Chapter Text
“I think life is a jape. Yours, mine, everyone's.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons.
"So," Daemon speaks, voice a carefully curated poison. "It went well."
They're locked up in a small cabin serving as a cell; wooden floor dirty and scraped, a pile of vile smelling hay in the corner. No windows, no air circulation, but shackles locked firm on their wrists.
It's the last place you'd expect to see them, mortal enemies, together.
Two queens and two princes.
Although one of the princes is in no state to do anything over than lay on the floor like a sack of potatoes, quiet in his delirium.
Alicent immediately crawls to him.
"Aemond," she whispers, not waiting for reply but recalling his name once again.
Aemond, her youngest, the boy who had to go through so much; lying here out of his mind, a nasty gush on the side of his head.
Rhaenyra glances at her from beneath her eyelashes, and then looks away; her own grief still deep in her bones, stripping her of any empathy left.
It's been several months since the news of the death reached Dragonstone.
Prince Lucerys Velaryon is dead, slain in the skies by the hands of his uncle.
Same uncle who's lying in the dirt with no care for the world now.
Daemon is not the most compassionate man at the better times; now all he can find in himself is a bitter vicious glee.
"You'd think twice to trust your father next time," he mulls. "Oh, wait! You won't, because you don't have a father anymore!"
"Daemon," Rhaenyra warns him quietly, tucked in her corner. He wants to crawl to his wife and wrap her into his embrace, but he knows the notion will be rejected.
Rhaenyra doesn't let him come close after the death of Lucerys - nay, after the death of Visenya. Grief shrouds her as the heavy blanket and he want to grab her by the shoulders and shake for as long as it needed for her to come to her mind.
Daemon lost them too.
No one forced him to be the father of Rhaenyra's older boys, but he was nonetheless.
And Lucerys... He was different. Second son, just like Daemon himself was, he was quiet and docile, but Daemon saw it, the fire burning at the pit of his eyes.
Lucerys Velaryon was nothing like the gentleman his older brother was, he was no kind soul Joffrey was growing to be.
Lucerys Velaryon was the beast waiting to be unleashed.
It honestly surprised him how blinded everyone around were by his soft looks and hesitant demeanor. No child who managed to cut his kin's eye at the mere age of five was innocent.
No boy with such a violet gleam in his smoke-brown eyes was just that - a boy.
It surprises Daemon how their own mother forget who these boys are.
The Dragons.
A pity the boy died before he could spread his wings.
"It was a mistake," Alicent whispers and with that plugs him out his thoughts. "And we suffered for that greatly."
Daemon smirks unkindly.
To call it a mistake was the underestimation of the century.
Otto Hightower selling them to Triatchy was a catastrophe.
Daemon doesn't pretend he knows what was going in his old goat head then Lord Hand proposed an alliance with Triarchy.
All he knows about is the man was a fool.
Triarchy wasn't there to help.
It was there to take all it wants in the carnage what the war approaching Westeros was.
They were not for Otto Hightower's sake, but to see Targaryens bleed and feast on their corpses.
No one can destroy the House of the Dragon but the House of the Dragon.
And their loss is Triarchy's gain.
There isn't enough words in the language both common and old Valyrian to express the level of hatred Daemon feels for them.
He thinks of his sons; of Jacaerys, still far on the north, of little Joffrey with his two younger brothers, who stayed home under the vigilant gaze of his cousin Rhaenys.
He thinks of his daughters, both brilliant in their own ways; of Baela's fire and Rhaena's gentle words.
He thinks of Corlys Velaryon, whose fleet was escorting them to the shores of Stepstones, where the questionable meeting was to take place.
He thinks about the way no surprise dawned on him then he recognized it for what it was - a trap.
They managed to hit both Caraxes and Syrax with some vile poison, making them both lose their footing and consciousness.
Daemon sees that sacrilege for what it is; a complete disregard of their traditions and customs, the barbarian fear of the unknown.
Vhagar, being much bigger and thus less affected by the toxic liquid, managed to fly away; not really wanting to, but commanded by her rider.
It gained Aemond some of his uncle's respect, the way the boy put his dragon's life above the need of bloodshed.
It's the feeling Daemon struggles with himself quite often.
He remembers Vhagar, bigger than the sky, the massive ancient force she is; and a small figure on her back. A woman with infectious laugh and bright eyes.
Laena.
He misses her more these days; he thinks she would know what to tell Rhaenyra, how to comfort her in her grief.
Daemon doesn't often finds himself lacking, but then he does, it's not the nice feeling.
The only good thing that came from the carnage what was this "peace meeting" was the look on Otto's face then he realized he was outplayed.
Right before an arrow went right through his eye and borrowed itself in his brain.
The only thing Daemon regretted in that moment was not being the one to send that arrow.
So here they are, the rightful Queen to the Iron throne with her prince-consort, alongside with the malicious bitch whose son usurped the throne and her kinslayer of a son, who - if Daemon's guess is correct- will hardly survive the night.
Good.
It happens in several hours or so; it's difficult to follow the time in the situation they're in, but Daemon tries; he counts his breaths and the sound of the waves, multiplies it and tries to hold an illusion of resemblance of the clear mind.
He is not unharmed himself and the blood keeps leaking through the tonic.
Rhaenyra is intact, as much as he can say, physically at least.
