Chapter Text
He woke abruptly. Not in his bed in Dragonstone, where he had lived the past few months, after the fall of King’s Landing and the restoration of his family. No, he was in his bed in the Red Keep, but not the one he had used while he waited for Jon to be crowned. These were his rooms, his belongings from his own life.
He got up, went to the mirror. Looked at himself, searching for scars to help him figure out when he was. Surprising, how easy it was to accept waking up in a different time than he had fallen asleep in. Falling through the God’s Eye had unexpected consequences. He had the marks he had earned in the Stepstones, which helped a lot with the narrowing down. He had not spent much time in the city after he had given his crown to his brother.
“History can be changed,” Daenerys had told him, once, during the quiet (boring) time in Riverrun as they waited for people to gather.
She was correct, he knew that. He had changed history, hers and Jon’s, and had assumed that was what she had talked about. He wasn’t sure any longer. Unless he was very wrong about when he was, Rhaenyra was still unwed, unpromised. The Hightower whore was queen, but the court was still pretty evenly split, and not yet divided into blacks and greens. He himself was still married to the bronze bitch in the Vale.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. Pictured Laena, pictured their lives as nomads in exile. Their daughters. If he tried to change history, he would lose them. As much as one could lose what would never have existed.
He dressed. Such a simple pleasure to have his own clothes, tailored for him and in the style he favoured. He picked up Dark Sister, buckled her on. He would not leave her out of his sight, now that she was back with him. He headed to the Dragonpit, moving quickly and easily through the streets in the early morning light. He knew them like the back of his hand, once again.
Caraxes came out of his nest, grumbling a greeting. He ran his hands - ungloved, the heat burning his skin - over the red scales. Then rested his head against the dragon’s side.
“Hello, you,” he murmured. “I have missed you. And you and I have work to do, though I am not sure how to go about it. So much easier to use fire and steel, don’t you think?”
The dragon hummed in reply. He chose to interpret it as agreement.
“Are you leaving again?”
He spun around and there she was. So young, so happy and unburdened still, his heart could break.
“Leave? No, niece, I am not leaving. Wherever would I go?” he said, forcing lightness into his voice.
“Good. You promised me we would go flying today.”
“Did I?” he murmured. “Then I suppose we must.”
She smiled, bright, happy. So easily pleased, still.
So they went flying, not going anywhere in particular. He remembered this, felt like it was from a different life. Perhaps it was. He had lived it once, died from it. Lived again in another time, and perhaps that time had changed him. Not important, he decided. For now, he would enjoy having it all back, all those things and people that mattered the most.
When they returned, and he walked through his city with Rhaenyra by his side again, he was steeling himself to see the brother he had loved, despised, pitied, buried, and mourned. To see the children he had once hated. One whom he had killed himself, one who had killed the woman - girl, still, perhaps - by his side. One whose own children he had had killed. And none of it had happened. Might not ever happen. Daemon wasn’t even sure if all of them were born yet.
It proved strangely neutral. Viserys was ageing, yes, but not yet as poorly as he would grow to be. They were not currently arguing, which Daemon took to mean there weren’t yet any rumours about him and Rhaenyra being anything but uncle and niece. They would come, he knew that. The Hightower whore was there, looking as pained as she always did in his presence. The children were being kept away. He was glad of that. It would have been hard to look into Aemond’s eyes and know how it would feel to ram a sword through the remaining one in twenty years time. His hand itched to grip the hilt of Dark Sister. He didn’t, of course.
He spent the later part of the evening and the night moving around Flea Bottom and the Street of Silk. He didn’t indulge, not much anyway, just walked and enjoyed seeing the lowlifes slink out of his path, hoping he didn’t notice them. He always noticed. He did have a drink or two with some of the passing Gold Cloaks, listening to his men telling him about what was going on in his city. He ended the night in Mysaria’s room.
Before dawn, he slipped out of her bed. Stroked a hand over her white hair. Then he leaned in, pressed his lips against hers. And slipped a blade into her skull. She never even stirred. She had - or would in the future - play Rhaenyra against him, and cause unfixable damage to them all. Not to be trusted, not this time. Daemon wondered if he would mourn her in the time to come. He wiped the blood of his longtime lover on the sheet she rested under. Left the room, and walked away. Two of the Gold Cloaks he had spoken to earlier would soon come and take the body away, and the albino whore who had warmed the bed of the Rogue Prince would fade away from memory. Nobody cared about another dead prostitute in a city like King’s Landing.
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Two days later, he took Rhaenyra flying again. They landed by the sea, far away from the eyes of other humans. The dragons were watching, but he would trust anything and everything to Caraxes. And it wasn’t like the beasts spoke, anyway.
They sat in the grass, eating, drinking. Sometimes speaking of nothing of any importance at all, sometimes silent. He basked in it, the peace and easy contentment. Wished he could just leave it be. He reached out, took her hand, interrupting her chatter about something she had done with one of her ladies. He hadn’t listened to her words as much as her voice.
“I need to ask you something,” he said.
Her face went serious at his tone. She knew him well enough to know when he expected her to act like the adult she wouldn’t be for a few moons yet.
“What is it, uncle?” she asked, her seriousness matching his.
He smiled slightly, brushed a piece of hair out of her face.
