Chapter Text
When Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne was betrothed to her uncle, Daemon Targaryen, she refused to be wed in the traditions of the Seven. Instead, she insisted that they are to be wed privately on their ancestral land, Dragonstone.
If the men of the realm are insistent on tradition, then they shall be shown tradition, but she will do it her way. By the ways of Old Valyria, and their people. Their vows shall be sworn in front of the Fourteen Flames, witnessed by the Valyrian Gods, wearing House Targaryen’s wedding vestments, and they are to seal their blessed union with a kiss, their lips cut by dragon glass.
She faced their ire for it, toe to toe, with her chin held high. If she were to be queen one day, then she must show them that she is not so easily swayed. Aegon the Conqueror might have been crowned King in front of their seven pointed stars, but the Iron Throne was made with Fire and Blood, and she will do well to not let them forget it.
Loudest of all protestors was the King’s Hand, Otto Hightower, who firmly and vehemently tries to win over Viserys into marrying the two in a starry sept before The Seven. “So the marriage may be blessed by all men of the realm,” he said.
“What is it that they say again, my Lord Hand?” She speaks sardonically. “Targaryens are closer to Gods than to men.”
She eyes every Lord on the table, “It is amiable not to be misliked by them, but we do not need their blessing.” Every person here in this room must know their place, her gaze meant to say.
Viserys seems to consider this, “I do not see why this matter needs further discussion, Otto. We graciously honor the ways of The Seven, but we Targaryens are Valyrians. Before the sept, we knelt for the fiery Fourteen Flames. If my heir wishes to be wed in the ways of Old Valyria, then so be it. This meeting is done.”
Her father has been fatigued lately, she can see it in his demeanor, and he seems to be agitated by this council meeting alone. She does not blame him, for what business do they have in what manner she and Daemon are to be wed?
“Great! It is settled then.” Daemon stands up, Council chair grating against the concrete floor.
He offers his palm to Rhaenyra, and she smiles, taking it. They could have used the time wasted planning their wedding or riding their dragons, she thinks longingly.
Instead she had to sit for an hour, face to face with scowling Lords, it was an unpleasant thing. It would be her least favorite chore when she becomes Queen, she decides.
Outside the chamber, Daemon drops the polite facade. “Those cunts, what business do they have questioning and deciding our wedding ceremony?” voicing her earlier thoughts.
“Careful, uncle. They might still hear you.” She had the courtesy to be mannerly, though it did not wipe the smile off her face. It was a relief then that she had instructed him to be silent during the meeting or else it would have been disastrous. She reckons it wouldn’t have gone well as it did, if he’d opened that impertinent mouth of his.
“Good. Let them hear.”
Turns out, weddings are a taxing affair. Or at least planning one. So as to not upset the Lords any further, they had made a bargain of inviting them to witness their union, lest she face their ire once more. Rhaenyra had considered it, but ultimately decided it was not worth the trouble.
It was a sacred thing. To be united in their old ways. She had daydreamed of it more often than she would like to admit when she was a little girl. She would rather be a knight riding in battle and fighting for glory, she would often say. There was some truth in it, she supposes, but she knew it was a lost dream. Something she would only say when her parents suggest marriage to some highborn lord.
Though, she didn’t want just any highborn lord. She wanted Daemon. For a long time she thought that that too had been a lost dream, but the blood of the dragon runs thick, it runs hot, and it courses in both of their veins. They are fated, she knows, for her blood sang at the mere sight of him. She wanted nothing more than for him to be hers.
Alas, he was wed to the Lady of Runestone when he was young. He had petitioned for the wedding to be dissolved over and over again. The Bronze Bitch, Daemon called her. It was evident that they had no love for each other. An unfortunate affair to be stuck in, she thought. She could not imagine being one with a man she did not at least adore.
No matter, Lady Rhea Royce was dead now. A tragic accident, really. But it left Daemon for the taking and she was not about to let him slip from her grasp. She will take no other. Only him. The fire in her, stubborn and wild.
