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Daemon Targaryen had only been gone for a few days, but that didn’t stop Caraxes from roaring in delight as the towers of Dragonstone come into view. Dark and foreboding against the brilliant blue of the sky, the fortress juts out of the ground like giant slivers of dragonglass. To anyone else, the place would appear haunted, an island to avoid at all costs; but to Daemon, it is the only place he had ever truly called home.
Landing on the grassy knoll beneath the Dragonmont, Caraxes kneels down so Daemon can slide off of him. He runs a hand along the scarlet scales of the dragon’s long neck in affection before Caraxes flies off, most likely to go find Syrax. Having similar intentions, Daemon starts walking toward the Stone Drum.
While he was away, he had gone over the dragon tally again and again in his head like a mantra. Syrax, Caraxes, Meleys, Vermax, Moondancer, Tyraxes. Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Vhagar, Tessarion. “None of our dragons have been to war.” He recalls Rhaenyra’s words, though they weren’t entirely true. The burn scars that occasionally still ache across his chest and back serve as a constant reminder of his time in the Stepstones. But even though Caraxes had seen his fair share of battle, Daemon had to admit that a large portion of their dragons are barely old enough to saddle riders. And considering the loss of Luke and Arrax, the one-eyed cunt surely knew how to wield Vhagar like the ancient weapon she is. Daemon grips the hilt of Dark Sister at the thought, his knuckles turning white as anger and grief rise within him.
He hadn’t allowed himself time to mourn Lucerys except for the lone tear that had escaped while he had walked toward Rhaenyra with the terrible news. The double blow of losing Viserys and Visenya within days of each other had caused him to act too irrationally and ultimately lash out at the person he loves most in this world, his wife, his niece. And even though Rhaenyra had forgiven him, he would never forgive himself. No, the time for grieving Luke could come later, as he needed to be strong and level-headed for his queen.
He walks into the war room, surprised to find Rhaena curled up on a blanket by the fireplace. A few Queensguard skirt around the perimeter, but otherwise the room is empty, the Painted Table dark and deserted despite the early afternoon hour. His daughter looks up from the book she’s reading, her eyes tired and rimmed with red as they had been for the past fortnight.
“Father,” she says in greeting, offering up a small smile.
“Rhaena,” he replies, and after looking around the room he adds, “Where is everyone?”
“I believe Joffrey is in the library with Maester Gerardys, Baela is off with Moondancer, and Rhaenyra just returned not too long ago,” she explains.
“Returned?”
She looks up at him again, biting her lip, as if debating whether to tell him something. Finally, she says, “We believe she flew to Storm’s End again during the night.” He nods and sighs at the news, feeling utterly helpless.
Right before he had left for King’s Landing, they both had gone to Storm’s End to look for Luke’s remains upon the shore. She had been adamant to find some sort of proof that he was truly gone. After hours of searching, she had fallen to her knees, screaming out in anguish, and even Daemon couldn’t reach her in that moment. He knew then that Rhaenyra would never be the same and his heart had shattered for her, for them, for the wonderful life they had finally been allowed to build together.
Daemon turns to head toward their chambers when Rhaena’s next words stop him. “I went to the Dragonmont while you were gone.” He faces her again, unable to mask the shock he feels. “I stood outside the Great Tunnels for what seemed like hours, waiting to hear a dragon song call to me. Nothing happened,” she mutters, looking down in shame. “But I did try, Father. I tried for you.” He swallows the guilt he feels over the lack of connection they have with one another, knowing it is all his fault. However close they may have grown during their time spent together in the Dragonstone library the last few years, it still paled in comparison to the divide he had unintentionally crafted during her childhood.
He crouches down next to her and places a hand on her shoulder. “You cannot claim a dragon for me, you must do it for yourself.” She raises her head to look at him. “You have the blood of the dragon in your veins, Rhaena Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria. I ride Caraxes as your mother rode Vhagar; you cannot hope to ride and claim a dragon if your intentions are misguided. You must do it for you and you alone, and only then will you hear the dragon song.” He stands and grins down at her when he notices a renewed determination crossing her features. Squeezing her shoulder in farewell, he exits the room to go find his wife.
———
After nodding at Ser Erryk standing guard at the door, Daemon enters their chambers and immediately spots her standing at the balustrade that overlooks the sea. She stares blankly at the horizon, her silver hair swept back in a long, wind-disheveled braid. The smells of smoke and sky and lavender oil radiate off of her, ensnaring his focus and heart as they always do, for she smells like home. Silent tears trickle down her face, falling freely to the plum-colored riding leathers she still wears from her earlier flight with Syrax. Oh, my darling girl.
She turns her head at the sound of Daemon’s boots scuffing the stone floor as he moves to prop Dark Sister against the wall. Her eyes meet his, the same violet pools of sadness that had bid him goodbye a few days prior. He fights the urge to reach out and touch her belly as he approaches her, a gesture that had become second nature between them in the last six years as she swelled with child thrice over.
Rhaenyra steadies herself against him as their foreheads touch, his arms embracing her. “Daemon,” she sighs, the relief at his return palpable in her voice.
“My queen,” he whispers back, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand.
She clutches tightly to the sleeves of his doublet as she pulls back to look at him, steel forming in her gaze. “Is it done?”
“It is,” he replies, “Lucerys shall be avenged, as I promised you before I left.” She nods, her eyes downcast once more.
“Must you leave again?” she asks, her voice cracking on the last word. He swallows the despair that threatens to consume him, as he has no words of reassurance to offer her. They both know he must go to the Riverlands on the morrow to treat with Lord Grover, they had waited too long already.
