279 AC
Daemon Pov
I stood on a raised platform, allowing the servants to dress me with practiced precision. They draped a grand cloak over my shoulders—a rich, golden fabric that shimmered with an inner light, falling in regal waves down my back. Beneath it, I wore a surcoat in midnight black, expertly cut and lined with intricate patterns of red threading, subtle but unmistakable. Embroidered across my back, the three-headed dragon sigil blazed in lustrous gold, its heads intertwined in a fierce, almost hypnotic dance.
The coat beneath was crafted from the finest silk, its sleeves fitted and adorned with golden embroidery that spiraled like dragon scales down to my wrists. A heavy belt of worked leather and rubies cinched it at my waist, accentuating my form. Around my fingers, rings glinted—each set with a different precious stone—while at my chest gleamed the badge of the Hand of the King, a testament to my standing and authority.
My hair, left loose, cascaded down my shoulders in waves of silver and gold that caught the light with every slight movement. Draped across my chest, the strands blended seamlessly with the badge and the precious stones of my necklace, a gift from the court jewelers that glistened with rubies, sapphires, and emeralds.
At my hip rested Dark Sister, sheathed in a scabbard of deep crimson leather, encrusted with rubies that caught the torchlight, each stone flickering like a shard of fire. I looked in the mirror, a satisfied smile playing at my lips as I took in the figure before me—an image of power, elegance, and unmistakable charm.
"The only thing missing is a crown, my friend," came a familiar voice. Oberyn Martell strode into the room, his trademark smirk ever-present, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief.
At his words, Barristan stiffened beside me, and even the servants hesitated slightly, a flicker of unease crossing their faces before they masked it with disciplined composure.
"A crown would only ruin my hair, old friend," I replied, flashing him a grin as I turned toward the exit.
Oberyn chuckled, falling into step beside me. "The court is waiting for your first appearance, Daemon. The bards will sing of this day, and the maesters will write of the beginning of the Golden Prince's reign," he said, his tone rich with admiration.
"Stop buttering me up, Oberyn," I said with a soft laugh, feeling a thrill at his words.
Behind me was Barristan Selmy, ever-vigilant in his pristine white cloak of the Kingsguard. His presence was as reassuring as it was powerful, and at his side stood my retinue—the Golden Guard, the most skilled and fiercely loyal of my men, resplendent in their gilded armor. Together, we made a formidable procession as we approached the throne room.
As I entered the grand hall, the air grew thick with expectation. The chamber was packed with nobles from every corner of the realm, their gazes riveted upon me as I made my way through the crowd. My every step resounded on the stone floor, the clink of jeweled rings and the rustle of silk cloaks filling the silence. All eyes followed my approach, and the Iron Throne loomed ahead, its jagged edges and twisted metal almost seeming to reach out, awaiting my ascent.
I took a moment to glance toward the gantries, where I spotted my mother. Her gaze was proud yet laced with worry. And there, too, was Cersei Lannister, her expression conflicted, her eyes averting as she cast her gaze downward. The Lannisters stood nearby, with Lord Tywin's steely gaze fixated on me, Jaime at his side, and Lady Joanna beside them, her own look appraising yet unreadable. My attention then shifted to Elia Martell, radiant in her deep orange gown, her presence a graceful contrast against the iron and stone. My gaze drifted to Ashara Dayne, who looked like the Maiden herself, her violet dress accentuating her dark, enchanting eyes. Catching her gaze, I couldn't resist a quick, mischievous wink, which sent a ripple of whispers through the hall as some of the nobles caught it, their murmurs breaking the quiet with ripples of intrigue.
In front of the throne stood the members of the Small Council, each giving me a measured nod of acknowledgment as I passed. At the foot of the steps, Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, awaited me with a solemn expression. With deference, he moved aside, gesturing for me to ascend the steps.
As I climbed, the weight of each step became more profound, the magnitude of my position settling upon my shoulders like the cloak I wore. At last, I reached the Iron Throne, feeling its cold metal press against my back as I took my seat, Dark Sister resting proudly in my grip. The room fell silent, every face turned to me with a mixture of awe and anticipation.
