♥ Did you get what you deserve? ♥
Rhaenyra’s first memory of her uncle was a good one—his laughter mixed with hers, his arms holding her so she could see over the stall gate, her palm outstretched towards the pony she later learned he had bought for her.
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Rhaenyra’s first memories of her father were…less good.
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Viserys’ voice was laced with annoyance as he argued with his brother—he said it wasn’t normal, and he was talking about her.
Or rather, about her relationship with her uncle.
Her uncle’s voice was bitter and harsh in a way that was unfamiliar to her—he was angry, that much was clear even to her young ears, “We are Targaryens. We aren’t supposed to be normal.”
She swallowed, her throat feeling thick when her father replied by saying, “Well, she will be.”
She fled before she could hear Daemon’s response.
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It was Daemon who found her first, unsurprising given that she was curled up in his bed, her hair sticking to the tear tracks on her cheeks. They had dried in the time it had taken for her absence to be noticed, but they were renewed now that her favorite person was there to comfort her.
“I don’t want to be normal,” she sobbed into his chest, because if normal meant spending less time with him then she couldn’t comprehend the horror of being such a thing.
“You won’t be.” He promised, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “We aren’t destined to be normal. We’re better than that. Better than everyone. We’re exceptional. You’re exceptional—you can’t be anything less, we can’t be anything less, and do you know why?”
She shook her head.
“Because we’re Targaryens.”
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Sometimes she wondered if he even remembered that moment. If he knew how great of an impact it had had on her.
If he knew how being told she was ‘ better than everyone’ at such a young age had quickly warped into a superiority complex that allowed her to justify the sort of actions that would get a lesser girl— a normal gir l—arrested.
But she wasn’t normal. Her family wasn’t normal. Her childhood wasn’t normal.
It couldn’t be, not when they were Targaryens.
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The chokehold her family had on the city—and the continent—was well known. They were no longer royalty in a traditional sense, but they were treated as such—they were above the laws, because they made the laws, and never faced consequences for breaking them.
She had been eight years old the first time she realized that.
Or at least, she had been eight eight years old the first time she found herself unable to ignore it.
It was impossible for her to, because when she got home from school the pool of blood that greeted her in their kitchen looked big enough to drown in, and even without any knowledge of anatomy, she knew it was too much for a person to survive losing.
She ran upstairs and locked her bedroom door, and when she next came downstairs the blood was gone, the tile was polished to a bright white, and the familiar scent of bleach and lemons was heavy in the air.
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If her family were normal, that scent wouldn’t be familiar—because it wasn’t normal to use bleach with such an extreme frequency.
It wasn't normal for a family to have a separate basket for bloody laundry, either.
But she didn’t know that.
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She never wondered much about who the blood had belonged to.
It didn’t matter, not when they were gone now, and her mother was asking her how school went—a smile pasted on her face and a cup of tea in her hands.
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She had been nine years old the first time she realized it wasn’t normal to have so many guns around.
The dinner table of her friend’s house had seemed so empty without the pistols placed alongside their cutlery.
When she got home, she told her mom they were very rude, and that they didn’t even unequip themselves for supper.
Aemma had urged her to sit down, kindly informing her daughter that most people did not carry weapons on them at all times.
But she didn’t understand. How else would they feel safe?
She asked her uncle that and he laughed, “Most people do not lead lives that require the protection of a weapon.”
“But you do?” She asked, her voice sounding small.
“Mhm. All Targaryens do.”
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She waited a whole day before asking her uncle if he had ever had to use his weapon.
“Yes.” He said plainly.
“To protect yourself?” She wondered.
“In a way. Preemptively, I suppose.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I shoot the moment I identify someone as a threat, even if they have not yet decided to be one.”
She didn’t understand.
But she would.
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She had been ten years old when realized what he meant.
It was not a coincidence that she had also been ten years old when she met Rhea Royce.
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Rhea Royce was betrothed to her uncle.
Rhea Royce was going to marry him. She was going to be a Targaryen.
But then…she would also be better than everyone else, and exceptional, and worth protecting and if she was—what would that make Rhaenyra?
Rhaenyra would still be better, of course, but she did not want to share such accolades with her.
Rhea Royce wasn’t worthy of that.
Rhea Royce wasn’t worthy of her uncle, either.
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She wasn’t a threat to Rhaenyra, not now. But…she had the potential to be, when Rhaenyra was older, when she was old enough to be Daemon's wife.
She was far more worthy of that title than this woman.
The only way to protect herself—to protect the future she wanted—was to get rid of her.
But she wasn’t going to act rashly, of course not, she was simply going to make this suggestion to her uncle.
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When she did, Daemon laughed.
“I wish I could, but these contracts are ironclad. Don’t fret dārilaros, she will be off in Vale and I’ll be here with you, nothing will change.”
