Rhaenyra
She had convinced herself that the feelings were gone, buried deep beneath the weight of years and duty and the comfortable warmth of another man’s embrace.
Ten years she had spent in Harwin’s arms, ten years of craving his kisses and relishing his embrace, ten years of delighting every time he took her to bed.
Three children she had given him, each one a mirror of their father, each one a living testament to the love they had shared.
And yet, despite everything, despite all the passion and grief and joy they had experienced together, it took only one look at Daemon for her old feelings to come rushing back with the force of a tidal wave.
He had not changed.
Not really.
Age had drawn a few faint lines around his eyes and across his forehead, subtle reminders of the years that had passed, but he still looked the same as he had on that night so long ago.
The same hooded purple eyes that could pierce through any facade, the same long solemn face with its high cheekbones and thin lips.
His silver hair had grown longer now, and he kept it pulled back at his temple so that it would not fall into his face.
Rhaenyra watched him from a distance as he stood vigil over his late wife’s casket.
She was a woman grown now, wedded and bedded with children of her own, yet in that moment she felt like a girl again.
That same flustered child he had pinned against the brothel wall in a fiery embrace, her heart pounding with equal parts fear and desire.
A part of her yearned to go to him, to hear his voice and feel the touch of his hand.
She knew he had not forgotten her; the bemused laugh he had let out during Vaemond’s eulogy was proof enough of that.
But another part of her whispered that he was mocking her, that the laugh had been directed at her rather than at Vaemond’s ridiculous claims.
Laenor had confided in his sister about their arrangement, and Rhaenyra had no doubt that she had revealed it to Daemon as well.
Not that she would have needed to.
The moment he had spied her and her twins arriving at the cliffside to see her goodsister’s casket cast off into the sea, the corners of his lips had curled into that familiar smirk.
Terrible as it was, she hoped it hurt him.
She hoped he felt the sting of betrayal, the sharp ache of watching her with another man’s children at her side.
They could have been his, those children.
Fire made flesh, just as they were.
Of course he would laugh at Vaemond’s remarks; it was what she deserved for betraying him and letting another man have her.
The maliciousness she had attributed to him proved misplaced, however.
She realized that when everyone’s attention pivoted from her and her twins to him and his laughter.
The sound had cut through the tension like a blade, drawing every eye in the gathering.
Rhaenyra’s breath hitched in her throat.
Harwin was no longer there to give her strength, to shield her from her enemies with his imposing presence and unwavering loyalty.
But Daemon was.
He had come to her aid, unprompted and unexpected.
And after that moment, no one dared look her way again.
The weight of their judgment, the sting of their whispers all of it faded into insignificance beneath the protection he had offered.
There and then, all the foul things he had done to her before fell by the wayside.
The abandonment, the cruelty, the way he had left her to marry another while she waited for him like a fool.
It all seemed so distant now, so unimportant in the face of his sudden return.
She knew she had to speak to him alone, to understand why he had come back, to feel his presence once more.
The opportunity came after the sun had begun dipping behind the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold.
The mourners slowly dispersed one by one, retreating to their chambers to retire for the evening.
Rhaenyra swiftly dismissed Ser Steffon, bidding him to attend her children while she went off to have words with her father.
Instead of climbing the steps to head to Viserys’ chambers, she ventured to the western wing where Laena’s apartments once stood.
She did not even have a chance to round the corner when she spotted him, a figure languishing on the windowsill that overlooked the beach below.
Against her better judgment, she smiled.
“Ten years on, and you still cannot resist the urge to skulk in the shadows.”
Daemon returned her smirk, his head turning to regard her.
His face was obscured by darkness, save for a shock of moonlight that illuminated his right eye.
Rhaenyra swallowed hard, gooseflesh dotting her skin at the sight of him.
“Ten years on and you still do not know how to stay away from shadows.”
Her brow shot up at his response.
His voice was smoother than the caress of the finest silk, and it sent a shiver down her spine.
“I would, if I did not already know those shadows would do naught but bark at me, never bite.”
