Chapter Text
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It wasn’t often that Rhaenyra’s husband spent the whole night in her bed - and for good reason.
The Magnanimous King was said to harbor passionate feelings for his older sister, yet he was born a man and, as such, was plagued by other paramours who also needed his attention past nightfall.
Wine, dog combats, twisted bets.
A good fuck was often what he needed before returning to his lickspittles in the throne room or wandering to Flea Bottom in disguise - unless he preferred to visit the queen after, and comfort himself with her warmth.
Despite his grandfather’s warnings about how dangerous it was to leave the safety of the castle now that he was more than a prince of the blood, Aegon had stopped to listen.
If I am king now, Lord Hand, you shall mind your tongue rather than give me orders.
I was born for this, wasn’t I? You repeated it often enough in my childhood.
He would not be confined in the cold walls of the Red Keep - not the way his wife was, since she hadn’t taken lightly her crown being put on her half-brother’s head, barely a day after their father’s death.
A passing that remained quite suspicious, for despite leprosy slowly gnawing his flesh, Viserys had seemed quite in good spirits on the last day of his life.
You must understand, princess, Otto Hightower had said. It is for the good of the realm.
I am my father’s heir, Princess Rhaenyra had argued nonetheless, surrounded by men who had sworn themselves to her half-brother long before her father had died. Aegon and I are only five years apart, and he never cared to name him in my stead.
Your prerogative to rule died on the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the only ones who did not understand it.
With gritted teeth and no allies at court, the princess had been forced to watch her half-brother be crowned in her stead - and dragged to the altar on the same day.
A cunning way to convince the hesitant lords of Aegon’s legitimacy as king.
You will not be treated unkindly, Otto had promised. You will be given everything you might need.
As long as I give you what you need, Rhaenyra had retorted, bitterly. A son to secure his line.
The Hand had never cared to deny it.
⚔︎
The queen cared little for duty - as much as she cared to entertain her stepmother’s belief that a woman’s purpose was to be bedded and bred.
It had been two years since her wedding - almost two years since she had been locked up in this vault, a golden cage where she could not escape.
Where she could not even try. Not again.
You cannot keep me here, she had tried to bargain with her husband. Please.
Aegon was selfish, and childish, and immature - he liked to hold on to his sister like a child with a blanket. It was his mother’s despair, for she would have preferred him to remain cold, indifferent to her condition.
You give her too much power over you, Alicent often complained. Her whims hold you back like a leash around your neck.
Nonsense.
She’s the one who’s leashed.
Sometimes he felt like he was a dragon and Rhaenyra was his rider - he had bonded with her, chosen her, only granted her free rein as long as he remained in control. He kept the key to her vault with him at all times, holding on to it like a token of affection, a sign of winning her favor.
It was naught but the key to her cage, one that he refused to lend to anyone.
He would have loved to watch her walk the length of the Red Keep, content and bearing the many fruits of his loins - but Rhaenyra had tried to escape him, sneaked to the dragon pit like a thief, and was arrested before she could reach Syrax.
Aegon might be the master of her life; he still hadn’t found a way to become the king of her heart.
It mattered not. Time was on his side, he had no intention of ever letting her slip through his fingers.
You brought this on yourself, dear.
Rhaenyra’s eyes followed the sun rising, taking its time in the sky. Sunfyre roared, awakening at the same time as Aegon stirred, a hot, sweaty arm wrapped around his sister’s body.
“Hmm,” Aegon grunted as sunlight seemed to burn him, wine pounding in his head. “Gods be good, how early can it be…”
The queen grimaced as he took a deep breath, and pushed him away with the blankets reeking of sex and sweat, emphasizing his unpleased groaning.
She was quick to grab a shawl and throw it over her shoulders, her bare feet meeting the cold ground. It had rained for days, and for once, no gray cloud veiled daylight. The weather wasn’t yet kind enough to sleep with her windows open, even if the king had allowed it - and he certainly wouldn’t.
As she did not care to hoist the bed covers up to her husband’s chest, Rhaenyra looked outside. She didn’t mind him catching a cold or worse—he could very well shiver from sickness for all she cared—it might make room for a nice change.
