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She never gets up late anymore, laziness and contempt from her childhood and short teenage years long lost to the incessant courting, nursing, or anxious rise of yet another Green threat, a farce of events and mockeries better spent ignored than answered to. Perhaps the only times she could remain buried under the thick layers of her sheets and rumpled furs were during her pregnancy, Aegon’s strong kick enough to lurch her forward while gasping for breath.
Rhaenyra huffs at the memory, and perceives the strong grip of her husbands’s arms tighten around her mid-section, like a snake coiling around his prey. Like a dragon’s tail wrapping around his precious treasure.
His skin isn’t smooth, littered with small scars from his battles and their enjoyable moments. He bears the burns of his injuries in the battle of the Stepstones, a time when Caraxes’ fire wasn’t enough to simply annihilate the enemy withdrawn in their caves. A set of punctured scars decorate his skin as well, arrows lodged in his flesh and spilling the blood of the Dragon. Daemon doesn’t discuss it, for the battle was won and there was no point in falling into the melancholy of older days, when he fought, full of adrenaline, in the first line, to victory.
His hands spread on her barely covered chest, taunting the grey fabric over her breasts, before resting on her flat stomach and remaining there, drawing nonsensical circles on her.
Daemon hums against her ear, a simple deep sound like the growling of a dragon, content and relaxed, only for the practiced ear to understand. She grins as his hair tickles her neck, his face nuzzling in the space between her neck and shoulder.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t make another sound, but there is nothing to understand from his laid-back, cuddly behavior but utter peace of mind. And she gladly lets him enjoy himself silently like so, hand cupping his under the sheets.
Sleeping in is forbidden, it seems, for there is so much to do: the boys are eager to train, and be great warriors like their father was; the twins, Baela and Rhaena, yearn for dragon rides and lectures with their father; Aegon will have to be monitored as he attempts his walking once again. And of course, matters of the court, of the island, the dragons, the kingdom, the royal duty that is hers to bear.
But Daemon won’t let her go, and she won’t complain nor fight him on his conquest of her.
“What could you be thinking about so early in the morning?” He grunts in her ear, shivers traveling through her skin immediately as he tightens his grip and shuffles his legs to tangle them to hers. High Valyrian rolls off his tongue smoothly, their secret language, their reprieve from wandering ears.
“ My Lord husband doesn’t wish to let me rise. ” She states matter of fact, a smile pulling at her lips and a slight blush conquering her cheeks when she feels one of his hands let go of hers to reach lower, for the hem of her night dress.
“ No, he doesn’t. ” He whispers, voice accompanied by the harsh adjustment of her clothing, lifted to allow his hand to roam over her hip, thicker, fuller, carved with stretch marks from bearing her and his sons. Never one to voice it out, Daemon’s attention to her body, especially the parts no one else but maids and him can see, is enough to indicate how deeply he cares, how much he enjoys, loves dares she thinks, her presence.
She moans quietly when his fingers caress the lines on her skin, diving slowly close to her cunt, brushing past her curls and patting the skin around instead of indulging her directly. Rhaenyra leans against him, twisting half of her body to reach for the back of his head fingers digging into his hair and Daemon immediately lunges to kiss her mouth. His head almost shoves against her, gently, forehead pressed against hers while he invades her mouth greedily, tongue toying with hers. Rhaenyra complies readily, nails scratching at his scalp while his hand reaches down for her fluttering center. Heat radiates through her, heart thrumming in expectation, remembrance of all the times her dearest husband unfailingly pulled delirious gasps of pleasure out of her, exhausting her body and enchanting her mind with the same arrogant grin and sparkle in his eyes.
Daemon’s other hand lets go of her stomach to clutch at her breasts, shoving the night dress away so he can fully touch her skin, heated with lust. Pregnancies worked well on her, he had told her once, when Aegon wasn’t yet out of her womb, his cheeky stare resting on her breasts. It wasn’t simply lust for her body, but also pride he was part of the equation that resulted in her swollen belly and attributes. He, her uncle, the man who had watched over her and guaranteed her claim to the throne that was rightfully hers, the one that would annihilate any enemies for her, for his fun and loyalty. Pride and love for her established him as her fiercest protector, and greediest assailant.