Then came the call. "All hail Prince Daemon Targaryen, The Hand of the King!" The nobles erupted into cheers, their voices echoing throughout the hall as they chanted my name. I took it in with a measured smile, letting their enthusiasm wash over me before raising my hand, a signal that brought the crowd's excitement to a reverent hush.
The hall held its breath, every noble watching, waiting, as I leaned forward on the Iron Throne, a throne of blood and fire, jagged and deadly. I surveyed them, the whispers and sidelong glances stilled, each one straining to hear what sentence I, Daemon Targaryen, would pass today.
I raised a hand, silencing the murmurs completely. "I am not one to mince words," I began, my voice clear and unwavering. "Idle talk grates on my ears, so let us address what brought us all here today."
A ripple of tension washed through the chamber, drawing the eyes of even the most indifferent courtiers. "You have gathered here to witness the correction of an injustice," I continued, my voice growing sharper, each word laced with cold steel. "An injustice inflicted upon me by none other than my own blood, my brother."
The hush was absolute. Faces stiffened, jaws clenched. Even the whispers dared not rise.
"My father, the King, has entrusted me with this task," I went on, "and together, we have agreed on the punishment that awaits my brother Rhaegar Targaryen and his… wife, who, once upon a time, was promised to me." My tone was firm, the words calculated to bring the court to the edge of their seats.
Eyes shifted, casting nervous glances toward Rhaegar, though he was not here to bear the full brunt of their stares. I could imagine him now, awaiting his fate in solitude, wrestling with the choice that had changed everything. They thought I might seek vengeance, an outright act of violence, yet they were wrong.
"Exile," I declared, watching the flicker of surprise, disappointment even, cross a few faces. "My brother and his wife are to be exiled to Dragonstone, bound to remain there indefinitely. They will not be permitted to leave the island, not without express permission from the Crown."
The nobles shifted, some breathing sighs of relief, others seemingly perplexed by the sentence's mildness. But I was not finished.
"Additionally," I continued, voice dropping to an icier tone, "House Lannister will be required to pay a sum of three million gold dragons in reparation for the affront and their involvement in these... misdeeds." I watched the shock register, the blood drain from their faces. A murmur of disbelief echoed through the court, Lannister supporters paling as they realized the magnitude of the cost.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother, her face caught between pride and concern. A softening of her gaze, a lessening of her worry—perhaps I had reassured her that I would not stain the family's honor with bloodshed. She had always been afraid of that streak within me, the one willing to go to lengths most would deem… excessive.
"Some of you have been spreading rumors," I said, lifting my voice, my gaze sweeping across the hall. "Whispers of how I would castrate my brother, or send him in chains to the Wall. Others speculate I would force his wife—my former betrothed—to drink moon tea, to end the child growing in her womb. But rest assured, I am no kinslayer." I paused, letting the faintest grin touch my lips. "And I have no desire to see my blood brought low."
The tension eased, ever so slightly, though their eyes remained wary, unsure where this would lead. For all my brother's grievous transgressions, a part of me wanted him to learn—not in silence, in some forgotten cell, but publicly, in a spectacle that would be remembered.
"Actions, however," I said, voice dripping with a dark humor, "have consequences. No man, not even a prince, is above them."
I let that settle, watching them hang on my words, their eyes gleaming with anticipation, dread. "Thus, I declare," I said, my voice rising, "that Rhaegar Targaryen, the Crown Prince of the realm, shall walk the Great Sept of Baelor to seek forgiveness from the gods… and from the people he has disappointed."
A moment's pause. "Naked."
Gasps filled the hall as shock rippled through the crowd, a stunned silence stretching as nobles exchanged glances, brows raised in disbelief. A punishment so simple and yet, in its own way, utterly damning. Rhaegar would be stripped bare before the realm, his dignity laid low in an act of utter humility.