And so when he took her to Flea Bottom, she refused to let him go. He had pulled away from her as if second guessing his deeds, but she was more stubborn, her will resolved. She grabbed his clothes, pulling him back.
“I did not know you to be a coward, uncle.” She touched beneath his shirt, impatient. “Finish what you started.”
He kissed her hungrily then. “I mean to spare you,” he said between breaths.
The fire burned hot and untameable within her. She needed Daemon to feed it. She needed Daemon. “If you meant to spare me, you would never have brought me here. You wouldn’t have arranged any of this at all.” And she knew that he knew she was right.
All pretenses and what little inhibitions Daemon had vanished as if they were never there at all.
Both were completely undone by the time they reached the secret passages they had ventured through, unable to keep their hands off each other, kissing as if it was what kept them breathing. It was exhilarating. The most alive she’d ever felt. Her blood sang, loud and unmistakable.
It led to her chamber, she would realize the next day. She cared very little where they ended up in. So long as it had a bed, it will serve its purpose.
“Rhaenyra,” Daemon calls, hushed and reverent.
She took him ravenously like a famished peasant. “Off,” she commanded, tugging at his clothing. “Take them off.”
Daemon, a man possessed, obeys. They did so at the same time, Rhaenyra almost giggling in excitement. From here on end, he will be hers and hers alone.
“Daemon,” She was impossibly close to him now, feeling his fevered skin against hers. It sent shivers of pleasure through her. More so when she sees his cock, already aroused and wet. She pushed him abed. “Daemon,” she says again, impatiently.
He didn’t answer, eyes closed in ecstasy as she climbed atop him. “Rhaenyra,” is all he could seem to say in the middle of heavy breaths, thick with desire. “Let me inside you,” his hands were sprawled on her back, pulling her closer and closer.
Rhaenyra puts one of her hands against his chest, feeling her own cunt pulsating. It was wet. She was feverish. “Fuck me,” she whispered. Fuck me like one of your whores. Claim me like an unbonded dragon. Make me yours.
He slipped a finger. And then two. Their lips hardly parted. She rutted against his fingers, moaning in contact, but it wasn’t enough. She shook her head. “I need you.”
She took his cock to hand, it had been a hard and wet thing, and it pleased her. She positioned it so that she could mount him as she slid down, and it filled her. Daemon’s breath hitched, it shook, and he moaned desperately. She was so wet they hadn’t needed the oils she had stashed somewhere. Though it had been painful at first, Daemon’s shaft stretched her like never before, and the thought alone of Daemon being inside her made her feel impossibly euphoric.
“Gods, Rhaenyra.”
She had dabbled, played with herself, she had rubbed herself to pleasure, many a night to sleep, but never had anything, as big as Daemon’s cock, been inside her. It was overwhelming. Otherworldly. She had forgotten how to speak at all. Only grunting and moaning left her lips, noises unseemly of a princess.
It was when the pain ebbed that the hunger in her grew once again, desperate for stimulation. Daemon’s hand wandered. He’d been a mess of pleasured noises as well, savoring Rhaenyra’s tight cunt around him. She had taken him so well. So good.
His right hand was steady on her back, and his left had found her tits. They were all perked up and needy. Rhaenyra would have asked him to suck them, but given their position it wouldn’t have been possible. Instead she relished the way his hand cupped her breast, kneading it, playing with it as if it was some toy to fiddle.
Youngest dragonrider in the history of Targaryens, she almost laughed at the thought, but she held it in.
She will show him her prowess at dragonriding.
Slowly, she moved her hips, legs already shaking from sheer pleasure. “Gods, Daemon. Fuck,” she called the Gods, she called Daemon, it didn’t matter, it was all the same to her as her head falls back, she never knew that it could feel this good.
Daemon smiled, dazed. “Such a sweet tight cunt, Nyra. All for me,”
She smiled, though she could barely keep her eyes open. “Yes, uncle.”
His hips rose back and forth, matching hers. Gentle and slow at first, but they were both hungry for pleasure. It was sooner that it became blurry and indescribable as she goes faster and faster, unsure of what she is chasing.