And how much she adores him for that and more. How much she needs him to remain on her side, to guard and protect. And shove himself inside her again, spring a new heir for them to be proud of once again.
After all, the maesters have been clear: she is healed from her labor, three moons ago, and fatherhood suits him.
He grabs at her knee hurriedly, ready to spread open her legs, until a knock on the door resonates on the cold stones of their chambers and the steel of the door.
The small dragon lets out a thrilled roar, green scales and red membranes shining under the sun while his rider, Jacearys, extends his arms widely, a smile breaching his face in success. Daemon observes from the bridge, hand resting on the pummel of his sword. Rhaenyra’s boys had long awaited the time their dragons would be fully grown, strong enough to launch themselves in the air and carry their bonded riders, and today was the day for the eldest boy.
The dragon seems to obey him, simple orders like fly, up and down, but Jace has decades before becoming a skillful master, much like Daemon himself. Or his mother Rhaenyra.
He grinds his teeth together, still rather unhappy for the interruption their coupling suffered. He had expected, while hurriedly gathering his tunic and boots, that the Green had dared attack, almost ordering Caraxes to be readied immediately for a bloodbath.
In the end, the news of Jace’s first flight had brought him to a stop, almost disdainful.
The boy toys with his dragon, newfound glory of fleeing, floating among clouds and thrilled sensation of being one with his mount apparent, even from the ground. Daemon still observes him, a small grin forming on his lips.
Jace, Luke, and Joffrey aren't his sons. Yet, they are his blood, his to take care off. And gradually, become his pride. The warmth in his chest is the same that glowered years ago, when his girls walked for the first time, or talked, or came back with a bloody nose from hitting Aemond, that fateful night. They are the blood of his wife, his niece, and no matter how tarnished with Harwin’s blood they are, they are Targaryens. Born to drizzle the earth and sky with fire and blood.
Luke gasps in admiration once again, black hair tousled by the wind Vermax shakes with each batting of his wings. Daemon remembers his mother’s first reaction when he was riding Caraxes in front of her, envy, admiration, and eagerness on her gorgeous youthful face.
“You’ll experience all of this soon enough, Luke.” He speaks, and the boy jumps, as if he had forgotten his stepfather was by his side.
“I hope so…” The boy mumbles, a foot shoving a small rock from his standing point.
He’s a shy one, this little one. But once confident, he’s capable of fighting back, answering quickly, intelligently. And pull out a dagger to protect his kin, taking an eye from that Green boy. Daemon is still overly proud of him for it, but he won't say it.
The man wraps an arm around the boy’s shoulder, tapping his shoulder lightly with a chuckle.
“Arrax will be strong enough soon. You’ll ride him and be able to understand what is the true meaning of being a Targaryen.”
“But…” The child fiddles with his hands, a blush creeping on his face. “What if… Arrax doesn’t want me to ride him? Or he never grows strong enough?”
Daemon’s gaze doesn’t move from the sky, scanning for Vermax, yet only hearing his growls and Jace’s laughter among the clouds. The fear of a small child… He knows he won’t be the one to put Luke’s mind at ease. Even his own girls he held when they were babes, Daemon never managed to calm them down, never dried their tears with soothing words, and never brushed worries off their backs. Luke will be reassured, cuddled, and swooned over by his mother. Rhaenyra is much more heartfelt than he ever will be.
Instead, Daemon pulls his arm away, leaning on the short wall of the bridge, hands supporting his weight as he watches the sky getting more cloudy.
“If that is the case, will you allow it to be so? To have your dragon be only a glorified dog to you without fighting?” He knows perfectly well how harsh his voice is, devoid of compromise, but not of warmth. If the child can sense it or not is no problem of his.
Luke mulls over it for a moment, lip stuttering as if on the verge of tears, or containing his anger. His dark hair bounces once he looks up, a look of determination painted all across his face, eyes unyielding, like that of a true Targaryen boy.
“I won’t allow it.”
