Chapter Text
Loving Rhaenyra came easy, at first.
His niece was a lovely babe. A bundle of joy, healthy as a bull, and a girl to boot. He was still heir apparent, and Daemon was more than happy to play the role of doting uncle against Viserys and Aemma’s more stern parenting. The happy royal couple was still expecting, still expecting their firstborn son to appear out of Aemma’s loins.
The years passed. Viserys’ anxieties rose with each miscarriage, stillborn, and babe that died in the cradle. Daemon was beginning to think that Rhaenyra would be too old for her coming little brother. The queen was pregnant again, and the future was once again uncertain.
But it was easy to love Rhaenyra, who brought smiles to Viserys and Aemma, who tugged at Daemon’s sleeve for stories, whose favourite fruits are strawberries and who always wanted extra lemon cake for dessert. It was easy to love Rhaenyra because Rhaenyra loved everyone.
He knew Rhaenyra worried for her parents. It had been weighing on the princess’ tiny brow, when a tiara was much better suited for that small head. That day, he took her dragonriding in an attempt to cheer her.
When they landed, and her thoughts still plagued her, he asked.
“Tell me, my little dragon,” He lifted her off the back of Syrax and into his arms. “What worries you so?”
The answer, as always, was unexpected.
“What do you know about soulmarks, Uncle Daemon?” He supposed she had been at that age, eight years old and still fresh to the thoughts of love and romance, thinking it to be a thing of songs. His sweet little niece was the pride and joy of their house, already promising to be a great beauty. Her silver hair shone with the light of Old Valyria, her lavender eyes bright with curiosity.
“It was well known that Aegon the Conqueror was sworn to his sister-wife Rhaenys, and the love between the Good Queen Alysanne and the Old King was indisputable.” Daemon had revealed to her, “yet there are rumours that us Targaryens have no soulmarks. That we are bound to our dragons and no one else.”
“That’s not true! Both you and I have soulmarks!” She wriggled in his arms in indignation, and he laughed.
“Indeed we do, my sweet.” The Rogue Prince grinned. “Though Caraxes is so beautiful, I think if he may speak, he just might speak my words. Mayhaps I am the one Targaryen that does not have a soulmark.”
Rhaenyra gaped at him in disbelief.
“You lie!”
“Well, regardless, I am not allowed to show you.” Daemon shrugged. It wasn’t anything impressive, either.
His own soulmark had been plain. A simple question, an exchange. One that was:
“ Quid pro quo. ” Rhaenyra said, a new phrase she had learned from one of her books of romance and knew not the full meaning of. An ancient tongue, exchanged between lovers, to bare themselves to one another so that they may know.
As a boy, he had thought it would be between him and his unborn sister. As a youth, he had thought it would be between him and his favourite whore. As a man, he had given up on the idea entirely.
He felt the air go dead within his lungs, his body stiffen as if he had just been run through with a sword. Behind them, Caraxes roared out his anguish. Blood of his blood, by the old gods and the new—was this his curse?
“Uncle?”
“Never, ever, ask that again, Rhaenyra.” He placed her down onto the ground and knelt before her, gripping her by her tiny shoulders. “Not to me, not to anyone else.”
She was to be promised to someone else. Not to him. The ideal Targaryen marriage was between brother and sister, not uncle and niece. She did not belong to him. She was still his sweet niece of eight. She was too young. He was married to his bronze bitch already. She was his brother’s daughter. His brother’s daughter. What would Viserys say? Gods, what would Aemma say? It must have been a mistake. It must have been.
“Why?” Rhaenyra had asked. “Why can’t we—”
“Because you only bare your wrist to your soulmate!” He managed to control his scream into a barely uttered hiss. “I want you safe . We are royals, you and I. There are many, many who would use your words against you. To give it away so freely is whorish. Do you want to be a whore, Rhaenyra?”
Tears had welled in her eyes then, and he knew he was too harsh. His heart ached.
“I was just curious—”
“I know.” He embraced her then. Holding her in his arms. So small, yet fitting perfectly within his embrace. “I know, my sweet, I know.”
“A toast.” He had declared, amidst the fog of drink and breath and sex in the room. He raised his cup, the dark red silk on his wrist vibrant against the gold of the goblet.