“I must commission curtains for this fucking room,” Aegon mumbled, his naked body littered with goosebumps.
“No,” his sister barked, casting him a sharp glare. “You made me this fucking prison, you won’t enforce it with darkness.”
“I can’t bear to wake up that early.”
“Then you should spend the night in your own bed.”
While he mumbled something into his pillow, Rhaenyra stopped paying attention.
Her eyes remained on the scarce clouds, wondering if the rain would soon return. She ignored the grumbling of her belly, evidence of how hungry she was, for she wouldn’t break her fast with her husband in the room.
For more reasons than the sight of him killing her appetite.
Aegon rolled over, watching her from afar. She was so beautiful, her face kissed by the sun - how lucky he would be, should she ever pamper his skin with kisses, embrace him like a lover, moan his name whenever he would expertly thrust inside of her.
“You’re so fucking cold, it’s a wonder your cunt didn’t turn my cock into ice.”
Rhaenyra huffed.
“Find yourself a dead bride,” she replied. “A corpse has better chances of warming up to you.”
Reluctantly, he rose from the bed, his bare back bearing the scars of her nails, half-moons in daylight. They weren’t evidence of passion, no matter how much he wished for it and no matter if it was what he pretended whenever he would catch someone’s eyes locked on his occasional injuries.
The queen is the daughter of the dragon, he would say. I am fortunate to have so few wounds when she rides me so often.
The maids, the whores, the ladies he would corrupt out of spite, or lack of comfort, they would never dare lay their hands on the king. Always, they would lie on their backs, on their stomachs, whatever he preferred, and moan his name until dawn if he wished - but Rhaenyra did not mind slapping him, clawing at him.
If her bare teeth were sharp enough, she would have torn apart his throat.
In another life, he might have let her.
He gathered his clothes scattered on the ground, for she wouldn’t allow him to possess a wardrobe in this prison he had caged her in. A servant should have already brought up a tray - but no knock came on the door.
“Will you ring the bell for breakfast?”
But the queen did not answer.
Playing with the lace of her nightgown, she stood before the window, a deep frown carving her forehead as another beast started to roar.
“Rhaenyra?” Aegon insisted, clasping his hands on his hips, for there was nothing he despised more than her tendency to simply ignore him.
Yet she did, deaf to his calling.
Only willing to listen to the roaring.
It did not match her husband’s mount like Dreamfyre’s cries often did - and it wasn’t Syrax, chained in the darkness of the pit, calling for her, either.
That dragon song, echoing from afar, she knew by heart.
“Is that Caraxes?”
Aegon rolled his eyes, giving up the idea of conversation.
Perhaps he would even tell the maids not to bother with her majesty’s morning meal today, or forbid the cooks to prepare her something nice if it was even earlier than he feared.
“Yes,” he sighed, draining the half-empty goblet of wine abandoned on the table. “The Rogue Prince is coming back to King’s Landing today.”
The name made her widen her eyes.
“Daemon?”
The king sneered, not quite grasping why it startled her so much. Indeed, he had left the city years ago, abandoned the Red Keep despite King Viserys’ wish to remain in King’s Landing, and gone to fight in the Stepstones at the Sea Snake’s demand - but she ought to have known that even as a ghost, he would have ended up soaring above them again.
“He always returns, does he not?”
“You haven’t told me.”
His hand was already on the doorknob, commanding the Kinsguard to unlock the door and let him out.
“What difference does it make to you?”
He left without another cruel word, and the queen let herself fall on the windowsill, her heart heavy in her chest.
What difference would it make indeed.
The crown was robbed from her head, given to her husband - and she was made to wither in her cage.
Until she complied or until she died.
⚔︎
The whole court waited with bated breath for the Rogue Prince’s arrival.
Years had passed since he had last set foot on Westeros, leaving the capital behind in favor of war, choosing to support Lord Corlys in his battles against the Triarchy.
A thing the late King Viserys had forbidden, but a war Aegon hadn’t seemed to mind.
Let Daemon fight, he had declared once Otto Hightower had brought up the matter once he was crowned. Either he will win, or he will die.
No way to lose, with such a perspective.
Caraxes roared outside when he arrived, confident in each of his steps, a crown of wood on his head. The sight made Aegon smirk, but his Hand at his side did not seem to find it that amusing.