That wasn’t good enough. Even if he wasn’t with her, even if Rhaenyra’s life didn’t change—Rhea’s would.
She would have his name—have him as her husband—and—
Rhaenyra couldn’t allow that to happen.
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It was heavier than she expected, and the weight of it in her bag was greater than any her conscience would bear in the aftermath of this act.
She had seen her uncle load guns before, seen him take off the safety and co*ck them. She had never seen him shoot one, but she was quite confident she could figure that part out.
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She did. Of course she did .
She was exceptional.
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It took more effort than she expected, but her fingers didn’t shake when she pulled the trigger.
It was louder than she expected, but she didn’t flinch.
It was harder to aim than she expected, but she figured if she shot her enough times, that would make up for her lack of accuracy.
When the woman had fallen and the gun had been discarded behind a dumpster, Rhaenyra began to scream and sob— loudly. Loud enough to ensure they could be heard from the street.
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It was a single officer who came at first—one who was young, but old enough to recognize her name when she gave it to him. He cursed, called for backup, and stuttered as he asked her a series of questions.
She sniffled through her story—her puppy had gotten off its leash, run into the alley, and she had followed. Rhaenyra heard the shots but when she turned around, the assailant was gone and the woman was dead.
The officer looked conflicted—a teary-eyed ten-year-old cradling a puppy was hard to pin a murder on, if the thought occurred to him at all.
“Your dog seems…very calm,” he noted, “Given that a half dozen shots went off.”
“Oh,” she nuzzled her chin into the downy hair topping the silver locks of Syrax’s head, “She is deaf, you see? It was why she paid no mind to me calling after her. I had to chase her. But if I knew this was going to happen..”
He frowned, and didn’t say much else before backup arrived—and her uncle arrived, too, quick to put an end to the questioning.
She smiled at him. He would take care of this.
He always took care of her.
It was why she had to take care to ensure Rhea Royce did not become his wife.
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Eventually, when the officers were a few paces away, giving them enough space for Daemon to lean in close and, whisper a single question into her ear without them hearing—
“Where did you hide the gun?”
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Her poor aim worked to their benefit.
Daemon would never be so messy. None of his men would have been, either. He could not be held responsible for the attack, even the Royce family begrudgingly agreed with that.
They may be suspicious of Daemon, but he would not be so bold and careless if he resorted to murdering his betrothed—or ordering someone else to do so.
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Despite her father’s protests, it was no more than three days later when Daemon took her to the range for the first time.
His eyes were steely on hers as he spoke in defense of this choice, “She was very nearly shot—it could have been her laying dead in an alley? Her funeral we went to? Do you want that?”
Viserys could hardly argue with that, but he tried.
“I don’t want her to kill people.”
Well, it was too late for that—not that she was going to tell him that.
“In our world, sometimes the alternative to killing is being killed . Even you know that, brother.”
Rhaenyra didn’t say a word, she knew better than to be obvious about which side she took—her mother had taught her that.
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But not-so-secretly…
She was on her uncle’s side.
She wanted to be by his side.
She would kill for it, even.
But secretly…
She already had.
She would do it again.
She wanted to do it again.
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“I wanted her to be normal.” Her father muttered miserably, unaware she could hear him.
She heard her mother sigh, “Our name and wealth affords us many luxuries, but normality is not one of them. It is practically the antithesis of our family, and she was destined to be different from the moment she was born into it.”
Her father grumbled something Rhaenyra could not hear.
“Viserys…stop mourning what you never had, if you focus on what you do have, you might realize it is far better than normal.”
He snorted, “Now you sound like Daemon.”
For once, Rhaenyra agreed with him. But his tone…he said that like it was an insult.
In Rhaenyra’s mind, it was one of the greatest compliments one could give.
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Months passed before she spoke of what she overheard, and even then, she only dared speak of it with her uncle.
“I don’t think I’m the daughter Viserys wanted,”
“I don’t think you are either.”
She gaped at him—he wasn’t supposed to agree!
He grinned, “You’re so much better, and he doesn’t know how to cope with that, or even acknowledge it.”
She swallowed, “But you do.”
He squeezed her hand, “Of course I do, dārilaros. After all, I wasn’t the brother he wanted, either.”
It was her turn to squeeze his hand, “You were so much better, and he didn’t know how to cope with that, or even acknowledge it?” She guessed, reusing his words.
He laughed, “Exactly.”
“It sounds lonely.” She murmured—because it was for her, sometimes.
“Mhm, I suppose it was. But it is better now.”
She turned towards him, “Because you grew up?”
He shook his head, “No—because I have you.”
Oh.
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Maybe it was a coincidence.
Maybe it had to do with the fact she was eleven years old now.