I relished their reactions, seeing the flicker of horror in some, the grudging admiration in others. I had no need to draw blood or threaten castration—this act would sear itself into their memories far more deeply than violence. It would stain his pride, leave a mark upon him that could never be washed away.
The nobles stared, wide-eyed, as I smiled, savoring their stunned silence.
I strode through the courtyard of the Red Keep, savoring the cool morning air as I approached the main gate. The murmurs of the assembled crowd grew louder as they caught sight of me, and I glimpsed Rhaegar surrounded by guards and septons, his fate sealed by his own reckless defiance. His head, once crowned with silken silver hair, was now shaved to a pitiful shadow of its former glory—a sight both satisfying and amusing.
As I drew closer, he lifted his gaze, his blue eyes shadowed with weariness and something deeper, perhaps regret. "You look dashing, dear brother," I taunted, letting a grin tug at my lips. His response was a cold, hard stare, his expression unreadable.
"Why are you doing this, brother?" His voice was steady, but I detected a hint of resignation in his tone, as though he knew the answer yet clung to some vain hope for mercy.
I scoffed. "To remind the realm of the consequences when one dares to make Daemon Targaryen a fool." My words were laced with venom, each syllable a barb meant to sink into his pride, his honor.
A clamor arose behind me as Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, struggled against his restraints. I approached him, noting the fury etched into his features, his jaw clenched as though to keep a torrent of curses at bay. I could almost pity him—almost. "Control yourself, Ser Arthur," I said, my voice sharp. "Your precious friend is receiving only what he deserves."
Arthur glared at me, his eyes bloodshot with outrage, but he remained silent. I leaned closer. "Did you forget the warning I gave you back in Duskendale? I saved this fool once—there will not be a second time."
Turning away from Arthur, I looked back at Rhaegar, noting the unease among the septons and guards. For what was about to unfold had never been done before: the Crown Prince, stripped of his dignity and compelled to walk before the masses, a public humiliation that would stain his legacy for all time.
As Stannis Baratheon and the Lord Commander of the City Watch rode up, I felt a swell of satisfaction. "My prince, everything is in order," Stannis reported, giving me a terse nod. I returned the nod, signaling the guards to proceed.
Rhaegar's robes were ripped from his body, leaving him bare before the crowd. His shoulders were rigid, his face a mask of steely resolve as he was led forward. A gasp rippled through the crowd, then an uproar of cheers and jeers followed as the smallfolk crowded closer, eager for a glimpse of the disgraced prince.
The guards parted, forming a path as Rhaegar was led toward the Great Sept of Baelor. I mounted my horse, positioning myself just behind him as his penance began. The crowd surged along the route, and soon the air was filled with flying vegetables—tomatoes, turnips, cabbages—rotten from market stalls, hurled with such force that they struck with wet, splattering sounds.
"Traitor!" someone yelled, and the cry was quickly taken up by others. "False prince! Betrayer of blood!" The people's hatred was palpable, their words stinging like the objects they hurled, each insult landing harder than any physical blow.
I caught glimpses of Rhaegar's face through the barrage. His expression remained blank, but there was a tremor in his clenched jaw, a flicker of something dark and wounded in his eyes. He kept his gaze forward, yet with every step, his dignity was torn apart, trampled beneath the mockery of the mob.
The septons walked beside him, tolling bells that echoed through the air, and with each toll, they intoned, "Shame." The word repeated like a curse, relentless, echoing off the stone walls and resounding in the spaces between us all. I savored the way the crowd roared at every bell, their voices growing louder, more frenzied as they reveled in the prince's suffering.
Now and then, Rhaegar's eyes flicked toward me, his stare full of unspoken accusations. I answered each glance with a smile, an almost sympathetic twist of my mouth as I tossed golden dragons into the crowd. The effect was immediate: hands shot up to catch the coins, even as people trampled each other in the mad scramble, their attention momentarily diverted from my brother's disgrace.
By the time we reached the steps of the Great Sept, the crowd's frenzy had reached a fever pitch. The High Septon stood waiting, a look of profound solemnity on his face, though his eyes flickered with something akin to intrigue. I dismounted, allowing myself a moment to savor the sight of Rhaegar, bruised and filthy, standing there for the world to see.