She lowered her gaze, the challenge plain on her face.
It was the same challenge she had given him that day on Dragonstone’s bridge, the same defiant spark that had always burned between them.
Just like last time, he did nothing save chuckle.
In one swift motion, he took his leg off the sill, the silent invitation to sit beside him obvious.
Rhaenyra scoffed.
Still thinking I will trail after you like a dumbstruck maiden.
Gathering her skirts in her hands, she made a sharp turn left and moved past him.
At the end of the narrow corridor stood an oaken door that led to the outer yard and the beaches beyond.
She had left it open on purpose, lingering in the archway just long enough to cast him an expectant look over her shoulder.
The pleasure she felt when he rose and strode after her was enough to make her knees tremble.
They fell in step with one another as they moved across the deserted yard and toward the seaside beyond.
The soft whisper of sand beneath their feet was the only sound that followed them for the longest time.
The beach stretched out before them, vast and empty, the waves lapping gently at the shore.
“You have not changed,” she finally announced, her gaze wistfully scouring the night sky.
The moon was full tonight, making the sands glitter like freshly fallen snow.
“I will take that as a compliment.”
“It was not meant as such,” she quipped, though the words lacked any real bite.
He answered her jab with a smile, the expression softening the hard lines of his face.
“Well, you have.
And that is a compliment.”
Rhaenyra cursed the flush warming her cheeks.
No, she had to stay focused.
She could not let him cloud her judgment again, could not let him sweep her away with his words and his presence.
“I should hope so.
It would be quite a blunder never to learn anything in ten years time.”
“A sentiment not everyone in your party seems to share.”
Somehow, she knew exactly who he meant.
The sigh burst from her lips unbidden.
“Laenor has been restless for years. The source of this chapter is g.com.
But now I fear he will be useless.
Or worse.”
The way her lord husband had unraveled when he had read the letter from Pentos left her heartbroken.
It made her realize right there and then that if something worse were to happen, the weight of it would cause him to snap like a twig.
He had always been fragile in his own way, hiding his pain behind smiles and pleasantries.
“I know better than anyone that our marriage is a farce.
But I at least made the effort to maintain appearances.
He stopped trying the moment we exchanged vows.”
“You have more to lose,” Daemon concluded.
“He does not.
Why should he trouble himself to defend a legacy that is not his?”
The remark bit her right in the heart, and Rhaenyra craned her neck to look at him.
Moonlight made the strands of his hair shine like beaten silver, and she found herself momentarily lost in the sight.
“We tried,” she countered, her voice dropping.
“To conceive a child.
We performed our duty as best we could.
But to no avail.” She paused, recalling the awkwardness and the discomfort of those early couplings.
He had always seemed ignorant of how to touch her, even when she did her best to give him instruction.
The encounters dealt her pain and caused her grief and worry that would take her weeks to mend.
“It is his seed, I think,” she continued.
“We concluded it likely cannot take root.
I tried sourcing fertility potions to aid him, but it was all for naught.
I had to seek my joy elsewhere, or I would have lost my mind.”
She paused, gauging his reaction.
A part of her longed to see his face darken into a scowl, the way Harwin’s did whenever some handsome lordling would pay her homage.
To her dismay, he stayed composed, shooting her a gentle smile that delighted at her happiness rather than resenting it.
“I understand Ser Harwin was quite devoted to you.”
A wave of grief crashed into her just as they descended down a slope to walk along the water’s edge.
The memories came flooding back, sharp and painful.
“Yes, he was,” her voice trembled with barely suppressed pain.
“He was loyal.
Kind.
He never rendered judgment on me or Laenor.
And though he could not be a father to the children, he did all he could to be there for them.
He was perhaps the only man I trusted at court, save my father.”
Tears burned her eyes, and she released a shaky breath.
The pain of his loss had torn her apart, and it felt good to finally bare her grief openly, to speak his name without the careful distance she usually maintained.
“I should have forbidden Ser Harwin from returning to the Riverlands.