Alicent, Aemond, Helaena - they all said nothing as he reached Aegon, sitting on the Iron Throne. It must have seemed strange. The last time he had come here, Viserys had sat the mighty chair.
And had named his firstborn, his daughter, as his successor.
The Kingsguard moved forward to prevent him from stepping further, too close to the king. Aegon arched his brows, waiting to see what his uncle would choose to do - but all that he did was throw an ax on the floor.
It echoed through the room as it fell.
“Add it to the chair.”
An omen of war, yet a sign of submission.
Aegon liked that. His Hand - not so much.
Otto Hightower stayed close to the Iron Throne, clasping his hands before him.
“You wear a crown,” he stated. “Do you also call yourself king?”
The Rogue Prince smiled, shrugging his shoulders.
“When we smashed the Triarchy they named me King of the Narrow Sea...”
What an absurd title, Aegon wondered. Devoid of meaning. Like the Rogue Prince.
Meanwhile, Aegon was something else. Something more. A tale for the ages.
The firstborn of King Viserys, the one true heir to the throne. His crown was made of gold - his father’s crown, snatched from a girl’s hands by his own mother.
He cared not for the wooden circle around his uncle’s head, nor whatever he had styled himself on empty shores.
“But I know there is only one true king, Your Grace,” Daemon stated, earning Otto's frowning look. “My crown, as the Stepstones, are yours.”
If he suspected something was off, it wasn’t Aegon’s case. The boy king only grinned, content like a child being offered a new toy.
“I am very pleased to hear that,” Aegon beamed, and his grandfather cleared his throat.
“An unexpected surprise,” Otto remarked. “King Viserys forgave you, he welcomed you back at court - and you went to battle without his permission. This could be considered an open rebellion.”
“I only aimed to regain my place at my king’s side, Lord Hand,” Daemon pleaded. “His heir, now that he is gone.”
Queen Alicent cocked her head, wondering if he feigned the sorrow painted on his face. The Rogue Prince had been away when the late king had died, and he hadn’t made the journey to attend his funeral.
Even if he had not been invited.
Yet, it wasn’t Daemon Targaryen’s alleged grief that worried Otto Hightower - it was his demure manner to say his heir.
“King Aegon was crowned two years ago. You have not come to plead your allegiance at the same time as the rest of the great houses.”
Aegon reared his head back, bored by his grandfather’s way of always sensing schemes where there was only loyalty, always fathoming the worst when risks and dangers were at bay.
“War kept me away,” Daemon shrugged his shoulders. “I could not come back to court and bend the knee to my nephew without a gift, could I?”
“My uncle is a true warrior and a well-esteemed member of my family,” Aegon said before Otto could reply, and turned to him with a stern look. “I welcome him.”
Good Otto loathed the smile flashing on his foe’s face. Aegon might have been made a king, but he was still a child, no matter how he approached his nineteenth year. He still grinned at the prospects of new toys - and Daemon’s blade and clever comments looked like the perfect new form of entertainment.
A flaw that used to burden Viserys as well, keeping him close without thinking about what it would cost him.
“Rise,” Aegon said.
Daemon did, scouring the applauding crowd. He did not remember all the names, all the faces. It was no wonder - surely the most loyal ones had either fled or been rid of when Aegon had been crowned, in the stead of Viserys’ rightful heir.
Where are you, dear?
He didn’t find her in the room. Not at the king’s side, her husband’s side, nor hiding anywhere. Why would she even seek shelter in the skirts of those who had usurped her, spoiled her claim, he couldn’t explain - but then…
Where are you?
“Where is the queen, my niece?” he asked, keeping on searching the room. “I cannot find her anywhere.”
“She is…”
“Indisposed,” Otto replied, his chin up. With a quiet gaze, the Hand advised the king to stay quiet, to shut up in front of a man he didn’t know well enough.
Otto already doubted that Daemon could ever yield, or be loyal to anyone but himself. He couldn’t contain the most ruthless, rough parts of his nature for his brother; what was an estranged nephew compared to that?
But Aegon wasn’t that distrustful, and his grandsire’s antics only annoyed him beyond reason.