"Faithful people of the Seven!" I proclaimed, lifting my voice so all could hear. "The Father bids us to forgive the wicked, and in His mercy, I have chosen to forgive my brother."
I walked over to Rhaegar, stripping off my own outer cloak and draping it over his shoulders. "I forgive you, brother," I said, my voice dripping with mock compassion as I drew him close, my words a poison only he could hear. "No hard feelings, yes?"
He did not reply, only stared at me with an emotion I could not quite place—was it hatred, despair, or some twisted blend of both? I continued, smiling coldly, "After all, you deserve this, don't you?"
Then I leaned in, my voice a vicious whisper only he could hear. "Cheer up, brother. Soon, you'll be far away on Dragonstone, free to pump your little child bride full of more heirs to fill your empty legacy."
The words struck their mark, and I felt his body tense beneath my cloak. I released him with a casual push, watching as he stumbled, forced to regain his balance as he fought to maintain what little pride he had left. The crowd erupted once more, jeering as he was led away, the High Septon presiding over the final rites of his penance.
As Rhaegar disappeared from view, I mounted my horse, casting one last look at the frenzied crowd, reveling in the chaos I had wrought. History would remember this day—the day that Rhaegar Targaryen, the so-called Reckless Prince, learned that no one crossed Daemon Targaryen without paying the price.
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The sun had set over King's Landing, casting the Tower of the Hand in the soft glow of torchlight. Though not as vast or grand as the Great Hall, the small hall had a warmth that was its own, especially tonight. Tapestries hung along the walls, their faded colors brought to life by the flickering flames, while tables were laden with platters of food and goblets brimming with wine. Musicians filled the room with a lively tune, their fingers dancing across strings as couples spun and swayed across the floor.
I sat at the head of the hall, a goblet of rich Arbor red in my hand, surveying the scene. The wine flowed freely tonight, as did laughter, stories, and the kind of whispered gossip that only spilled when the highborn were in their cups. Today had been a momentous day, and the celebration was well-deserved. A smirk tugged at my lips as I lifted my cup, savoring the heady taste of victory and wine.
Across the hall, I spotted Stannis Baratheon. As always, he stood to the side, keeping a watchful distance, his goblet scarcely touched. He nursed his drink slowly, his eyes scanning the room as if ready to pounce on any breach of decorum. I admired his restraint—Stannis was the rare kind who found more satisfaction in discipline than in indulgence. And then, my gaze slid to Oberyn Martell, who was the very picture of indulgence. The Dornish prince was in his element, spinning across the floor with anyone who caught his eye, be they man or woman. He danced with a wild, infectious abandon that drew everyone's gaze. In his hand, a goblet of Dornish red sloshed with each twirl and dip, and his laughter rang through the hall like a challenge to the Seven themselves.
Around us, nobles raised their glasses and traded glances, some of them bold, others shy, but all curious. I noticed the way a few noble ladies cast glances in my direction, their smiles coy, their eyes lingering a bit too long. It was an unspoken game, a test of wills and desires that I knew well. They whispered behind their fans, giggling like maidens but with the knowing look of women who had seen their share of court intrigues. Some hid their interest, their gazes fleeting, yet others made no effort to hide their curiosity, watching me with a spark of mischief in their eyes. I sipped my wine, acknowledging their attention with the faintest tilt of my head, enough to keep them guessing.
Oberyn's laughter grew louder as he broke away from his dance partner and made his way to the table, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. He lifted his goblet, his voice booming over the music and chatter. "Attention!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the revelry. The musicians fell silent, the dancers paused, and all eyes turned to him.
He raised his glass, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before landing on me. "I would like to propose a toast," he declared, his voice rich with that Dornish accent that gave even his simplest words an edge of allure. "A toast to mark the reign of my dear friend, Daemon Targaryen!" A cheer rose from the crowd, and I could see the eager looks on their faces, curious to hear what Oberyn, in his characteristic wit, might say next.