Because now she was old enough to understand the fact that Daemon was a man, and men belonged with women.
But still…why was he suddenly so open about this fact now? Bringing them to family dinners and introducing them to her so casually when he had never done that before.
Well, he had done it once before—once—with Rhea, and he knew how that ended.
Maybe that was how he wanted this to end, too?
It felt almost like an invitation.
It would be rude for her to decline it.
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Gods, it was so easy—they all knew how much Daemon adored her and they were eager to befriend her, thinking that getting closer to her might get them closer to Daemon, too.
When she asked them to go for a walk, or if she could go with them to the salon, or take them to the stables, or take them to the kennel…
They always said yes.
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She didn’t try to kill any of them—that wasn’t necessary in order to scare them off, and though she was far from lazy, she took the meaning of, “Work smarter not harder,” to heart in a way most girls her age did not.
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It was so sad when they tripped—it could happen in the street, a stray brick in the path while an unsuspecting woman was distracted by Rhaenyra’s delightful conversation.
It was unfortunate when they slipped on a wooden step—the made must have neglected to wipe away the excess oil when polishing them.
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Daemon sighed, “You’re naughty.”
She gave him a blank look, “I have not the slightest idea what you are referring to, uncle, but! I would rather be naughty than clumsy.”
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She would rather be naughty than bald, too.
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It was very upsetting, to see his woman of that week screech as the improperly mixed peroxide concoction began to process on her scalp.
The hairdresser had not the slightest idea what happened but it was not hard to comprehend. Chemicals were so temperamental, they had to be used with caution, and diluted properly—otherwise, they could harm or even burn someone.
And oh, did they ever.
Rhaenyra wasn’t sure which was worse—the wounds, or the fact that hair would never grow again to cover them.
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“Dare I ask how you managed this?” Daemon asked, rubbing his forehead.
She shrugged, swapping the contents of one bottle into another was easy enough, she wasn’t going to brag about it.
“I was simply getting my nails painted,” she said instead—her lip jutting out in a pout, “But she didn’t manage to finish the second coat before we had to leave.”
She frowned down at the incomplete paint job. What a pain, now she would have to get them re-done.
“Mm, if only that could have been avoided,” Daemon said dryly.
She nodded in agreement, “It could have been—” her lips curled into a grin, “We never would have been there at all if you dated a natural blonde, uncle.”
He laughed, and a handsome smile lingered on his lips as he admitted, “You’re not wrong.”
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The hubris of these women, thinking they could keep up with Rhaenyra on horseback—so easily goaded into racing her when they were so unfamiliar with the trails.
Too inexperienced to dodge low-hanging branches and paying the price with broken bones.
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On the first occasion, it was a cheekbone.
When Daemon told her of this she did not bother to look up from her phone, “Really? I’m shocked. I thought all the filler would cushion such a blow.”
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On the second occasion, it was a nose crushed to the point it required surgery.
When Daemon told her of this she smiled, “Well, at least she is no stranger to that procedure. Perhaps it will turn out better this time?”
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On the third occasion, it was a neck—the spinal column taking the force and leaving her on life support.
The crack had been loud enough that Rhaenyra heard it from yards away, but in her defense, she had told the woman to duck.
“If she were still alive I’d suggest she work on her latency, her reflexes were terrible!”
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After that time, her uncle warned that her charade becoming a bit predictable.
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She took this to mean she should change her methods, not that she should stop.
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Rhaenyra loved the kennels almost as much as the stables—her puppy, Syrax, had grown into a beast over the last three years, but she was a loyal one—more interested in sleeping on Rhaenyra’s bed than following commands, much to her father’s chagrin.
Syrax always followed her commands.
And her uncle's.
She just didn’t seem to respect the ones anyone else gave her.
Rhaenyra could relate.
Still, Syrax was left inside when she visited the kennels—she was less accustomed to being with the pack, and too spoiled to enjoy the company of any dog other than Daemon’s own, Caraxes.
Rhaenyra could relate to that, too.
There were twelve of them residing in the kennel at the moment—all pure white, menacing in size with ears pricked up in interest as they approached.
The woman beside her was twitchy, nervous about getting closer, but when she did she let out a dramatic gasp, “They are so cute! I thought they would be dangerous or scary but they are just darling!” She tittered.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, they were cute— of course they were .
And even when she was a toddler who was barely a quarter their size, she did not consider them scary. She knew they were bred to be loyal, biddable, and protective, and that was the energy she had always felt radiate from the beasts when she was in their presence.
But it was insulting to act like their looks had anything to do with how dangerous they were.
Stupid woman.
She cleared her throat, “Don’t be deceived by their looks. They are as clever as they are cute and as dangerous as they are clever. Though I doubt you are familiar with those descriptors yourself.”