“Shhh,” he soothes, rubbing slow circles on her lower back. “Let’s have Elinda draw you a bath.” As they wait for the tub to be filled, she only leaves his arms long enough to remove her leathers. He undoes her braid, running his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. He allows himself a small smile when she hums in satisfaction at his touch.
Once the bed of hot coals is put in place beneath the large basin, Daemon scoops her up and carries her over to the bath. She sits down in the steaming water and hugs her knees, the aroma from the wildflowers that float on the surface both comforting and familiar. When she beckons for him to join her, he sheds his clothing and settles in behind her, pulling her back against his chest.
He washes her slowly, paying careful attention to between her legs where discomfort surely still exists. When he gently cups her breasts from behind with both hands, she moans at his touch and to his chagrin, his cock starts to harden against her lower back at the sound.
“My body always betrays me when it comes to you,” he murmurs by her ear, still massaging her breasts, lightly trapping her nipples between his fingers. She huffs and arches against him as milk starts to trickle over his knuckles.
“I’ve certainly given it reason to over the years,” she replies quietly, looking up at him from where her head rests against his shoulder. A tiny glint of mischief sparks in her eyes but quickly fades away as she looks down at the droplets of milk, a stark reminder of what they had lost. Trying to bring her attention back to him, he hooks a finger under her chin and places his mouth on hers.
The kiss is a slow one, filled with everything they can’t bring themselves to say. Anguish, fear, grief, longing—all heightened emotions that translate to passion if they simmer long enough. Daemon can’t remember the last time they kissed like this, like they were the air each other breathes, certainly before Rhaenys shared the news that had altered their lives forever.
And so when he traces his tongue across her lips and she whimpers softly, he takes her waist and twists her easily in the water to straddle him so they can be even closer, even more wrapped up in each other. She hooks her legs around his waist and tugs his bottom lip between her teeth. He growls into her mouth as she rubs purposefully against the hardness she feels between her legs.
“Rhaenyra,” he hisses, pulling away to look at her, his own Valyrian goddess, water dripping down her skin, hair loose and cascading across her breasts. The years may pass but she’s more breathtaking than ever, the awe Daemon feels at her beauty no less than he felt twenty years ago.
“Please, Uncle,” she begs quietly as a tear falls unbidden down her cheek. She threads her fingers through the wet ends of his hair, fisting the strands to expose his neck to her lips. He hears the unspoken plea. Please never leave me. Please take this pain away before it consumes me. Please just for a moment, make me forget.
He can give her this at least.
He motions for her to stand up and quickly follows after, recapturing her mouth once more. His thumbs trace her nipples and she gasps into his mouth, wrapping her hand around his cock in response. He groans as she strokes him once, separating from her long enough to step out of the tub. He picks her up and carries her over to their bed, gently laying her down on top of the quilts.
The sun has yet to set, but he doesn’t plan on leaving this room until it rises again. He may not have words of reassurance and comfort to offer her, but he certainly knows how to worship his wife. He knows the safety and peace his arms can bring her, how his closeness can bring her strength, how his fire can help rekindle her own. He knows all of this because it’s the same for him, as they have always been twin flames of the same fire. We have always been meant to burn together.
Blanketing her with his body, he kisses every inch of her as she writhes for more beneath him. He aches to be inside of her but he knows it’s too soon so he settles between her legs, hooking his arms under her thighs. He places the flat of his tongue against her, moving his head back and forth, his cock twitching when she cries out in pleasure.
“Daemon,” she moans, the sound of his name on her lips making him palm himself for some relief as he continues to lick and suck at the apex of her thighs. Her peak catches her by surprise, her entire body growing taught, mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure washes over her in waves. He groans against her, stroking his cock as she comes down from her high. She pulls him up to her, kissing him, tasting herself as her tongue tangles with his own.
Reaching down between them, she bats his hand away, rubbing up and down the length of him, her thumb pressing against the spot she knows drives him wild. He grunts into her mouth, then buries his head into the crook between her neck and shoulder as he thrusts faster into her hand. He whispers her name when he comes across her stomach, gasping against the skin below her ear before resting his head on her chest.
They stay entwined like that for several minutes, slick with sweat and spend, breathing returning to normal as she gently smooths the hair from his forehead. Before they drift off to sleep, he gets up to grab a cloth to clean her with, wiping at himself as well before tossing it onto the floor. Climbing back into bed, he molds his body to hers, wrapping his arm under her chest to pull her closer to him. “Avy jorrāelan,” she murmurs, and he squeezes her tightly in response before sleep takes them both.
———
A roar cuts through the quiet of night, rousing Daemon from sleep. He carefully pulls his arm out from under Rhaenyra, her long silver tresses tickling his skin as they fall away from his chest. Grabbing his breeches, he quickly yanks them on as he makes his way to the balcony, the cool winds from the sea blowing the hair from his shoulders. Another roar booms amid the surrounding towers, one that is unfamiliar to him, yet Daemon recognizes it all the same, pride starting to course through his body.
He feels Rhaenyra walk up behind him, an echo of a moment from a twilight beach long ago. She drags her fingernails lightly across his back making him shiver. “What is it?” She whispers, kissing the burn scar below his neck. Before he can answer, the dragon soars close to them before diving away, its bronze scales gleaming in the moonlight. Elated, he spins around and kisses her, picking her up in the process. Laughter escapes from her lips, music that he hasn’t heard for almost a moon. He touches his forehead to hers, his words laced with hope.
“Rhaena has claimed Vermithor.”