my cup runneth over - Chapter 29 - AmazingAngie (2024)

Chapter Text

☀️ Chapter Twenty-Nine ☀️

{follows events of chapter fourteen}

{runs parallel to events from chapter thirteen, sixteen, and twenty-eight}

⚡ Daemon ⚡

⚡☀️ 🌥️ 🌙

Gods, he was tired.

Traveling was tiring.

He had not realized this until he returned to King’s Landing, until he returned to a place where he always had a bed waiting for him, along with the promise of privacy, good conversation, and good company.

The best company, really.

He had grown used to traveling and had accepted the strange pattern in terms of sleep, diet, culture, and language as a sort of unpredictable normal. For years it had been all he had known and he had forgotten the simple pleasure that came with being at— feeling at— home.

He hadn't thought he even had a home.

But he did, Rhaenyra had reminded him of that, she had given him that, and now he had been home. He had been there for the better half of a year.

He had never been happier.

And then, he left.

Now…he was just... exhausted.

This had been tolerable when he thought it was the best path for him, when he thought nothing better existed. But now he knew better— he knew the best and everything else paled in comparison but—

She wasn’t his.

She couldn’t be.

He couldn’t stay.

(He wished he had stayed.)

⚡

Laena was wonderful.

Away from court, she was rather like her brother—charming, flirtatious, and a sort of positive force he was grateful for, really, because without her he likely would have found a tavern and spent weeks drinking his pain away.

But she didn’t let him.

(Not at first, at least.)

But, part of him resented her, because if she had not asked him to leave, he wouldn’t be here.

He would still be happy.

That wasn’t fair, and he knew it. He had been the one who agreed to come. It was his choice to leave and he would not blame his cousin for instigating a mess he had made on his own.

Or at least, he would try not to.

Laena was a Targaryen, that much was obvious in her looks, her dragon, and her lust— so much lust that she sought to satisfy it outside of… whatever they were. She had been rather apologetic when he caught her tangled up with a barmaid, breasts bared while both women were panting.

But gods, he had been so relieved.

He didn’t want to disappoint another woman with his turmoil about the future. Especially not one like Laena who was far too lovely to settle for a man who felt as though they were settling for her.

He had tossed her the key to their room, “If you aren’t done in two hours I’ll be forced to join you.” He warned, pleased to see her expression of worry change into something rather joyous, lips curling into a lovely smile as she nodded in agreement.

⚡

They weren’t done in two hours.

He was rather disappointed, though unsurprised, to discover that two women pleasuring him at once could not compare to the one he actually wanted.

⚡

He dreamed about her that night.

It felt so real. So right.

So much better than the reality he had lived that night.

It was cruel, that sleep was not even an escape from his thoughts.

(So, he just… stopped.)

No more than two days later Laena commented, “You aren’t sleeping enough.”

It was true. He just hadn’t realized it until he had stopped traveling.

Until he had found a home.

“Didn’t you spend years traveling?” She asked, sounding confused.

“I did,” Though he had been hoping she wouldn’t point that out.

“You can’t have spent years with no sleep.” She argued.

“I didn’t,” He admitted, “I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

(He didn’t.)

The first letter from his father came, though nothing of interest, and there was no mention of her. He sent his response from the port of Tyrosh, along with where they would be going next.

⚡

They stayed with the reigning Archon of Tyrosh for nearly a fortnight—the man had been a captain for decades before settling down with his riches and earning his title. He was a boisterous man who had the sort of stories that could entertain crowds and company for years with how plentiful they were.

His children had grown up on the decks and had a great deal in common with Laena, too, which made for pleasant banter. Titles were of little consequence and had little bearing on one’s behavior when being raised among sailors.

On that first night, it was the Archon’s youngest son, Roro, that came to Daemon’s door— that was a welcome surprise. Men were not his usual preference, but the act was different enough with them that he would not be comparing it to what he had done with his princess.

It wasn’t what he wanted. It was… wrong.

(It was better than thinking about her.)

Ship captains always had ease of access to the best of things—produce, spices, textiles, whatever it was they imported. But the Archon did not earn his place or waste time transporting cloth. The real coin was found in trading tinctures and slaves.

Daemon had no use for the latter—but he had a request for the young man who ended up in his bed, who agreed with a nod and grin. It was hardly a big ask for Daemon had traveled enough to know that potions were as varied as the food was across Essos.

(They made being awake easier, too.)

By the end of that first month, he and Laena spent their nights abed with those of their own sex rather than each other. It seemed they were employing the same tactic for forgetting their troubles, a fact they admitted over a bottle of ale far stronger than the label suggested.

