Chapter Text
Rhaenyra has just turned two-and-ten when Daemon comes back to his brother's court. He never stays away for too long now, he can’t, even if he wanted to ; and he doesn’t, can’t stay away from it, from her, not really. Finds himself a little bit irritated sometimes, that her blood calls to him this way, impossible to ignore, a burn in his veins and the distant rumbling roar of a dragon in his ears, dreams of red, golden scales entwined. She’s just a little girl, his niece ; didn’t even flower yet. Young, fragile little thing, porcelain skin and bright blue eyes as light and clear as the cristalline sound that bubbles up her tiny throat when he makes her laugh.
But every time, Daemon comes back ; the dragon on a leash that he is. He hates court, but he hates Runestone and the Vale more ; hates his bronze bitch and her lands full of dust and grass and wind, would rather fuck the sheep instead, truly, but Mysaria is prettier than a sheep and she’s warm. So Daemon is tamed whenever he sinks his cock into her warm, pretty black-haired cunt ; at least for a little while, tamed he is, but the old, holy burning in his veins calls to him anyhow : songs of fire and blood and glory, half of his soul, tucked away in a distant castle. Things he can’t seize for himself, not now, not ever, perhaps ; a mummer’s farce, a paper crown on his head. He knows this. The Hightower snake knows this, too.
Daemon looks up, through the window. A blemish green, shades of purple, stains of brimstone and sometimes even a handful of pale dots like scales where the light is the most intense, whereas underneath compact blocks of darkness pile up for the night, a night more bizarre and edged than smooth and glowing.
Those are his thoughts ; before. Then, it’s her smile : the perfect shape of it, bright and blooming like the flowers she likes to wear in her hair, pale as stardust, dots of pink and purple on white gold. Crown of leaves, crown of gold, paper crown.
Every night the same : her, moonstone cheeks angled by the soft reddish light of the candles, lying on her bed, a cradle of soft furs around her : a shelter, the only place where she should ever be. Him, here — always here, for he knows he cannot stay away —, the shadow of his frame against the soft glow of her window.
« Sleep, little dragon. »
Her nose wrinkles up, eyes sparkling, displeased. « I’m not little. »
« Sleep, » he repeats ; a soft edge to his voice that was never supposed to be there.
A warmonger — he is, was, lusting after whores and blood and power, a rogue prince with a sword black as a pile of ashes burnt by dragon-fire. He stands now, here, seated on the nook, the soft glow of the stars behind him as he watches. Hums a song under his breath. He knows this one from his own mother, he thinks, doesn’t remember, but it helps to keep the nightmares and the monsters away. Tells her that, too.
Her little eyes close ; a world of summer blue skies and sparkling stars is shut away, and he turns his head towards the other instead. Distantly, he thinks it is not as pretty, continues to hum the old tune in his throat as it begins to fade away with the light ; leans back against the damp stone wall, seated on the nook. Carries on the tune as Rhaenyra falls into the gentle, innocent breath of sleep.
She’s a drop of white among browns and greys, a pearl like the one he found on the beach of Dragonstone among seaweeds. Gifted that one to her, too. Daemon leaves the window, crosses the space between them : his fingers find the wild strands of her hair and lifts them away from her forehead, brushing the little creases he finds there, smoothes them with his thumb.
Something warm is curling inside of him, now. Not the kind that breathes burning rage into his lungs in the middle of a battlefield, nor the kind that sparks up the tightening in his belly whenever he spends inside the cunts of his whores. It’s not even the warmth he finds in Mysaria ; it’s an entirely different kind of warmth, a soothing burn in his ribcage like the soft flame of a candlelight on his mother’s bedstead. Daemon curls his hand around it, and it licks at his skin for a moment before disappearing ; Rhaenyra’s room is plunged into darkness, but the warmth in his hollow bones lingers, stays. Flows across his ribcage like the flowers she puts in her hair : smooth, thornless — the softness of it that settles deep underneath the wildfire of his veins as he closes the door. But he knows ; he will not stay away for long. He’ll guard her dreams for as long as he breathes, knows that, too ; with fire and blood.
Fire and blood, fire and blood. Mine, mine, mine. Half of his soul.