The woman’s response of, “Huh?” Only proved her point.
“I thought fighting dogs were like…mean,” she said waving her hands around while Rhaenyra scratched behind the ears of Silverwing, one of the oldest, prettiest, and sweetest dogs Rhaenyra had ever known. A wonderful if unusually gentle example of the Valyrian Spitz breed.
They were the largest of their class, and the rarest—the only ones remaining today were bred by her house, and rarely offered to anyone outside of it.
This woman’s response was a reminder of why they kept such a close grip on the breed—very few outsiders were capable of understanding them, much less handling them, and were undeserving of their devotion.
“They aren’t fighting dogs.” She said defensively. How dare she suggest they were—as if they were some bully breed destined for pits rather than perfectly bred for protection.
“They aren’t mean, either,” she said through gritted teeth, looking down at Silverwing’s sweet face and wondering how anyone could suggest such a thing.
They were capable of aggression, of course, but also controlling it, only acting upon their owner’s command and showing off their impressive bite force upon request.
And impressive it was—sometimes she and Daemon freed them on the grounds, riding alongside them as they stretched their long legs. They were fast, but stealthy too, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to come across an unsuspecting deer.
When they did…
Well, they looked towards Daemon and waited for the word. When they heard it, they were off—tearing the doe to bits and feasting on its remains, acting like the wolves they once descended from.
When she had first seen it, she had cried. Shocked and horrified by the viciousness shown by the dogs she loved to play with—but Daemon had been quick to calm her.
“Don’t be scared dārilaros, some creatures are made to kill,” he told her, “And others are made to be killed. Look at how happy they are.”
She had noticed that their tails were wagging, but that seemed wrong.
“No—there is nothing wrong about enjoying violence, it does not make someone evil or something evil, it makes them different, that’s all. For some creatures…blood lust is intrinsic, part of our very being. But for them? We encourage this trait, allow them to indulge in it, we create it within them.”
Rhaenyra wondered now if blood lust was part of her, an unavoidable facet of her existence she could not stamp down, or if it had been created and encouraged by her uncle.
Neither idea upset her, and the end result was the same.
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She smiled at the woman, “We do not breed them to maim or kill, you know? We train them to do that—let me show you!”
The woman was biddable, and it was easy to usher her into the kennel—latching the gate behind them as the dogs began to circle them.
When Rhaenyra next spoke, her face became pinched in confusion, clearly unable to recognize the word that fell from her lips— “Idakogon!”
How anyone could couple with her uncle and not know the High Valyrian word for attack was beyond her.
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Rhaenyra slipped from the gate and looked on with interest, vaguely aware of screams and cries for help, though they were largely drowned out by the growls.
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Her punishment was having to give the dogs baths, their silver coats tinted pink even after the worst of the blood had been washed out of the kennels by their keeper.
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When her father had asked why she didn’t call them off earlier, and she had burst into tears, “I just froze, father, it was so awful, it took me several minutes to remember myself and by then—they stopped as soon as I asked them to! They are so good, father, so well-behaved.”
“They nearly killed a woman,” He snarled.
“That woman nearly killed herself! You would not blame a car for the fact someone jumped in front of it!” She fired back. She knew her father didn’t have the heart to hurt the dogs, she was dependent on that.
And you could only have so much sympathy for a woman who thought entering a kennel with raw meat in her pocket was a good idea.
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Later, Daemon pointed out to her that this was strange, for the woman was a vegetarian.
Rhaenyra’s nose wrinkled, “Poor dogs, she probably didn’t taste very good at all, then.”
Daemon shook his head, looking amused, "I'll keep that in mind for the next one."
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She was sixteen years old when Daemon dared to bring a date to her birthday party.
She was seething—but put on a smile when they were introduced. A waiter came by, offering the woman a shrimp co*cktail but she frowned and emphatically refused, “I’m allergic to shellfish,” she explained a bit bashfully.
Oh. This would be so easy.
She looked towards her uncle and saw his lips quirk into a half smile.
Oh.
He hadn’t brought a woman with him to make her jealous—he had brought her there as a present.
It was so nice, how he always supported her interests.
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The woman was forgetful, leaving her purse somewhere—and her epi-pen with it.
It was amazing how sensitive allergies could be. It took just a few minutes of heavy petting in a dark hall for the lingering lobster on her tongue to serve as the poison it was in this circ*mstance.
The woman was easy— too distracted by Rhaenyra’s hands to acknowledge the danger that was their kiss.
She watched her choke for a while—but when her face became puffy it was no longer amusing, and she begrudgingly called for help. Her father would make a big fuss if someone died at her birthday dinner.
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“It was so lucky you found her in time, gods…” Her mother muttered tearfully, dabbing at her eyes as if it was Rhaenyra who almost died. Viserys nodded in agreement.