“Your father wants you to marry,” he said. “I know you don’t want to, not yet, but you will have to. We all have to marry for the sake of the Throne and Crown.”
“You never seem to take your marriage very seriously,” she snapped, pulling away from him.
“My marriage is pointless,” Daemon replied, catching her arm easily and pulling her back down. “And don’t try to walk away. This is serious. I married when I was asked to, I did my duty.”
Rhaenyra looked at him. Smiled sadly.
“Duty,” she said. “I don’t want duty. A lord with a large castle, or riches. Or both. Mostly I don’t want someone who just wants the princess, and thinks he will rule through me. And Aegon is much too young for me to wait for, even if I did want to marry Alicent’s son.”
“No,” Daemon agreed. “None of those options are very good. All of them would waste you.”
“So what are you suggesting? That I run away?” she smiled, to emphasise her jesting. He smiled with her.
“No, not that. I am suggesting you marry me,” he said simply.
Her smile faded, her eyes widening in surprise. Then narrowing, suspicious. Bright girl.
“So you can rule through me? Do you think I don’t know you want the Throne as well? You, who toasted my brother as the heir for a day?”
Oh, right. That. He had almost forgotten he did that. Perhaps not his cleverest moment.
“With you,” he corrected. “And do think about it, Rhaenyra. If not me, then who? If you had the choice?”
She started at his use of her name. Most of the time, he called her “niece” or, rarely and mostly when she had still been a child, “sweetheart”. Rarely Rhaenyra, and only when he wanted her to know he was serious.
“You are married already,” she said.
“And I wasn’t?” he asked.
“Then… I don’t know. I need to think.”
She got up again, and this time he let her walk away. She was like him, always thinking better when she moved. He watched her stalk around first, then go to Syrax. She didn’t make any attempt to climb into the saddle, so he stayed where he was. After a little while, she came back.
“Why?” she asked. “Why now? I’m fifteen, And father doesn’t want me to marry for at least another year. And he has promised me a say in who it will be.”
Daemon stayed silent for a little while. How to explain this? He had never been fanciful, or one for religion or visions. And he didn’t want to lie to her. He never had before, and saw no reason to start now.
“Because I met a Dreamer,” he said simply. “And from her I learned what will happen, and I don’t like it. When your father dies, his wife hides it, crowns her son, and there is a war. You and me on one side, the Hightower children on the other. We win, of a fashion, since it will be our son who becomes King, but you and I both die in the war. And all the dragons die as well. I don’t want any of this to happen.”
Rhaenyra stared at him. Then laughed.
“That is quite a story!” she said, when she had caught her breath.
“You married Laenor, and had three bastards by a man named Harwin Strong,” Daemon said, staring straight into her eyes. “My bronze bitch fell from her horse and died a few years after you married. So I married Laena instead. But she died in childbirth and Laenor died as well, just a few months later. After that, we married, you and I.”
The smile slowly faded from her face, replaced with concern. He laid down on his back, looked up at the clouds.
“I don’t want to believe it, either. But no matter how little I like it, we are a family ruled by Dreams. A Dream sent us from Valyria before the Doom. Another sent Aegon out conquering.”
She hugged her knees, young and afraid. The straightened, turned to lie down next to him. And took his hand in hers. So she had decided to trust him, perhaps even believe him.
“And you think us marrying will change things?” she asked.
He squeezed her hand.
“I think the rumours about you having sons who looked nothing like your husband damaged your standing. And I think you and I, knowing all this, can do much to make sure the lords know you’re the better choice compared to your half-brother.” He quieted. Turned his head to look at her. “Also, who else would know either of us as well as the other? Who else could give either of us a happy marriage?”
Silently, he asked Laena to forgive him. He had loved her, and they had been happy. But it was no coincidence that the one time both he and Rhaenyra had been unwed at the same time, they had married each other. He would mourn the wife he would never have, the daughters who would never be born. He would also mourn the three sons Rhaenyra would never have. They had been good boys, and would have made good lords and Kings, had they been given the chance to grow up.
“I will not be married to a man with another wife,” Rhaenyra said. “No matter if you’re the one I would have chosen.”
He smiled.
“Don’t you worry about her,” he said.
“Are you going to kill her?” Rhaenyra asked.
“Yes, I suppose I will need to. Does it bother you?”
“A little.”
He squeezed her hand again.
“She would have died in a few years anyway. Why drag out any of our suffering for her sake?”
She rolled over, hugged him. Then moved away, got to her feet.
“Let’s not tell father,” she said, businesslike. “He would only be upset and tell Alicent and then she would meddle.”
“Don’t tell Criston Cole, either,” Daemon warned. “He fought against us, the Dreamer said.”
Rhaenyra’s shoulders sagged at that, and Daemon remembered that she had been infatuated with the Kingsguard still at this point. He only felt slight regret at crushing that part of her innocence.
*************
They flew home, left the dragons in the Pit. Went back to the Red Keep, all in silence. He walked her to her rooms. Just before she opened the doors, she turned, hugged him again.
“I would choose you,” she whispered. “But only if you promise not to take my throne from me, uncle.”
“We will have the throne,” he whispered back. “Together. But you will be Queen, and I will remain a Prince.”
She leaned back, met his eyes. Nodded.
He flew to the Vale the next day.