Rhaenyra’s hair stuck to the sweat of her body, but her hands were trembling, too busy scratching on Daemon’s chest, so she paid it no mind.
It was all red and marked, it looked like it was going to bleed under her nails, but she couldn’t care less. He’d dealt with far worse, and she simply could not stop. “Daemon!” She was close now. She could feel it.
Daemon was a panting mess, their hips rapidly rocking together as one.
She’d forgotten the things that came out of his mouth after. They were both close and all she could remember were praises and curses alike, common tongue and High Valyrian, spilling from his lips.
She was maddened with carnal pleasure, and her memories were few and far in between. Yet she’d remembered that they chanted each other’s names back and forth before they both came in unison, his seeds spilling and planting deep inside her.
Rhaenyra remembered cradling her belly, smiling. As her eyes grew heavy, she could not help but dream of a silver-haired baby suckling on her bosom.
Then it was the morning after. A whole fuss. She feared the very real possibility of being supplanted by her brother. Her father had been furious, but there was little that could be done about it. They had burned together, and made ashes of everything else.
Dawn was barely clearing out when Rhaenyra had been called upon by Alicent. They were good friends once, or at least in her eyes, they were. Sisters bound by their duty to the realm and their Houses. But those had been the simpler times, and simpler times had come to pass.
“What happened last night?” There she stood in front of a Weirwood tree, its leaves matching her thick curly red hair, no doubt carefully groomed by her ladies in waiting. She wore the color of House Targaryen.
She thought nothing of it then, but as she grew out of her naivetes, she saw the scene for what it really is. Hypocrisy. Alicent dare stand in front of the Old Gods, dressed in Targaryen colors, to remind Rhaenyra of her image and duty, the importance of traditions and beliefs that far precede the both of them, when it was they, The Andals who brought their Gods upon the people of Westeros thousands of years ago, even when an older faith, one worshipped in The Age of Heroes itself, had already been in place.
Rhaenyra stands a great deal farther from her. “What do you mean?”
“My father has made some worrying allegations about you,” she states, chin held high in her righteousness. “Were you with your uncle?”
Ah. “Well, I haven't seen him in years. He took me to the city for some fun,” she eased.
Alicent strode towards her, feet stomping heavy, she was angry. She could see it in her eyes. “Tell me the whole of it, Rhaenyra!”
She backs away, eyeing the girl in front of her. Her life had become a tragedy when she decided to marry her father. Perhaps, deep in her heart, she loved her still, but she held little affection for Alicent now, her heart never the same after. “Your father accused me of something,” she trails, hand firmly behind her. “That I drank wine? Left the castle after dark?”
Alicent’s eyes had begun to shine, eyes teary in fury, still incredulous. “That you fucked Daemon in a pleasure house.”
Rhaenyra nodded, a bitter laugh almost escaping her. “That is a vile accusation.”
“Is it? You Targaryens do have queer customs.” She spat, as if it were a disgusting thing. “And Daemon certainly knows no limit.”
Rhaenyra felt familiar anger rising within her chest. “Alicent!” She barks. “I didn’t fuck Daemon in a pleasure house.” She says firmly.
For a mere moment, she thought she might’ve seen relief in her face. Something bitter and ugly inside Rhaenyra wanted to snuff it out. Without thinking, she blabbed out, “I fucked him here. Inside my own chambers.”
She wishes she’d stayed for the scandalized gasp and cries of her once childhood companion, but there was business to tend to. Her vision swam, stomach churning, yet determination clawed at her. Her father must have known by now, and she will die before Daemon gets ripped away from her again.
The throne room echoed her father’s roars, no doubt bellowing at Daemon. He stood atop him, Daemon lay flat against the cold floor of the throne room. Her father seethed with anger. “You have ruined her! What lord will wed her now in this condition?”
“Who gives a fuck what some lord thinks?” Daemon fired back under his brother’s grip, yet he did not fight back. “You are the dragon, your word is truth and law.” It was something that has been lost to her father. Always eager to please the lords beneath him like a dog rather than a dragon, determined to hold the Old King’s peaceful reign.