“Sixteen and already saving lives,” Daemon mused, “Truly exceptional, as always.”
She preened under the praise—naturally, she deserved it.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
Mysaria was...different.
She looked at Rhaenyra with suspicion, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed.
Maybe she didn’t think Rhaenyra was dangerous, but she saw her as a threat to her relationship with Daemon.
As she should, because Rhaenyra very much was.
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She was in their business, she was smart, she was beautiful, and Rhaenyra found herself begrudgingly respecting her.
She was far less annoying than the others, even if she was brunette.
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“You haven’t gone out with her,” Daemon noted after a few months, “Do you not like her enough to invite her anywhere?”
She sighed, “I like her too much for that, uncle.”
He looked surprised by that—just like she was surprised when he said, “I like her too.”
Oh.
Rhaenyra didn’t like that.
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Still, she liked the woman enough to wait several more weeks, half hoping Daemon would simply get bored.
And maybe he would have—she just couldn’t wait any longer.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
Rhaenyra found the test in Daemon’s bathroom and did not hesitate to confront her about it.
She admitted it.
She was pregnant.
She was going to keep it.
Rhaenyra couldn’t allow that.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
It was a car fire that caused the collision responsible for her ultimate demise—or so they thought. By the time they managed to extinguish it, there wasn’t enough left to tell the cause of death—suffocation? Burns? Injury?
“Car accidents are so scary,” she said after apologizing to her uncle for the loss.
“Accident. Yes,” he scoffed, he rubbed his face before looking up at her, “That is the cause of this, hm?”
She swallowed—she had been hoping he didn’t know, but he knew everything, he always did.
“Was it an accident?” f*ck, she didn’t want to know the answer, so she kept talking, the words sounding defensive even to her own ears—“She didn’t want an abortion.”
“So you took care of it.” He said.
She nodded, “Yes. Just like I always take care of you. Because you deserve better, uncle.”
And she was the best.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
For all the lives she had supposedly taken, she saved quite a few too.
Truly, if she had a dollar for every time she found one of Daemon’s dates in a poor state doing lines laced with fentanyl, well, she would have six extra dollars.
“That is what they get for bumming off of strangers,” Rhaenyra said with a sad sigh.
“Is that what you’re calling yourself?” Daemon asked.
Her lip twitched, “Well—I’m hardly their friend, they should know better than to take anything I offer them.”
She smoothed out her skirt, “It’s a litmus test of sorts—I’d never trust someone who is so trusting.”
Daemon snorted, “Ah, a precursor to friendship, then.”
She shrugged, “If they passed, I suppose, but none of them have.”
“Pity, that.” He muttered, though his expression was one of amusem*nt.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
Laena didn’t even take the test— “Oh, I don’t do any of that,” she said, waving it away.
“I’ll deal it, of course—you know who my father is—but using is a slippery slope,” She said with a smile.
“Some might call it powdery, rather than slippery,” Rhaenyra mused—making the other woman laugh.
“What are you two talking about?” Viserys asked from his seat across from them.
Rhaenyra smiled, “Skiing.”
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
Laena, as it turned out, did ski.
It was a great deal of fun, the week they spent in the north together. Flying down the mountains surrounding Winterfell during the day and spending nights snuggled up in front of the fire with Syrax and Vhagar between them.
“I’m so glad we’ve had this time together,” Laena said, squeezing her hand, “I think—well, I hope we’ll be family in name soon, but you already feel a bit like the younger sister I always wanted.” She said with a smile.
Rhaenyra was touched by the sentiment.
“I am glad too, and—I find myself thinking of you as a sister already!” She said with a giggle because that was true. They were alike in many ways, and if you based your opinion on their similarities outside of their complexion, they could easily be siblings.
Perhaps that was why Rhaenyra liked her so much.
But of course, Rhaenyra was better.
It was just...Rhaenyra had never wanted an older sister.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
She graciously offered to make dinner that night, because she was a good travel buddy, really.
Though, she might have had other motives...
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
Laena should have used more.
She had very little tolerance for methaqualone, though that worked in Rhaenyra’s favor—it was always nice to have a bit extra of such substances in hand for emergencies.
Laena was yawning before the dishes were even put away, and she admitted it might have to be an early night, “Ugh, but then Vhagar will wake me up at the crack of dawn,” she complained.
Rhaenyra laughed, “Dogs are programmed with an internal clock, I swear.”
Laena sighed, “Mhm but I suppose it is good…good practice for babies.”
Rhaenyra’s grip on the plate she was holding tightened, “Yes. Good practice indeed.”
Not that Laena needed it.
While she dozed during the movie, Rhaenyra promised to take Vhagar out before she went to bed, a fact Laena thanked her for.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
And thank gods that she had, otherwise the fire might have taken her life, too…
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
“I can’t believe she left the burner on,” she sobbed, “I told her to let me make dinner!”
