was thin, yet not sheer, but Daemon could feel a chill in his legs. His hair was tied into a singular braid, and he had silver rings on each of his fingers, all of them either depicting eggs, scales, dragons, or flames. Rhaenyra wore a silver and purple dress, which was slightly closer to Westerosi women's attire. Her sleeves were covered, yet the dress bared most of her chest save for her teats, and the neckline went almost as low as her belly. The sheer purple silk went to the ground, making the bottom of the dress look like a small puddle. She also wore ten similar rings, and her hair was tied in a single braid. On her neck was a silver necklace that looked like a snake, wrapped so tightly around her neck, Daemon thought it was choking her, whilst small silver dragons dangled from her ears.
Before they married, a small dance and offering were made to Meleys. Some dragonkeepers danced erotically naked, singing chants in Valyrian and touching each other's private areas. After that, another dragonkeeper sang a sweet Valyrian song, thanking the various Valyrian gods of the great pantheon. He sang to Meleys first, then Sunfyre, the god of riches, and then Balerion, the god of the skies. Syrax, the goddess of food and wine, was next, and then Tessarion, the goddess of knowledge and wisdom. Caraxes and Vhagar, the twin god and goddess of war, were briefly mentioned, and then the singer concluded on Vermithor, the great god of victory.
Daemon looked around the pit. Around fifty of the seven-and-seventy dragonkeepers were present, as well near a hundred other Valyrian observers and dancers. They were the final few who still practised the Valyrian religion and customs of old. They were a dying breed, something Daemon rued. Also present were Caraxes and Syrax, Daemon and Rhaenyra's mounts, who proudly looked on from behind the crowd. Caraxes' wailed and flapped his slender red wings at the songs whilst Syrax growled happily and released a small bout of yellow fire into the air.
After the dances and songs came the actual wedding. The priest would recite the vows for them in Valyrian, whilst Daemon and Rhaenyra would silently do the sacred ritual. First, Daemon would slit her bottom lip with an obsidian dagger, then gently take the blood with his thumb and make a small mark on her forehead with it. Rhaenyra did the same to him, and then she slit her right palm, drawing blood, with the dagger before giving it to Daemon, who did the same with his. They then clasped their bloody hands together and held onto each other tightly. Daemon and Rhaenyra looked each other in the eyes and made their silent promises, as was the Valyrian ritual.
Then they kissed. Daemon could taste his and her blood on his tongue and flowing down his throat. It was metallic and bitter, but was also almost sweet. Regardless, he enjoyed the taste as well as the feeling of it. Caraxes and Syrax roared in unison, and after fourteen seconds of the kiss, they pulled apart, lips and palms.
Now, they were truly married in the sight of the Valyrian gods, and Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen were finally as one.