Harren’s curse is said to be as strong now as it was after the Conquest.”
Daemon chortled, a dark sound that echoed across the empty beach.
“That is a ghost story.
One Ser Otto and the Queen would gladly exploit.”
Balling her fists, she lashed him with a look.
“I do not believe Alicent capable of cold-blooded murder.”
Whatever their differences, she liked to think the girl she had once called dearest friend would not stoop to such lows.
Her father, however.
The thought of Otto Hightower made her blood boil.
Gods, of all the times for him to return.
She should have foreseen it.
With Lord Lyonel dead, her father was in need of a hand.
And absent her own voice to guide his decisions, Alicent was free to pour her honey into Viserys’ ear.
Of course, she had gotten her wretched father reinstated.
They were like vermin, the Hightowers.
The moment she quashed one green snake, another slithered out to resume spitting venom at her.
“Each of us is capable of depravity,” Daemon said, his voice low and serious.
“Far more than you would believe.”
His words brought her out of her dark spiral and thrust her head first into another.
“I believe it of you.” The comment was careless and noncommittal, but it made him pause dead in his tracks, his purple eyes alight with something dangerous.
“If you are accusing me of some depravity, you will need to be more specific.”
Rhaenyra gaped at him, her mind reeling at his audacity.
“Are you jesting?” she hissed, fire rising in her belly to answer his.
“You abandoned me.”
“I spared you.
You were a child.”
The hard, unyielding mask on his face drove her fury to burn hotter.
She hated how easily he could dismiss what he had done, how he could frame his betrayal as some act of mercy.
“Yes, I was a child.
And look at what my life became without you.” She paused, pain slashing across her chest.
“I waited.
Every day, I sighted the skies, hoping to see Caraxes’ red wings.
But you never came.
Instead, you flew to Driftmark to wed another, even younger child.”
The vindication she felt when she saw him stumble back was sweeter than honey.
She would rather be damned than let his hypocrisy stand.
Still, the hurt did not abate.
It festered beneath her anger, a wound that had never truly healed.
“Did you love her?” Her voice shattered, and she blew a quivering breath.
She should not have asked that.
It was the last question she had wanted answered, even though it had plagued her from the moment her father had broken the seal on the raven’s scroll Lord Corlys had sent from Driftmark.
Cousin Laena was a delight, as beautiful as she was fierce, a passionate dragon rider who had claimed the largest beast alive before she had even become a grown woman.
Of course Daemon would choose her over Rhaenyra.
“We were happy enough,” he declared, his tone matter of fact.
Somehow, his dispassionate words cut her deeper than she had thought possible.
She had wanted him to say he had regretted it, that he had thought of her every day, that Laena had been nothing but a consolation prize.
Instead, he offered only this cold acknowledgment of a life they had shared.
“Well, I must congratulate you on such a great achievement,” she spat, the bitterness dripping from every syllable.
“You should not,” he countered, his voice dropping low.
“What does it matter when she was not the wife I had wished for myself?”
Her anger vanished in a cloud of sorrow.
That silly, love-struck girl returned with a vengeance, and she drew closer to him, unable to help herself.
“Then why did you leave me?” she demanded, the pain threatening to make her burst like an overripe melon.
“Why did you abandon me to that farce of a marriage, to a life of duty and loneliness and pretending?”
His impassive mask finally shattered.
The same dragon she had glimpsed on the night of her wedding feast burst free, his eyes blazing with a fire she had not seen in years.
He closed the distance between them, getting so close that their foreheads almost touched.
“Because if I had not, all the water in the world would not have been enough to wash the blood I would have spilled to make you mine.”
Silence followed his declaration, heavy and charged.
The silly girl was out in full now, gazing passionately at her daring uncle as scores of courtiers laughed and danced around them in her memory, celebrating an engagement they meant to break.
She should have been the one to drag him out of the throne room, to go to Dragonstone, to seal their union in fire and blood just as they were meant to.