The officer patted her shoulder as she wailed, “I wasn’t even gone for half an hour! I don’t understand—”
“Accidents happen,” the uniformed woman said sympathetically.
It was true—not that this was one.
“Why weren’t you in the house, again?” The other officer asked, sounding more suspicious than sympathetic.
She sniffed, “Laena rolled her ankle getting off the lift today—I didn’t want her to strain it any more than necessary, so I took the dogs out for a walk by myself.”
“At this time of night?” He asked.
She frowned, “Yes. Their bladders don't turn off when it gets dark out.”
He looked a bit embarrassed over that, at least, which prompted her to carry on with the waterworks.
“Laena—she took something for the pain, I think—gods, that must have been why she forgot to turn off the stove, why she didn’t try to get out—I never should have left her,” she sobbed.
“Uhuh, must be…” The man said sarcastically. His partner elbowed him in the side, clearly she was more gullible than her male counterpart. A disappointing proof of an old-fashioned stereotype but one she appreciated given the circ*mstances.
One that would probably save her life, too.
Daemon didn’t like it when people—especially men—were rude to her.
Almost as much as she didn’t like it when women were nice to him.
He was more subtle in his methods, though. But then, he was older—he had a great deal more experience and a maturity she lacked, which left her admittedly attention-seeking ways untempered.
Then again, she was quite certain maturity had little to do with her methods. The only thing that would temper those was hiding in Daemon’s sock drawer.
Well, okay, he was not so careless—it was hiding in the safe only accessible when one removed the sock drawer.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
She had found it years ago and been awed by the sparkling ring—a pile of diamonds, and garnets set in Valyrian Steel and seated atop black velvet.
She had never met the wearer, but she had seen pictures—this had belonged to her grandmother, Alyssa Targaryen.
When Daemon found her sitting there, she did not hesitate to ask him why he had it—curious—jealous—of who it was destined for.
He simply smiled, “Someone exceptional.”
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
She checked to see if it was there every so often—the code to the safe unchanging. Less predictable than her birthday, he used the exact time of her birth—and the coordinates of the hospital where she was born.
When she was fifteen, she was brave enough to try it on—and annoyed to find it a bit loose.
It was so obviously for her. It should fit her. But it didn’t.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
Daemon found her pouting that evening and asked who he had to kill—it was a joke between them, though there was a morbid seriousness to it, too.
“The jeweler.” She said with a sniff, “He got my ring size wrong.”
Daemon’s brow rose, “Are you certain? You might not be done growing yet.”
Oh.
“I will not compromise its structure by resizing it unless it is necessary at the time.” He said firmly.
Well. Fine.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
She tried again when she was seventeen and it fit perfectly.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
“I think I’m done growing now, uncle—I’m ready.” She said softly, “It fits like it was made for me. Just like you’ll fit inside me.”
He cursed, head falling back against the back of the couch as she straddled him, grinding her c*nt against his crotch to punctuate her words, the thin cotton of her underwear doing little to hide the heat and intensity of her arousal.
“I know you are—you know I am, too—but the world isn’t ready. One more year.”
She frowned, sitting back on his knees as she complained, “That is so far away!”
“Mmm, but your father can’t do a thing if you’re eighteen,” he pointed out, “Until then—no rings, no f*cking, sorry my dārilaros.”
“Ugh,” she moved off his lap, and reached for her phone—she maintained eye contact with Daemon as she brought it to her ear, “Hi babe? Do you want to come over? I’m so horny right now.”
She grinned as she clicked end call—he looked livid.
Maybe she’d fake it a little to make him jealous—Criston wasn’t that good a f*ck, but Daemon didn’t have to know that, and she was a very good actress.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
Tragically, he never showed.
More tragically, perhaps, was the face he was never seen again.
But it made sense. Death was the only logical excuse for standing her up.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
No more than a day later, Daemon introduced her to Laena Velaryon—his girlfriend.
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The female officer asked if she had a place to stay, and she nodded, “My uncle has a place nearby. I have a key.”
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
His cottage was smaller than the official one belonging to their family—though the remains left behind could hardly be called a cottage now.
It was more intimate, made for longer trips but for fewer people, and just a few miles away from the one her Great Grandfather had commissioned after inheriting his wealth and title.
It was luxurious in its modern amenities, and she spent what could have been hours in the shower, lingering in its heat long after the scent of smoke was gone from her skin and hair.
She hadn’t realized how chilled she was until the heat of the water was pouring down onto her, though it made sense—she had been outside for nearly three hours, and even when dressed properly for it like she was, the cold always caught up to you eventually.
It was unrelenting in that way, fair in its brutality and free of bias in a way only mother nature could be.