“Do you swear it?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear never to doubt yourself again?”
“I…”
“Don’t think, boy. Tell me.”
“I… Yes. I swear it, fa…” He cringes, the word formed but not pushing past his tongue. “I swear it, Daemon.”
Daemon gives him a side glance, holding his stare with ease. In the boy’s eyes, the pulsing blood of a promise that needs to be kept, the fire of determination, the tenderness of his young age. The man smiles at him, stepping away from the edge to tousle his hair quickly, gently.
“Jace will be back soon. Go back to the castle, your mother will want you there.”
The order is still just that, an order, but the boy executes himself readily, without a whine. He glances at the green dragon coming into view, nodding to himself and leaving with a confident stride that amuses the adult.
Rhaenyra raised her boys right. Obedient for the right things, determined… Courageous. He almost has a mind to walk back with him to praise her in his own way.
But Vermax flies across the sky like a comet, twirling around the pillars of the bridge until he grows tired and lands on the stone path, small rocks crumbling from the powerful claws of the beast. Jace’s ruffled head peeks from behind his mount’s neck, all smiles.
“Vermax! This was amazing!” He exclaims, eyes blown wide open in exhilaration, the cape on his back twisted, his clothes ruffled. “Have you seen, Daemon?!”
“I have, Jacearys.” Daemon answers cooly, a grin never leaving his face. “I’m afraid your mother will be asking for you soon. You should get on your way, you’ll be able to show your newfound talent soon enough again.”
The boy struggles to leave his saddle, the wing and spikes from Vermax’s body still unfamiliar. It would take time, injuries, and plenty of Vermax almost throwing him off his back for the boy to get used to it. How many times had Caraxes flown too fast, turning too sharply to make him slide from his saddle and land on a particularly rough spot while still in the air? In the first year, too many to count. Syrax did the same, and Maelys, and all the others, no matter their size.
“I can’t wait to show mother!” He runs up to his stepfather with a toothy smile and rosy cheeks. The boy’s dark eyes scan him, licking his lips in what seems anxious. “... How was I?”
“You were good. I’m certain you’ll be an excellent rider in a few years. Although, you will have to ensure you’re well strapped in next time. Seems you were close to dangling quite a few times.”
Daemon chuckles, turning to the other side while the boy jogs to his side, biting the top of his gloves to free his hands from their sweaty confinement. Jace tilts his head, annoyingly acknowledging the warning. That was smart. There was no point for a young boy and once-time ruder to debate an older, more experienced perspective. Especially if it was to help him.
“I saw Luke leave, is there a problem with Mother? Or Joffrey? Or Aegon?” Jace worried, immediately furrowing his brows together, eldest son already so protective of his brothers. It almost made Daemon snort.
That, and the fear his son could be in any trouble. Aegon is but a babe, a little bundle of flesh and bones squealing in delight at times, draped in his family’s heirloom without understanding any of its significance. But he was his and Rhaenyra’s son. He was born to achieve greatness, to take the world with fire and blood, to honor his line and family. Nothing could happen to him in Dragonstone, as long as his father was there with his dragon to protect, keep and train him for his glorious path.
“All is well, young prince. Your mother simply wishes for you and your brother to be taught lessons about the realm and its geography. It’s essential, as future heir to the throne and heir to Driftmark.”
Jace doesn’t seem surprised, shocked, or even remotely startled, and Daemon thanks their past decisions for it. The boys know of their status, their future, and their birthright. Unlike many, Jace isn’t reluctant to learn, but rather accepting, curious about the houses, histories, and tales. It’s… heartwarming to consider that Baela and Rhaena are the same.
The boy follows him in silence, lost in his own thoughts, while Daemon only yearns for more of these moments, the ones that allow him to warm himself a tad more, to care for the children of Dragonstone. His muscles yearn for battle, his legs burn for another wild ride on dragon's back, chasing his prey as well as his wife, his heart and groin firing at the thought of her, standing by the fire, smiling at him teasingly while rubbing yet another time her belly.
Aegon is a good start for their legacy. He’ll be the first of many, he swears to himself.