“Ah, yes. The queen is often indisposed of late. She is…”
“In confinement,” Alicent cut him off, a habit she had borrowed from her father.
There was no point in denying it, not trying to find smart words to cover the truth. Daemon was a snake, a demon in disguise. Surely he was already aware of Rhaenyra’s predicament - and delaying stating the inevitable only made them fools.
They were no fools; their dark schemes had worked all too well.
Aegon was king, as he was born to be. As Viserys should have made him, if he had been in his right mind, without leprosy eating his flesh and mind away.
And after all, it had been the new king’s design to keep the consort queen in a vault. Hence it had to be law. Nothing to be ashamed of - it was such a harmless whim.
What was best for the realm, given her tendency to try and escape.
Daemon hummed.
“Is there a happy reason behind this confinement?” he wondered, arching his brows. “Are congratulations in order?”
He knew that in the most ancient and pious families of the Reach, women were still expected to hide, to stay locked away while being with child. A silly, archaic tradition that the royal house had forsaken centuries ago - but it wouldn’t come as a surprise if the Hightowers had impressed upon her to respect it.
Would they even be against forcing her in her rooms, if they deemed it best to keep her as far from court as possible?
After all, you are your father’s rightful heir, dārilaros.
At that, Aegon balled his fists.
He only wished there was - but despite his attempts, his sister’s womb stayed endlessly empty.
“I am afraid there is not.”
Again, Daemon hummed.
“Well, you have been married for… two, three years? Forgive me, I am not a man to count on days.”
He didn’t like the sound of defeat, of shame. Surely it wasn’t his fault if seed hadn’t taken roots yet, for it was strong, and potent.
“The queen argues that the Mother guides us all to patience. In adversity, one must triumph.”
Though he hadn’t met Rhaenyra in years, Daemon couldn’t imagine her speaking of the Seven with that much reverence. She couldn’t have changed that much - even marriage couldn’t have uprooted her most ancient disdain for her septas’ lectures.
Yet, surely her stepmother had tried to inspire her with more piety - and reminders that the parts of women were to obey, to serve.
Princesses, most of all.
“Ah, the dowager queen, I presume.”
The title made Alicent clench her teeth. While she had never looked that fine next to Viserys - always angry, and bitter, her youth wasted on an older and sick man- treachery hadn’t worked in her favor, either.
Oh, the daughter of House Hightower had worked well. Always staying close to King Jahaerys’ as his health was declining, quickly comforting Viserys in his time of grief. His wife hadn’t been dead for six moons before he had remarried, giving Rhaenyra a stepmother who had despised her from the beginning - and almost immediately a half-brother who had felt entitled to her from his first day on earth.
It had taken years for Daemon to find his way back to court after being spurned, but Viserys had forgiven him. Rhaenyra had been ten and eight by then - and she had endlessly complained about her stepmother and siblings. Aegon, most of all.
They want me to marry him, she had sneered. I could have any suitor I fancy, my father gave me that right - and they believe I could not find a better match than a brat.
Who do you wish to marry then, princess?
I have no wish to.
You will have to.
Perhaps, but not for a long time.
Do not wait too long before making your choice, Daemon had advised her. Some other lords would be far more patient with you than your father.
If only she had listened to him.
“I would like the opportunity to pay my respects to the queen,” he declared. “It has been years since I saw her last.”
Otto was the one to answer this one.
“Alas, the queen doesn’t often take visitors. Except for her ladies.”
“Does she refuse them, or are they not allowed in?”
Both the Hand and the dowager queen worked their jaw. They had been against the Rogue Prince’s return ever since they were informed of his plans to return to court - and Aegon had longed for the entertainment.
While they both knew what to answer to that to remain proper and hide the little queen’s imprisonment a secret, a confinement, Aegon laughed.
He just laughed, took them both aback, and they were too surprised to speak another word.
“I have missed you, uncle,” he stated, grinning. “Life at court is awfully grim without you.”
Daemon smirked - he couldn’t say the same. Nothing was bright enough to enlighten life at court.
Nothing but one.
The king rose from his seat, still smiling. What did he know of war, of battle, of a warrior’s rest, when he hadn’t ever even taken to the lists for any tourney set in his favor?