For Alicent Hightower he cares not.
So it happens in some hours, or maybe more, maybe it happens next day.
The point is; they hear voices.
Not the usual chatter and shouting of the crew, no.
They hear screams of warning, sounds of distress, and then - of pain.
It feels like the cabin has grown hot all of sudden, but maybe it's just their combined warmth finally showing itself.
They were locked in the stale small room for quite a long time.
Hours, maybe more.
Once the screams subside, another sound comes.
Sound of several pairs of boots on the wooden floor, sound of the voices absent of accent of residents of Lys, Myr or Tyrosh.
The voices sound westerosi and it brings uncalled hope into the vast space of Daemons ribcage.
"Are you sure?" one of the voices asks, deep throat accent of the southerner creeping in.
"He said so," another calls out. A girl, hardly a woman; in the most clean common Daemon leaned to recognize on the streets of King's Landing. "Princeling was convinced they're being held captive on this ship."
"But can you believe it?" A new voice, of the woman as well, rings loud. "The Targaryens! And on this ship! It's hard to believe, isn't it?"
"Our boy is Targaryen himself," the first voice chuckles. "Gods know, this flying beast of his is a solid proof of that. And if he says we need to capture this ship and free its prisoners, then so we will do."
"Oh, come on, Tawyn," the third voice calls out. "We all know the reason you're so eager to follow Luke's every command."
Daemon thinks he must have misheard.
This cannot be...
"Shush you," Tawyn exclaims, obviously flustered. "Don't you dare to tell him that!"
The door to their cabin shakes on its handles, before someone named Tawyn curses and breaks the lock.
"Here we go," he exclaims as he opens the door. "And if this one is empty, then we have only free more left to check and then we can-" words die on his lips as he stares, wide eyed, at the view in front of him.
His companions follow through to stand nearby.
Tawyn - and it must be him since he's the only man of the trio - is a tall and bulky man with tanned skin and simple, kind face.
To the left of him stands the girl Baela and Rhaena's age, pale and sickly, with traces of grayscale all over her face.
To the right of him is another girl, older than the previous one. She looks at the people in front of her with the wary gaze of the seasoned street fighter, of maybe a soldier - or both.
"Well, I'll be damned," she exclaims in the voice of people all over Westeros. You could hardly figure out there she's from.
"Fucking Targaryens! Three at least. Don't know if this brown-haired bitch counts or not."
"She does," Rhaenyra speaks, for the first time in a long time. "In a way, but she does. And you are?"
She follows the intruders with the calm, collected look of the person who has accepted her fate.
Daemon wants to shake this trance off her violently.
"We are your saviors," the first girl exclaims, all smiles and dimples. She could almost be pretty, if not the markings on her face.
"And why would you save us?" Alicent asks, voice rasp, any trace of belief in humanity clearly out of her mind. "What do you gain?"
She cheerful girl doesn't seem to mind the question.
"It's not what we gain," she explains. "It's what our crewmate does. Come on, let's get you to meet him."
They follow through, not resisting. The soldier woman - Nessa - helps them to get rid of the shackles, then Tawyn carries unconscious Aemond out.
"What happened to him?" he asks the boy's mother and she shakes her head. "We were attacked. Can you help him?"
"I'll see what we can do."
The sickly one - Tilly - grabs Rhaenyra under her shoulders and lurches her up with the unexpected strenght.
"I'll help you walk," she declares to Rhaenyra's questionable look. Then turns to Daemon. "I take it you can walk on your own, right?"
He agrees.
"Daemon Targaryen," he introduces and she nods.
"I kind of knew that. Your image is fresh in the memory of the ones from Stepstones. A hero of the war, nay?" she chuckles. "Follow me."
And so they follow, to weary and disoriented to protest; Rhaenyra supported by Tilly, Alicent close to the man carrying her son.
Only Daemon is not burdened in any way or form, but he thinks about the crewmate these three strangers were talking about, about the name that fell into the conversation like it belongs here.
Like the boy wearing it is not dead.
Daemon Targaryen feels something akin to hope and finds the feeling suffocating.
They follow their rescuers to the upper desk, see the carnage of it; people lying dead, dark scorching marks all over the place. One of the masts and the sails are on fire.
There are more people on board, four or five, but the crew itself seems miniscule, in no way capable of seizing the big Triarchy flagman like it obviously just did.
The key to their victory sits on the back deck, it's wings spread wide, silvery-grey scales glistening in the morning sun.
They did spend the entire night in the capture, Daemon notices absentmindedly, before his brain registers what his eyes have already seen.
A dragon, a beautiful sleek silver dragon. Daemon recognizes him as Grey Ghost, the meek dragon who shied away from people and feed himself on fish.
Well, it seems he doesn't shy away anymore.
And then he notices the rider.
He's a small lean figure next to his dragon, dressed in all black, hair a dark cloud.
Daemon can't see him clearly from the distance they're in, but there's something familiar in his posture, in the spread of his shoulders, in the way the boy - Daemon is sure it's just a boy - holds himself together.
He looks back to Rhaenyra, seeing her noticing the dragonrider.
His wife stares, long and hungry, eyes peering into the figure in the distance.
It comes to life then, her face;eyes fill up with fire, lungs - with air.
She opens her mouth and screams.
"Luke!"
The boy turns around.