Perhaps that was why she liked the outdoors so much. It was cruel and beautiful and unrelenting in ways that comforted her—but it was different from her, too, and so it reminded her of her humanity.
It reminded her of the fact her crimes would never catch up to her, because mankind was the opposite of fair. Life wasn’t fair.
Once—a year or two ago—a woman had told her, ‘you’ll get what you deserve,’ words slurred by the combination of drugs that caused her death just minutes later.
It wasn't the fate she had planned for her, but Rhaenyra was hardly going to bother to call an ambulance after she had the nerve to say that.
Though, if she was being honest, Rhaenyra agreed with her.
They probably wouldn’t agree on what she deserved, though.
Her phone chimed and she smiled at the sound that marked a text from Daemon.
It was an ETA.
It seemed she would get what was coming for her, too. He always came for her.
She sighed— if only he would make her cum.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
She let the dogs out one last time, and when they returned she locked the door, leaving them downstairs while she made her way to the largest of the three bedrooms, this one spanning the entire loft.
It was nice and warm, the heat kicking in quickly enough that she wasn’t cold even in her nude state. Of course, she had little choice in that matter, her belongings had been swallowed by the fire.
But even if they hadn’t, Daemon’s sheets were nice enough that it would be an insult to enter them when clothed. The cotton flannel was so soft against her bare skin that it felt like clouds embracing her as she snuggled beneath them.
Her phone chimed again, a response from Daemon to their last exchange—
23:15 DT: Don’t wait up for me.
23:16 RT: too late, i’ve already spent years waiting for you 🥺
23:21 DT: Go to sleep. When you wake up you’ll only have to wait thirty-eight more days.
She shivered but fell asleep with a smile on her face.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
She wore nothing but one of his sweaters into town—the knit heavy enough to hide the lack of undergarments and just long enough border on the right side of indecent. Her skiing gear was stowed in her car, and though not overly flattering, her wool socks kept the lower half of her legs toasty.
Her hand was tangled with Daemon’s, nuzzled into his side as they waited in line for drinks—she had demanded hot chocolate, an old tradition of theirs that dated back to the time she was too short to see over the counter.
Regulars they may be, she didn’t recognize the older woman taking their order—and clearly, she didn’t recognize them, either.
“So sweet, seeing a father out with his daughter,” she said with a cheerful smile.
Rhaenyra would have leaned into it, but Daemon corrected her—“Ah, thank you, but you’re mistaken, this is my wife.”
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
“You’re teasing me.” She grumbled when they took their seats, “That’s mean.”
His brow arched, “I’m the tease? You were the one sleeping naked in my bed last night.”
She frowned, “I lost all my clothing in a fire, Daemon, have some compassion. The thought of teasing you didn’t occur to me at all.” She said primly, with no regard for the fact this was a complete and total lie.
His hand curled around her ankle—stilling her socked foot that had somehow made its way into his lap, “And this? Please do explain, I’m listening.”
Honestly, she hadn’t even realized she was doing it. When he was seated across from her it just seemed the obvious thing to do, still, “It’s a force of habit.” Sounded like a poor excuse, even though it was true.
Her birthday really couldn’t come soon enough.
And when it did…
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He didn’t wait until the party, or until the evening—though it was still dark out when he climbed into her bed.
She was born at 4:31 AM on February 7th, 2006.
Which meant...
She turned eighteen at 4:31 AM on February 7th, 2024.
Daemon whispered, “Happy birthday,” against her neck as his co*ck filled her for the first time—unwilling to wait a single second longer, and thank f*ck for that.
“It’s—an— gods —even better fit than I expected,” she said with a gasp, because f*ck, it felt good.
Better than good. It felt exceptional.
“Oh, dārilaros, you don’t know the half of it.”
What he meant was: she hadn’t even taken half of it.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
She was eighteen years old when she realized that all her previous partners had been holding back.
Before that…
She had never realized they were afraid of her.
She had never realized they treated her like she was something fragile.
She had never realized how inadequate their co*cks were.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
“S’hurts,” she whimpered, he was too big, this was too much, she opened her mouth not sure if she was going to sob or scream but she did neither, because Daemon’s palm came to cover her lips.
“Then hurt me back, dārilaros,” he cooed, nudging the heel of his hand between her parted lips.
He thrust forward at the same time she bit down—each of them broken open by the other, joined by blood in a way that went beyond the fact they were related.
He cursed, and she could feel the heat of her saliva mixing with his blood, the salty flavor of his skin on her tongue quickly becoming overwhelmed by the familiar metallic one.
She bit down even harder when he began thrusting.
The sound of skin crunching only lasted a second but it seemed to echo in her ears for what felt like hours before the sound of her squelching c*nt replaced it.