Viserys despaired. “I spent a lifetime defending you, but your heart is even blacker than I thought.” He spat. For a moment Rhaenyra thought he would land a blow or a kick, but her father was always the tamer of the two.
“He is right, Father,” a new voice joined them. Her very own. She entered, footsteps slow and deliberate. She kept her voice steadfast, not letting it falter. Her father may have long forgotten how to be a dragon, but the same blood thrummed inside the three of them, still. He was her father, and her father was still the king.
He looked up. “Rhaenyra,” his eyes had softened, though beset fury danced beneath it nonetheless.
Daemon managed to sit up and pry himself out of Viserys’ grasp, dusting his hopeless tunic, muttering Valyrian curses, quiet enough to be out of Rhaenyra’s earshot.
She swallowed, unsure how to say the next words. She met his gaze, resolved. “Wed us. By the tradition of our people, under the gods of Old Valyria.”
Her father gaped in disbelief, unable to reply. He looked as though he wasn’t quite sure of what he was hearing.
Words were lost on Viserys. He stood straighter with an unreadable expression, brows furrowed, imploring her to explain.
She looked down on the ground. Then to Daemon. “I will take no one else.”
Rhaenyra stepped closer, “If you wish for the Seven Kingdoms to bow before me as their queen, then let them see the blood of the dragon. Join us and display the strength and unity of House Targaryen.”
It had been a long diplomatic talk between the King and his heir. The entirety of the conversation lost in Rhaenyra’s memory. She met him eye to eye with a steady disposition, adamant in her demand.
Wed us, and get rid of Otto Hightower.
“Snakes slither upon our house as the dragons sleep, Father.” She says, solemn and in defeat. “Your reign isn’t without its trials, but it has been a long period of peace. They have forgotten the ferocity of Fire and Blood.”
“You are saying that they have forgotten to fear us. I am the King.” He argued.
A blind one. She had half the heart to say it, but lets frustration settle in her chest instead, lest he be done with this conversation. “Yet you allow the biggest of them all to serve you.”
“Otto is a good Hand,” he says unyielding, like he would hear no more.
Rhaenyra wouldn’t have it. “There are better suited men.”
A stretch of quietness stalked the conversation.
“If you have love left for me,” Rhaenyra pleads, looking away. “And for mother,” her throat tightened, tears threatening to fall. “You will take my request upon consideration.”
That seemed to do it. An expression crossed his father’s features for a moment, disappearing as fast as it came. She thought it had been shame, but as she looked back on it, it might have been longing. Like a dagger piercing through his heart as it twisted in hers. Like the blade that slid through her mother’s stomach, retrieving the male heir he was so desperate for.
“There’s nothing in this world that I love more than you and your mother, Rhaenyra. You know this,” Viserys replied.
Rhaenyra took her father’s hand, a gesture that had grown foreign to them both. “That is why I know that you have it in your heart to listen to me.”
No words need be exchanged to know that Alicent had resented her truly since. Whatever had been festering between the two of them had shown itself in earnest once her father’s position had come into question.
Viserys had agreed in the betrothal, albeit reluctantly at first. Alicent had no doubt begged her husband to reconsider the predicament of her father. Rhaenyra’s pleas weighed heavy on him, but duty proved itself once again, heavier.
She took to the skies with her uncle after the rejection of her second request, Syrax and Caraxes danced together as a blur of gold and red in the clouds. She imagined what it must look like from the ground. A glorious spectacle, yet nothing was more glorious than flying.
Their laughs had died down once they returned to the dragonpit, adrenaline still fresh and heavy from being in the air. “Our blood will be bound soon, just like Aegon and his sisters.” She placed a hand on his chest.
He pressed a kiss on her lips, “Rightfully so.” This way her claim would not be so easily challenged. Even if snakes continue to hiss at her father’s ear.
Rhaenyra failed to hide the smile creeping in her lips. “Ao se nyke issi vēttan hen perzys.” You and I are made of fire. It is their nature.
“Iksi naejot zālagon hēnkirī.” We are meant to burn together.