He flashed a grin, savoring the attention. "May his reign be long and plentiful, just as plentiful as the women he likes," he said with a wicked smirk, his tone a perfect blend of teasing and admiration. Laughter erupted, and I couldn't help but chuckle as I raised my goblet in acknowledgment. Oberyn had a way of saying the unsaid, of laughing in the face of propriety without breaking a sweat.
But he wasn't finished. He held up his hand, waiting for the laughter to settle before he continued. "Daemon Targaryen—a man of strength, wit, and unbreakable spirit. A man who knows how to wield power with as much grace as he wields a sword, and a man who has never once hesitated to fight for what he believes in. Even if that belief is simply that the wine flows a bit too slowly!" More laughter filled the room, and I felt the warmth of camaraderie settle over me. It was a rare thing, to be praised with such bold honesty in a hall full of allies and rivals alike.
Oberyn's gaze softened as he spoke, and there was something genuine in his tone. "I have fought beside him, laughed beside him, and, gods know, I have drunk beside him. So let us all raise our cups and drink to Daemon—a friend to those who earn his friendship, and a terror to those who do not. To Daemon Targaryen!"
The crowd echoed his words, their voices filling the hall with a roar of approval. "To Daemon!" they shouted, their cups lifted high, wine spilling over the rims as they toasted. The musicians struck up a lively tune once more, and the hall returned to its fevered revelry.
Oberyn took his seat beside me, his expression alight with the satisfaction of a well-delivered speech. He clinked his goblet against mine, smirking. "You do know how to make an impression, my friend."
I raised an eyebrow, mirroring his smirk. "And you know how to turn a simple toast into a spectacle."
He shrugged, taking a deep gulp of his wine. "Spectacle is what they crave," he said, gesturing to the dancers who had taken up their places once more, spinning in pairs and trios across the floor. "And who am I to deny them?"
The night wore on, the hall growing warmer with the mingling of bodies and the heat of torches. Servants moved between tables, refilling goblets and replacing empty platters with fresh meats and pies, while laughter and song filled every corner. I felt a pleasant buzz from the wine, a softening of the edges that made the colors of the room seem richer, the laughter louder, the music sweeter.
In the distance, through the laughter and chatter of the hall, I saw a familiar silhouette moving toward me, her presence commanding attention even in a room full of nobles and knights. A smile curved on my lips as she approached, her dark skin gleaming in the firelight, her dress a vivid green that hugged her figure, leaving little to the imagination.
"Well, if it isn't the lady who owns every brothel in King's Landing," I said with a grin, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her fingers.
"Congratulations, my prince," Chataya replied smoothly, her accent rich and alluring, like a warm breeze from the Summer Isles. "On your new title as Hand of the King," she added, her gaze steady as she looked up at me, though I could sense something heavy in her eyes. She held her confidence, but there was a gravity in her expression that stirred my curiosity.
"My lady," I said, holding her hand a moment longer, "you honor me with your presence. To what do I owe it?" I didn't miss the way her dress clung to her every curve, the faint hint of perfumed oils lingering around her, rich and heady.
Her eyes darkened as she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "My prince, I wish to speak with you—in private." There was a subtle urgency in her tone, a hint of concern beneath her elegance that piqued my interest. I gave her a reassuring smile, guiding her away from the bustling hall and toward a secluded balcony that overlooked Blackwater Bay.
Once we reached the balcony, the sounds of the feast faded behind us, and a soft, cool breeze drifted in from the water. I turned to Chataya, my gaze sweeping over her as the moonlight outlined her figure. The gentle light played on her face, highlighting her full lips, her high cheekbones, and the softness in her dark eyes. I moved closer, brushing a hand along her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the silken fabric of her dress.
Without a word, I leaned in, catching her mouth in a kiss, tasting the sweetness of wine on her lips as I pulled her closer, my hands roaming over the curve of her waist, slipping lower as my desire for her flared. Her scent enveloped me—spices and exotic oils from the Summer Isles, intoxicating, each breath pulling me deeper into her.