“He was not cruel but…he…I did not like him enough to like anything we did, in any capacity. I wish for adventure and experience more than I wish for women but it is much easier to trust their hands than a man’s, ” She said with a sad smile.

“I enjoyed your hands a great deal, as you know! And your co*ck too!” She said, giggling at the mention of their exploits. “I think, if we were wed—I would like what we did in nearly every capacity. You are good company, cousin, but I wish for a great deal more variety in my company than one man or marriage can offer me.”

He swallowed, how funny it was, for their solution to ease the lingering taste of past experiences was the same, yet their reasons were so different.

“I liked her too much.” He said, “Far too much given the circ*mstances, because they were cruel, even though she was not, and yet—” He swallowed the lump in her throat, “I find I can wish for nothing else but her. I compare everything to her. There are fewer reminders in the flesh of a man.”

Laena looked surprised—gods, she was good company, but she was not perceptive at all. Apparently, until that moment, she had not the slightest idea that he had left behind something at all, much less someone.

“Who was she? What circ*mstances? You are the King’s son! His second son . I would expect you to have the standing and ability to overcome nearly anything to have the woman of your choosing." She said, her brow furrowed.

Gods, he almost wanted to laugh, because she was right, wasn’t she? His father had annulled his first marriage, and had let him do what he wanted for the better part of a decade. If he wished to marry a whor*, a serving girl, or a lady, it would not matter. If she wanted him to, marriages could be dissolved, alliances could be forged elsewhere, and men could be paid off…

His father was King, and his father loved him. No woman would be off limits to Daemon under his rule—not even her, the woman his father loved far more than anything else that lived on this earth.

But she was off limits when it came to marriage, as she was already married to his father.

That would be the one he wanted, of course. But wanting— wishing— it didn’t change the reality of things.

“It doesn’t matter who she is,” He said, finally, “She has a husband.”

Laena tilted her head, “Does she not return your fondness, then?”

Now he did laugh though it was a bitter thing, “No. She returned my fondness with a great deal of passion. She said she loved me.” He said, the word barely a whisper, for he had not uttered it out loud—not even in the privacy of an empty room, “But she loves him too, and she was his wife first.”

Laena sighed, “How very tragic. But do not lose faith, cousin, perhaps she will have the luck I did! Well, assuming her husband is prone to drunkenness and never learned to swim…”

He snorted, that was the most tragic part of all, in a way—he could not imagine a better outcome than this, than what he was living, even if it was rather dreadful. Because he did not want his father to die, he loved his father, and the way Rhaenyra loved him…his death would devastate her in a way he could never wish for, even if it allowed him to have her.

He could not wish for her to leave his father, either, because gods, Rhaenyra was everything to him. She had given him the will to not just live but to love again, in a way no other had been capable of since the Stranger took his first wife.

The Stranger had taken so many from his father, and he had suffered for so long— if anyone deserved to have someone they loved by their side, it was his father.

Baelon deserved to be happy.

He deserved Rhaenyra.

But Daemon…gods, he wanted to be happy, too.

Did he deserve it, though?

Whether he deserved her or not, Rhaenyra claimed to love him, too.

He had tried to tell himself that her love was a lie. But…he had felt her love, and he had seen it long before she actuallysaid the words to him.

He hadn’t said them back.

But he had felt that too.

He tried to tell himself he didn’t— it would be so much easier if he didn’t love her.

He tried to tell himself he didn't need her, and that she didn't need him.

⚡ ⚡ ⚡

“I would not have realized your moods were so…remiss if I had not witnessed your tears that night.”

“Mm, I take that as a compliment, you know?”

“It isn’t one.”

“It is to me, I have worked hard to keep such things to myself.”

“Why? You are so…you, when it comes to everything else, regardless of what is proper. But in this, you suffer alone.”

“You know, in court sometimes I feel no better than a heifer—and no matter how strong, if they fall behind the herd, they will be killed off. Weakness is their downfall, which is why they hide their pain, it is how they survive the reality of being prey, and how I survive it, too. It is dangerous for a woman in society to so show such things—especially when she is Queen.”

“I cannot imagine anyone killing you off.”

“As long as I stay sharp in this regard and keep up with the herd then I imagine I shall be quite alright.”

“I think you, princess, do more than that—you walk ahead of all others.”

“Mmm, you are sweet, lēkia. But perhaps that is just as dangerous…whether trudging ahead or falling behind, one is alone, aren’t they? A target for predators.”

“You aren’t alone, Rhaenyra.”

“I know—I have you beside me, don’t I?”