Her hand shot up to rest on his navel, the warmth of his body seeping through the fabric of his doublet.
“Rhaenyra…”
“I am no longer a child,” she cut him off, her fingers reaching under his collar to caress the jagged scar he had sustained in the Stepstones.
The rough texture of it beneath her fingertips sent a thrill through her.
“Don’t.”
His words were not a rebuff, she knew.
They were a warning.
If she continued, he would finish what he had started all those years ago in the brothel, and then she would never be free of him.
Her hand closed around his nape, and she pressed his forehead to hers.
“I have waited ten years for you.
Please,” she whispered, drowning in the scent of steel and dragonfire that clung to him.
“Do not make me wait any longer.”
He granted her wish immediately, pressing his lips to hers.
She had expected passion, the same unbridled hunger he had ravished upon her the first time he had taken her into his embrace.
Instead, she was met with slow, sweet tenderness.
Somehow, that felt even more intimate.
His arms snaked around her waist, pulling her close, and she draped herself on him, kissing him harder, deeper, until neither of them could breathe.
The world fell away, leaving only the two of them on that empty beach beneath the moon.
At one point, they broke apart, and he seized her by the arm to lead her back up the slope.
There, the remnants of a marooned sailing barge lay half-buried in the sand, a forgotten relic of some long-ago storm.
They crawled inside, the closed confines of the wreck forcing them closer together.
He undid her laces slowly, following each string loosened with a kiss.
When his fingers dug beneath her underdress to trail down her back, she gasped and kissed his neck in response, her body responding to him with a hunger that surprised her.
This was how it was meant to be.
He was supposed to be her first, her only.
Her body responded to him as if he were.
When she pulled off his doublet and undergarments, her fingers were shaking with nervous inexperience, the same fluttering uncertainty she had felt all those years ago.
And when he pushed her down, pulling off her stockings and lifting up her skirts, her flesh trembled with anticipation.
Wet as she was, it still ached when he drove himself into her, a sweet pain that reminded her of what she had been missing all these years.
He was hers.
And she was his.
Ser Criston had claimed her maidenhead and fulfilled the curious affections of her girlhood.
Harwin had been a great love, a fearsome protector who reminded her of what it felt like to be desired.
But in the end, her soul belonged, and would always belong, to Daemon Targaryen.
The truth of those words consumed her, and she dug her fingers into his hips, urging him to go quicker and harder until she arched her back in pleasure and he had spilled his seed inside her.
Afterward, as they lay entwined on the sands, Rhaenyra wished it would take root.
The thought of another child, a little princeling to delight her twins and Joffrey, filled her with elation.
He would take after his father, she thought.
Dashing and brazen and handsome, with purple eyes and silver hair.
A Valyrian not just in name but in looks as well.
A child who would bear no questions about his parentage, no whispers about his true father.
She smiled into Daemon’s chin and drifted into sleep, wrapped in the warmth of his arms.
A mighty roar chased away her dreams of a little silver-haired babe.
She shot upright, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of their shelter.
Cold wind whistled through the wooden slats to nip at her bare skin.
To her horror, Daemon was not by her side.
Has he left me again?
The thought spread through her body like poison, and she quickly moved to lace up her dress, her fingers fumbling with the strings in her haste.
Relief bathed her in waves when she crawled out of the wreck to see a figure standing on the beach.
Daemon’s back was to her, his shoulder muscles taut with tension.
He stood motionless, gazing off into the dark waters beyond.
Rhaenyra attempted to shake off the sand from her garments and moved to join him.
“What is it?” she asked, casting weary glances around them.
The beach was as silent and deserted as it had been when they had come.
It sounded again, the same guttural shriek reverberating across the waters to bathe the entire island in its primal call.
In the distance, Rhaenyra glimpsed dark leathery wings circling High Tide’s ivory towers, a shadow against the moonlit sky.
It was Daemon who named the dragon, his voice barely above a whisper.
“We need to return,” he said, his voice hoarse with urgency.
“Vhagar has taken flight.”
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