"Daemon," she murmured against my lips, her voice breaking through the haze of desire. She placed her hands on my chest, pressing gently to hold me back. "Listen to me." Her eyes held mine, serious and intent, but I let my lips trail down to her neck, savoring the warmth of her skin, unable to resist her scent, her touch, her very presence.
"I'm listening," I murmured between kisses, barely able to pull my attention from her, my hand moving down her back, tracing the smooth lines of her body.
"Daemon," she said again, more firmly, her hands holding my face as she tilted it up to look at her. "You have to be careful." There was a tremor in her voice that caught my attention, her gaze flickering with a worry I hadn't seen before.
"What do you mean, Chataya?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as I leaned into her, letting my hands wander over her hips. The silk of her dress was like water beneath my fingers, and my pulse quickened with each touch.
She sighed, taking a breath as she collected herself, her hands resting against my chest as if to keep a fragile barrier between us. "The Lannisters are your enemies, Daemon," she whispered. "There are whispers, rumors, spreading across the city. What you did to your brother… the nobles say that Tywin Lannister will strike back, that he won't stand for it. They say there will be another Dance of Dragons." Her voice softened, but I could sense the fear lingering in her words.
I let out a low chuckle, brushing her concerns aside with a wave of my hand. "Do not trouble yourself with such worries, my dear," I said, my hand gliding up her arm, brushing her shoulder, slipping along her collarbone as I leaned closer. "My brother is broken, powerless. He wouldn't dare rebel against me."
"But it's not just him," she insisted, her gaze hardening with urgency. "Tywin Lannister and his allies… they're waiting for you to make a mistake, Daemon. They're waiting for a chance to take what you've built, to turn the people against you." Her voice was steady, but I could feel her heart racing beneath my hand as I held her close.
I tilted my head, letting my lips brush the curve of her shoulder as I murmured, "The people know I'm their rightful ruler. They respect power and strength, not weakness." I traced my fingers along her arm, drawing her closer until her seriousness began to melt under my touch, her breaths becoming shallower.
She hesitated, a sigh slipping past her lips as my hands moved to her waist, pulling her close, the warmth of her body pressing against mine. "I worry for you, Daemon," she murmured, her voice soft, her resistance faltering as my hands roamed lower, gripping her hips. I could feel her tense and then relax, surrendering to my touch even as the last flickers of concern lingered in her gaze.
Her breaths quickened, and I brushed a thumb along her cheek, my other hand tracing a slow line down her spine. "You have nothing to worry about, Chataya," I whispered, my voice low as I looked into her eyes, watching her resolve waver. "I am the prince, the Hand of the King. They cannot touch me."
She let out a soft, shaky breath, her hand resting against my chest as if to steady herself. "You gave me everything, Daemon," she said, her voice filled with emotion. "I was just another woman from the Summer Isles, lost in a foreign city, alone in this world… and you gave me a place, gave me respect." Her eyes softened as she looked at me, her fingers tracing patterns along my collar, as if trying to ground herself in this moment.
I smiled, my thumb brushing her cheek, watching the tension fade from her expression. "And now I have you here, by my side," I murmured, letting my hand slide lower, tracing the curve of her waist, feeling the soft shudder that went through her as my fingers grazed her skin.
"Daemon," she gasped, her hands gripping my shoulders as she tried to steady herself, a blend of desire and worry flashing in her eyes.
Her concern had almost melted away entirely, replaced by a breathless need that matched my own. Her hands slid up my chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as she leaned closer, her lips parting as she caught her breath, her earlier worries buried beneath the intensity of the moment.
Her words lingered in my mind, but they felt distant, lost in the soft press of her body against mine, in the intoxicating pull of her presence.
"I want you right here," I murmured, my voice thick with desire as I traced my fingers along her jaw, watching as a faint blush rose on her cheeks. Chataya's gaze softened, but a small, teasing smile played on her lips.