“Mhmm…you could have me inside of you, too, if you wanted.”

⚡ ⚡ ⚡

She needed more than just his father, that much had been clear to him almost immediately. No matter how much one man loved her, it was not a large enough herd to protect her. It was not enough to make her comfortable showing how she hurt, for who would help her heal?

It didn’t seem clear to anyone else, though—well, he thought Baelon was rather aware of it, but what could he do, truly? She did not wish to depend on him in such a way. And outside of him…not even her sister seemed to realize just how threadbare the young Queen’s support system was in some regards.

Before Daemon, she had no one to patch her up, save for herself, so she simply…hid those bits behind a closed door, her teary cheeks and torn bits out of sight and out of mind for the entire world outside of her chambers.

She hadn’t hidden from him.

She had let him see her like that, let him comfort her, and let him hold her.

She deserved that, and she needed that—needed more than she had known before he entered her life. She had survived without him before, and she could do so again, but now that he was gone...he did not think she would thrive to her full potential.

What a f*cking tragedy that was, too.

She was beautiful and confident and so good at hiding her weaknesses, but they were there, and without them being tended to they would only grow bigger and someday they would surely overwhelm her unless she had someone too—

She didn’t need him.

Maybe that was true, but she needed someone like him in her life, and she was not lacking men who desired her attention, ones who would give it in return, who would f*ck her and—

His eyes stung, gods, he hadn’t considered that.

It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t change things.

But the thought of her replacing him—the thought of someone else having free access to her rooms, to her body, to drying her tears, to hearing her sobs and sleepy moans and feeling the clench of her c*nt as she came at all hours of the day…

His father had that, he supposed, and more, but that—that had been different— because they may have shared her in some capacity, but they did not have the same role in her life.

But who was to say she wouldn’t find someone else who filled the role he had played over the past many months? He should want her to, shouldn’t he? For he knew she needed that and if he wasn’t willing to provide it—

It shouldn’t hurt this much.

He needed another drink.

(He needed her. )

⚡

⚡

A different port, a different poison, schmoozing with a different lord. It was different, but the same.

This one had daughters, so many daughters, and none we overly comely but the one he was seated across from that night laughed and— it sounded so much like her laugh.

He had dropped his fork rather clumsily in his surprise, apologizing with a grin to the girl who wasn’t her that made her flush a pretty shade of pink.

She wasn’t as pretty as her, either.

No one was as pretty as her.

Was he going to be tormented like this forever? With thoughts of her laughter?

He shared his words with Laena that night—and asked her the questions that plagued him. She squeezed his shoulders and sighed, “No—someday you will forget the sound, bit by bit you’ll forget about her, and then you can move on. I’m certain of it.”

He felt cold at the mere thought—the thought of not remembering the sound of her happiness.

Of not remembering her smile or the way she kissed or the way she looked at him.

Of not remembering what it was to be loved by her.

(Who would want to forget that?)

⚡

In the early days, it had felt like a great victory making her smile—making her laugh. He had thought there was no prettier sound in the world.

Then, he had heard her moan.

Then, he had heard the sound of her panting his name.

Then, the sound of her pleading, and the sound of her choking on his co*ck and the sound of her coming.

(Would he forget that too?)

⚡

What the f*ck was he doing?

What was he doing wrong?

Why did everything feel wrong?

⚡

It was Dorne they visited next, staying with the prince, whose family he had become friendly with during his previous travels. They were overjoyed to see he had brought a friend, for vipers and dragons got along very well in both humor and flesh, a fact he knew very well.

They wasted no time in dressing Laena in the gauzy silks cut and pinned to reveal large swathes of skin.

They suited her well enough, and she wore them with well-deserved confidence.

He was thinking about Rhaenyra.

⚡ ⚡ ⚡

It had been miserably hot that week, but gods, he would live in the deepest pits of hell if it meant he got to see her like that every day. It was so easy to touch her—to stroke her legs and thighs when he was seated beside her in meetings—or to touch her shoulders and skim the sides of her breasts with his thumbs when standing behind her for some reason or another.

In private, it had been so easy to slide the chiffon out of the way, lighter than f*cking air as she fisted it in her palm while he pressed into her. They had both been insatiable that week, the heat in the air leaving them hot for each other and leading to recklessness. They had nearly gotten caught a half dozen times that week, giggles and moans muffled by his palm while his fingers carried on their sweet torment.

They had gotten caught by his father.

But in their defense, he was minutes late for dinner, and Rhaenyra had moved to take a seat atop him, and— gods, it had been so good.

It was always so good.