“To the King’s son.” Who was dead, and so was Aemma. Where was Rhaenyra now, and what was she thinking? Was she grieving for her little brother, the brother that would have had her hand in marriage and ruled as benevolently and kindly as King Viserys, the first of his name?
He couldn’t help the grin stretching across his face.
“The Heir for a Day!”
“You are to return to Runestone and your lady wife at once and you are to do so without quarrel by order of your king.”
He stepped forward. How dare he? This was the Red Keep. His home. His cradle. He was raised here, alongside Viserys, his brother. Who, again, was sending him away. Far away from the throne, his friends, away from Rhaenyra.
Just a few days ago he had given her a necklace of Valyrian steel, she had worn it at the tourney. Just a few days ago, they had gone dragonriding on the backs of Caraxes and Syrax, dancing around each other in the air. Just a few days ago, he had watched her give her favour to that blasted Ser Criston Cole—
Let me say goodbye, at least . He wanted to plead. Let me say my farewells .
But he knew that would be denied.
She will think that I abandoned her.
Instead, all his pride allowed him were two words.
“Your grace.”
She is my soulmate, you idiot. He thought, as he turned his back. We are bound by fire and blood and the indelible ink. You cannot deny what the gods have given me.
And one day, he will return to take what has been promised.
The blood of the dragon boiled within him. His mark now a brand, a searing pain on his wrist. Princess of Dragonstone, he whispered to himself, testing it on his tongue. Heir, heir, heir .
He had thought Viserys was only bluffing. But no, Viserys never bluffed. She was his heir, instead of him. Viserys had painted a target on his own daughter’s back. She was only eight years old. Eight years old. She cannot possibly be queen.
Perhaps in the future , a small voice within him whispered, When she is a maiden grown—
He pushed those thoughts out of his head.
No. He should be the heir. The King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. He should be the one protecting her, at her side, from Viserys’ foolishness.
You saw it too , that voice said again, her fire. She would make a great queen.
But where did that place him? For the first time in his life, Daemon was uncertain. He had to return to court. He had to return to her. His blood boiled, thinking of her in her queenly beauty. Her, on the Iron Throne.
He went to Mysaria and fucked her rough, but no matter how hard he pulled at her hair, raven locks would not turn silver.
“Is she your soulmate?” They spoke to each other in High Valyrian, the wind whisking away each word. He wanted to whisper to her in their tongue, under the cover of night and bedsheets.
“Does it matter?” Was his response. Even though every bone in his body implored him to speak the truth, to say, no, you are my one and only. Mysaria turned her head and left them to their own devices. The egg was still warm in his hand.
What the hell was Viserys doing? Instead of coming here himself, as he should have—
“My father does not know.” She said, as if reading his mind.
“He should.” Daemon narrowed his eyes. “A father should protect their child of nine.”
He could feel the indignation in her eyes, tinged violet by violence. Rhaenyra always despised being spoken down to.
“I am not a child!”
“Do not argue, niece.” Daemon reprimanded. “It is unbecoming of a princess.”
“Return the egg, uncle.” Rhaenyra shot back. “It is unbecoming of a prince.”
“You shared your cradle with a dragon’s egg when you were born.” He still remembered her, so small and fragile, her wrist covered with a red band of silk. When will he speak those hallowed words? When will she be his? “I want the same for my child.”
“You’re to have a child?”
He glanced at Mysaria.
“One day.”
One day, they shall have children together. With the same silver hair and violet eyes as their mother. A son first, a daughter second, and possibly many more, if Rhaenyra can. Their reign will be peaceful and long, and their children shall inherit a kingdom whole and rich.
“I’m right here, Uncle,” Rhaenyra spoke, in the Common Tongue this time. “The object of your ire, the reason that you were disinherited. If you wish to be restored as heir, you’ll need to kill me.”
“So, do it,” She challenged. “And be done with all this bother.”
She was right there. He can take her, right now. Steal her away right in front of Otto Hightower. A part of him wished to. Instead, he fled, leaving the egg with Rhaenyra. One day, he’ll be back. He will return for her and his family. Their family. One day, she will be his.