She had never been this wet before in her life—never been this aroused—never come with the taste of blood on her tongue, and what a crying shame that was.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
She wasn’t a virgin, not by any means, but the way he f*cked her…
She might as well have been.
Because she had never been f*cked like this.
She had never been f*cked by an equal before.
This was so much better. This was how it was supposed to be.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
When the first org*sm came, it didn’t even feel good. It was almost mechanical—a forced response from the pressure of his co*ck rather than out of pleasure, but even so, she gasped her way through it and freed Daemon’s flesh from her teeth in the process.
He put it to use straight away, lacing his fingers with her own until they sat flat against her belly, and then, he pressed down—hard.
Hard enough she could feel his co*ck against her palm.
“Gods—”
She didn’t even know that was possible.
She didn’t get to ponder it for long, though, before Daemon pressed her against the bed, deciding he had been patient for long enough and it was time to f*ck her in earnest.
His hips crashed against hers, and the headboard crashed against the wall in protest, though no such thing spilled from her lips—no, she was pleading for more.
She could finally have more of him. She could finally have all of him.
It was that thought—and perhaps also the press of his co*ck—that hurled her towards a second org*sm.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
Two more followed before he came, deciding he was done with her—for now.
She was a mess by the end of it—eyes red and swollen, cheeks stained with tears, voice broken from the amount she had moaned, while her poor abused c*nt leaked the evidence of how thoroughly he had f*cked her.
Because that was what they had done. It wasn’t making love, she didn’t want it to be, either. They would have time for that later but she had been forced to make do with love for eighteen years, and she was eager to set that aside, they could revisit it later. For now she would simply enjoy being f*cked until she was satisfied, sore, and stuffed full of his cum.
Daemon stood, wrapping a sheet around his waist as he moved to the end of the bed where he just…looked at her.
Admired her.
“You look beautiful naked, dārilaros, but—” his lip twitched and he bent to retrieve something from his discarded pants, “I think you’d look even better wearing this.”
She grinned at the ring box.
Yes. She got exactly what she deserved indeed.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
For their honeymoon, they went to his cottage in Winterfell.
They had no intention of skiing, but it was nice to have that as a cover story when the masseuse asked why she was limping—she used it when speaking with the journalist, too, a soft spoken man who came to interview them for a puff piece about their marriage and voiced some concern.
Oh no, Daemon was not going to like that.
He was anything but an abusive husband, and the thought of someone thinking he was, well...it would likely end with him showing them the monster they thought he was.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
She was seated beside Daemon, playing with his fingers and stroking the scar on his palm. She was quite proud of that—and not the least bit apologetic over how poorly it healed.
It was half his fault—he split the stitches no more than six hours after getting them, leaving bloody prints on the papers covering her father’s desk while he f*cked her over it.
The second time…well, how was she supposed to know her tongue was talented enough to split sutures by being so attentive?
The third time the blame was on them both. Because she had been the brat who earned a spanking, but he was the one who used his injured hand for it when his belt was right there.
He was as aroused by the blood as she was, he was just better at hiding it.
She sighed, enjoying the memory and the reminder of how perfect they were for each other.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
The first question was about why they chose such a nontraditional place to vacation.
Rhaenyra smiled, “I have so many happy memories here and wanted to make more now that I’m his wife.”
The interviewer frowned, looking down at his notes before making the fatal faux pass of then asking, “Didn’t your cousin die in a fire here last year?”
Rhaenyra nodded, “Like I said, so many happy memories. ”
Daemon laughed, squeezing her thigh and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“I love you,” he muttered.
She ducked her head beneath his chin, pressing a gentle kiss to the mark she had left there last night, “I love you too.”
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
The article never made it into the paper—and the journalist never made it back home.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
Not that she ever doubted it, but she knew then that her uncle truly was her perfect match—romantically, sexually, emotionally, sad*stically…
Everything was better with Daemon by her side, and she was going to have the best life, and maybe even— well…
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
Something about that death made her crave life, a fact that made Daemon laugh, “If I knew that was all it would take to convince you I would have done it months ago.”
She sighed, “I wasn’t going to let our child be a bastard, it’s uncivilized having them outside of marriage. And—a woman shouldn’t always have to ask,” she grumbled.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
It wasn’t like they were complete monsters, though, they honored the life lost by using it as their son’s second name— Jacaerys was not so foreign, and even if it was, he would scarcely use it.
Still, in the future, they were more discerning—targeting men with names that would pair well with what they had selected for their future sons.
It became a bit of a tradition for them, ending one life and conceiving another, tucking the IDs of their namesakes into baby books alongside sonograms.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
And, of course, they made the best children.
They were incapable of anything less.
After all, they were Targaryens.
─── ⋆⋅♥⋅⋆ ───