His father had sighed when he saw them, taking a seat across from them and reaching for the goblet of wine already set before him. “You know, when she first got those gowns she said she wished to wear them to court for the very benefit you are reaping now—so she could be f*cked while looking as though she was innocently sitting on my lap.” He smiled at the memory, clearly a happy one.

“Needy thing, my Queen, wanting to have a co*ck in her while all of court watches, too desperate to wait for any semblance of privacy before her pretty c*nt is filled up.”

He could feel the contractions of her c*nt around his length as his father teased her, her thighs trembling and nails curling into his shoulders as if she could come from his words alone. f*ck, it was so hot.

“Isn’t that right, little vēzos?” His father asked her, getting a keening sound in response and breathy, “Kepa—”

He shushed her, “Oh Rhaenyra, it is rude to moan another man's name when you already have one inside of you, I raised you better than that.”

Seven f*cking hells.

“We can hardly eat until you are done with her, son. Her c*nt might be hot but the food won’t be if you are at it for much longer.”

After that, he had pressed her against the table, uncaring of the plates that shattered as he f*cked into her from behind, long strokes, hard ones, and if the table was made out of anything other than stone he was certain it would have toppled.

He came with a gasp, his eyes squeezed shut in pursuit of the org*sm, and when he looked down—

His father had leaned inwards slightly, just enough to lift one of Rhaenyra’s hands from the tablecloth, leaving behind the wrinkled fabric that had been clutched in her fist. He was stroking her fingers, playing with her rings, an adoring smile on his face that was so full of love for the girl his co*ck was still inside of that he suddenly felt sick.

But then Baelon looked up at him, shrugging and leaning back to finish his wine. Daemon swore, though, that even when his gaze was fixated on him— it was full of love too.

He could feel it.

Present in the sex-scented air surrounding them, was a forceful weight of love and pride radiating from his father , a twisted combination given the context but f*ck, it was one of the best things he had ever felt.

At that moment, he finally believed what Rhaenyra had been telling him for months.

His father loved him. Not the same way he loved Rhaenyra, obviously, but in a different way. And…he loved them together, too, as odd as that was.

⚡

“He loves us, lēkia—and Kepa loves nothing more in life than seeing those he loves be happy. It makes him happy, too—so us, like this? That only contributes to his own pleasure, albeit indirectly.”

She was right. She was always right.

⚡ ⚡ ⚡

(They had been so happy.)

He wasn’t happy now.

(Were they happy without him?)

He didn’t want to know if they were. He wasn’t a good enough— a selfless enough— man to wish them well, he was too jealous of the fact he wasn’t there, what he was missing.

He missed her.

But if they were miserable, f*ck, he didn’t want to live with the guilt that inspired, either. He didn't want anyone else to feel the way he did. He didn't even want to feel this way. That hadn’t been his goal.

(He could barely remember what his goal had been, at this point.)

⚡

“Daemon?”

He blinked a few times to clear his thoughts and turned towards the voice. Laena. Of course. Holding up two silks and requesting he pick between dark blue and red.

“Blue,” He said immediately, as he pasted on a smile, “For the sea and the sky.”

He did not want to be reminded of Rhaenyra’s favorite color. The color of their shared blood.

(There was so much blood. Though he hadn’t been there to see it.)

(He never asked about her.)

⚡

The prince asked about her.

“Lord Blackmont was very impressed by the young Queen, perhaps it will prompt me to visit soon enough.”

Laena laughed, “Politics are not of enough importance to bring you to the city, but a pretty face is?”

Qoren’s lip twitched, “I hear she has more than simply a pretty face, my lady, and one is easily handled through correspondence across the sea, while the other…you can hardly handle anyone from so far away, not in the way I would like to if the Blackmonts speak the truth.”

His daughter, Aliandra, shook her head, “You are playing with fire, saying such things, father. The Targaryens have their perversities but I doubt the King would appreciate you fondling— ah, slip of the tongue, I meant handling his Queen.”

Daemon had never met a Dornish man or woman whose tongue did anything they did not intend it to, and he appreciated the girl's spirit.

Laena nodded in agreement, “It is true—I do not know him so very well, but the way he looks at his wife? She is his world.”

Qoren looked unbothered, “Many people travel the world, do they not?”

Daemon cleared his throat, finally finding his voice, “Yes, though very few travel by dragon.”

The prince pursed his lips, “Only those with the Targaryen name, even.”

Daemon nodded, “Precisely.”

Laena looked between them, seeming rather confused.

⚡

Her name was Mysaria.