"As much as I want you, Daemon," she whispered, her tone laced with caution, "I doubt it would make a good impression if the Hand of the King were to… indulge himself here on the balcony." She glanced toward the open doorway, where faint sounds from the hall drifted out into the night.
I let out a low chuckle, leaning closer, feeling the warmth of her body radiate against me. "Let them talk," I said, my hand trailing down her side, resting on the curve of her hip. "I am the Hand, after all. If I cannot enjoy my own celebration, what's the point?"
Chataya's lips parted as I closed the distance, my mouth capturing hers in a deep, lingering kiss. Her arms wrapped around my shoulders, drawing me closer as her initial resistance melted away, giving in to the fire that sparked between us. I pressed her back gently against the cool stone railing, the night air crisp around us, heightening every sensation. Her hands found their way to my chest, sliding up to rest against my neck as she tilted her head, her lips parting, inviting me in deeper.
My heart raced as I pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, the moonlight casting her features in a soft glow that made her even more captivating. I could see the same longing reflected in her eyes, mingling with a flicker of excitement that mirrored my own.
"Daemon," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper as I let my hands slip down to her waist, holding her firmly against me. I traced my thumb along the edge of her dress, feeling her shiver beneath my touch.
"We'll make our own privacy," I replied, letting my hands roam over her, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. I pressed another kiss to her lips, slower this time, savoring the softness, the taste of wine mingling with her own sweetness. She responded with equal fervor, her hands slipping down to my waist, her fingertips grazing my skin, sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine.
I guided her to sit on the edge of the balcony, her legs wrapping around me instinctively as I moved closer, the heat between us building with every shared breath, every soft touch. She looked up at me, her eyes dark with desire, her earlier restraint now replaced by something far more primal.
"Daemon," she whispered, her voice a soft plea that drove me nearly mad with desire. I met her gaze, brushing a lock of hair from her face before pressing a line of kisses along her neck, savoring the warmth of her skin, the way her pulse raced beneath my lips. She tilted her head back, a soft sigh escaping her as my hands slid down her back, pulling her closer, letting every other thought slip away until it was only her, only this moment.
The world around us faded, the sounds of the hall and the distant city disappearing into the night as we lost ourselves in each other. I held her close, each movement drawing us together, filling the quiet night with whispers and sighs, letting passion replace words until we were both breathless, caught in the fire we had ignited together.
Chataya leaned close, her breath warm against my ear as she spoke softly, "I have a surprise for you. Consider it a gift from my side, my prince." Her voice was smooth and inviting, with a glint of mischief in her gaze that made my pulse quicken.
"Hmm, I love a good surprise," I replied, letting her hand guide me toward the Tower of the Hand, where I often retreated to private quarters. She held my gaze, her expression one of quiet confidence, as though she knew precisely what awaited me.
As we entered the room, two women awaited us—one with golden hair that framed her face like a halo, the other with dark, raven-black locks that fell in soft waves over her shoulders. Each woman had her own unique allure, yet both shared a quiet confidence as they watched me approach, their eyes glinting with anticipation. The soft glow of candlelight danced along their forms, casting a warm, amber light over the room.
Well it was going to be a long night and let it be known that I always made time for my dear subjects.
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In the soft light of morning, I slowly blinked awake, feeling the warmth of Chataya's body curled against mine. I gazed around the room, now littered with the remnants of last night's pleasures—a tangle of sheets, discarded clothing, and two other women still sleeping soundly. Memories of our indulgence drifted back, and a contented smile crossed my face as I gently kissed Chataya, waking her with a whisper.
But our private moment shattered as a sharp knock resounded at the door. I sighed, reluctantly letting her go as I reached for my robe, giving the blonde's thigh a quick, playful squeeze on my way to answer it. I opened the door, and my heart lurched to see my mother, Queen Rhaella, standing there. Her gaze was steely, intense, and behind it, I could sense the anger simmering.
I looked past her at the guards stationed in the hallway, who immediately averted their eyes. There was no avoiding this; she was coming in, and I could only watch as she stepped inside, taking in the scene before her. Chataya and the other women began to cover themselves in haste, offering hurried bows as they mumbled, "My queen."