What could he read in Daemon’s darkening gaze, when he knew nothing of storms, of tempests, sheltered in the Red Keep since birth?
“Dine with me, uncle,” he suggested. “It has been a long time since you have seen me, hasn’t it?”
“The king usually dines alone,” Otto intervened, but Aegon shut him up with a glare.
“I want to hear my uncle’s tales. He is rumored to have lived quite the adventure in the Stepstones.”
“And I would love to hear how my nephew became a king. That would be my pleasure, Your Grace.”
The deal was struck, and if the Hand and the dowager queen knew nothing good would ever come from the Rogue Prince, the exiled prince, the new king could do nothing but grin.
Like a man smiling at a noose.
⚔︎
In her vault, the queen waited.
It was neither in her habits nor in her nature to bite her nails when anxious; but her eyes remained locked on the sun, waiting for the night to fall.
By the time her husband returned, her hands were bloody, and the moon was high in the sky.
Rhaenyra jumped out of her bed as she heard the door open. She had been bathed, pampered, and wrapped in a silky nightdress. While she enjoyed the company of her ladies - her only company - they were also sworn to obey Aegon’s commands.
And her half-brother loved her when she smelled of expensive oils, of flowery salts.
What a joke, for he rarely made the effort to bathe before joining her.
“Where have you been?” she jumped to ask when he entered, a goblet still in his hand. “It is past midnight!”
“Goodnight to you too, sweetheart,” Aegon yawned. “I have missed you all day long.”
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, following him with her gaze as he let go of the goblet, letting himself fall on the mattress.
She hated how her ladies changed the bedsheets every day, how she napped and daydreamed in fresh linens all afternoon - all to see them soiled past nightfall, just because her husband never thought of taking off his dirty clothes before diving into her bed.
Not even taking off his boots.
“Get off of my bed,” she scolded him, tugging on his arm to make him slide and fall - but even with his head pounding, his muscles sore, and liquor still hot in his veins, he was stronger than her.
“Our bed.”
“My bed,” she maintained. “Answer me - where were you?”
Aegon grunted, lifting his arms as if surrendering.
“I had dinner with our uncle,” he confessed, making her scowl. “He was happy to be back, and all too eager to have a new audience to share his adventures.”
“He asked to have dinner with you?”
“Hmmm. Why does that surprise you, sweetheart? I am the king.”
Her heart clenched at the thought Daemon had bent the knee to him, and agreed to share a meal with him. Where was the man she had known gone - the one who found him dull, always eager to fall into his cups and utterly unable to maintain a proper conversation?
Aegon tilted his head.
“Did you wait for me?”
Rhaenyra scoffed.
“As much as I wait for winter.”
The king knew how little fond his sister was of snow to understand the slight.
“Come to bed,” he said. “Lest you would rather sleep on the floor.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Aegon glared, but in the end she complied. Her mind was preoccupied - it was plagued by her imagination. She thought of Daemon walking through the throne room, wounded by years of battles.
She thought of Daemon as Aegon took her in his arms.
She thought of Daemon as he demanded more, and she parted her legs, as duty demanded.
She thought of his thumb on her chin, on the day he had left court to go to war, eager to prove himself.
The king will hold me in better esteem when I return, he had promised. But the king had died, leaving her alone at court. Her throne ready for the taking.
She thought of his lips on hers as he had sealed this promise.
Rhaenyra had always known she was his favorite.
He had never cared to bond with his nephew - nor with Aemond, Helaena, or Daeron.
It had always been her. She was the one to whom he brought new gifts, and she was the one to whom he wrote when across the Narrow Sea.
Was it only when I was promised to the Iron Throne?
When I was unwed?
With a lump in her throat, Rhaenyra swallowed. She dug her nails in her husband’s flesh as he buried himself inside of her - and when she did, she thought of Daemon’s scared skin, too.
Bitter tears escaped her eyes, burning her like salt. She let them climb down on her face.
Perhaps her hopes had been nothing but a farce.
A jest.
A game.
Did it all really change when I was named heir to my father’s throne in your stead?
Was everything we shared a lie?
Perhaps Daemon thought she had gotten just what she deserved.
⚔︎