My mother's gaze softened on them briefly, but the ire in her eyes returned as they landed on me. Her voice was sharp and cold.
"What has become of you, Daemon?" she demanded. "What kind of man are you, to do that to your own brother?"
Her words rang out, heavy with a mother's disappointment. "You paraded him naked to the Great Sept of Baelor! Have you completely lost your mind?" she shouted, her voice trembling with fury.
The mention of Rhaegar's public humiliation flickered through my mind, but I felt no guilt. I stood my ground, looking at her with an expression void of remorse. "He deserved it, Mother, after what he did," I replied coldly, my tone unmoved by her anger.
"You drown yourself in women and wine as if there's no tomorrow. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" she continued, her words laced with a mixture of scorn and sorrow.
I nodded to the blonde and the dark-haired woman. "You may leave," I instructed them. They hurried from the room, leaving only Chataya, who lingered beside me. I met my mother's gaze without flinching.
"Chataya stays," I said firmly, watching as she observed the Summer Islander's beauty with barely concealed distaste. I turned back to her, my own voice now growing sharper. "I am not ashamed, Mother. Quite the opposite—I am proud of what I've achieved."
She stared at me, appalled. "Proud? Of humiliating your brother? Of the debauchery you bring into this palace? Daemon, you're tearing this family apart!"
I laughed bitterly. "You think I'm the one tearing this family apart?" I took a step closer to her, my voice dropping to a dangerously low pitch. "Did you know, Mother, that I was the one who orchestrated the death of Grand Maester Pycelle?" I let the words hang in the air as she gasped, her face going pale with shock.
Her voice trembled. "You… you had Pycelle murdered?"
"It was Oberyn who delivered the poison," I continued, unfazed by her horror. "But yes, it was on my orders. The man was trying to poison Father, did you know that?" Her face twisted in disbelief, her hand flying to her mouth as if to stifle a scream. "And who do you think commanded it?" I pressed on. "None other than Tywin Lannister."
She shook her head, struggling to comprehend. "Daemon, you have no idea of the powers you're meddling with," she whispered.
"No, Mother," I said coldly, "it is you who does not understand. You're nothing but a pawn in this game, and you'll never see the hardships I endure to protect this family." My voice softened as I tried to explain. "Everything I do, all the sins I carry, are for House Targaryen. When I die, I will leave our house stronger than ever. I will make the people remember why it is the Targaryens who rule the Seven Kingdoms and not the Starks, or the Tyrells, or the Lannisters."
Her expression shifted, her sorrowful eyes becoming misty, and for a moment, I saw something fragile in her gaze—some unspoken pain. She took a step back, clutching her hands together.
"Aerys will never seek you out again," I added, my voice softening. "You no longer have to endure his cruelty, his neglect. I'll ensure he's kept busy with wine and whores. You can focus on raising Daeron and Viserys in peace." I tried to convey that, in my own way, I wanted to protect her too.
But as I spoke, her expression didn't soften. She seemed to absorb my words, and a deep hurt etched itself across her features.
"You think I care only for your brothers, don't you?" Her voice cracked as she spoke, and the sight of her vulnerability sent a pang of guilt through me. "That I see them as my only sons?"
I felt a sharp, bitter smile tug at my lips. "Am I wrong, Mother? All my life, I have been your greatest shame." The words slipped out before I could stop them, and a tense silence hung between us. I regretted them as soon as they left my mouth.
She reached up, almost reflexively, as if to touch my cheek, but let her hand fall back, defeated. "Daemon, I…" Her voice trembled. "I have always loved you, even when I didn't understand you." Her voice softened, almost breaking. "Even if you cannot see it, even if you think I have failed you—I love you, my son."
The words hung in the air, cutting through my defenses. I watched her as she turned and walked to the door, pausing only briefly, as if she wanted to look back at me one last time. But she didn't. And as the door closed, a hollow ache settled in my chest.