It was her brother’s tavern, or so she claimed. She worked the front of the house—taking coin and offering drinks to weary travelers. Whether she offered them things in bed too, for another price, was left unsaid, but he had his suspicions—not that he would judge. There was little work for women here, if she wished to acquire some spending money by spreading her legs, then he respected that—he even admired her work ethic.

Her apron was gone and the hour late when she took her seat beside him, and he was half paying attention to Laena, who was at another table and playing some sort of game with cards. He was too tired to partake himself, and his fatigue was not helped by the draught he indulged himself in after she left.

The tinctures did help, though, they made sleep possible and made being awake bearable.

He wasn’t addicted to them, but he wasn’t sure he was brave enough to exist without them.

(Did he even want to exist without her?)

His foggy mind and dilated pupils did little to dissuade the woman who had approached him. It seemed little would dissuade her, and he—he liked that.

⚡

“Have you come to flirt?”

“That is a rude way to greet a lady.”

“In my defense, you do not look like a lady.”

“What do I look like?”

“You look like you are fishing for compliments.”

“So presumptuous—I merely came over because you looked sad.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart or a desire to take advantage?”

“Can it not be both? But now you are fishing for compliments—perhaps I am just after your companion…”

“And yet you are here talking to me.”

“Mmm, perhaps I am just making sure you aren’t after your companion…”

“She is my cousin.”

“If you are who I think you are, I do not see what relevance that relation has.”

⚡

Mysaria was most definitely a woman.

She was a gorgeous woman.

She was tall and lithe, while her breasts were small but pert and her hips a gentle slope rather than a harsh curve. Her skin was the deep color that few could escape turning beneath the Dornish sun, but the slope of her lashes spoke to a history beyond the desert she had made her home.

Her eyes were dark and her lashes even darker, matching the pin-straight locks that fell down her back, smooth, shiny, and a color so deep it was rarely seen outside of an ink pot.

She could not have been more different from Rhaenyra if she tried.

She was exactly what he was looking for.

⚡

Different did not mean worse, he had told Rhaenyra.

Different did not mean better, she had told him.

Rhaenyra had been wrong on that occasion—she was only ever wrong about how she perceived herself.

But about all else—she was right, she was always right.

Was that why leaving her had felt wrong? Why all of this felt wrong?

Mysaria was not better, but she quickly became his nightly companion. She was even better connected than Qoren Martell himself, at least in the ways that mattered to him, and his stashes were restocked with all sorts of fun things.

Fun things, as in, they made him forget things.

⚡

He rarely left his bed, one fortnight passing easily.

This was…familiar. The wine. The women.

(Was this really living at all?)

⚡

The second fortnight came and so did Laena—having grown bored with her own paramour and wanting to move on.

“What happened?” He asked, she had seemed smitten with this one—more smitten than he was with Mysaria, even.

She pouted, “Her husband came back.”

Ah.

They toasted to husbands— the bane of their existence.

(Rhaenyra had said he would be a good husband.)

Laena frowned when he suggested Mysaria accompany them to their next stop, Pentos.

“I like her, I do, but—” She paused, “Do you like her?”

Anything he liked reminded him of Rhaenyra, it f*cking hurt, and he was f*cking sick of it.

Being with Mysaria didn’t hurt, and after weeks of agony, there was a sort of relief in that alone.

He didn’t have an answer for Laena.

⚡

Something felt wrong.

Leaving felt wrong.

He could go back.

Why? To what?

What had changed?

Nothing.

He swallowed, rereading his father's letter for the second time, trying to figure out what had made its contents seem foreboding in a way that loomed over to him, while the cause of such a sensation remained hidden in the words.

“...there was an incident in the dragonpit, Kingsguard killed one man, motivation political—presumed to be acting alone…"

It was woven between news of minor policy changes and what the Small Council had voted on, as if it was equally insignificant, and a random death in King’s Landing would be insignificant, but then it wouldn’t be mentioned at all .

If the Kingsguard was there, that meant their charge was there too—either the King or the Queen. He felt panic bloom in his chest and he fought it with a shot of liquor and dropper full of… something else… before returning to the letter. There was no mention of injury to either his father or her. But then, would he say if there was?

His father wouldn’t want him to worry over a wound that could not be undone. The man was acting alone. He was killed. Presumably, his father and— and Rhaenyra were well enough that their condition was not severe enough to note. There was nothing he could do, even if he was there.

(He should have been there.)

They were fine.

His head was swimming now, it was time to lay down.

This was fine.

⚡

“Do you truly not have any bastards?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Impressive. Are you careful or incapable?”

“Excuse me? Have I not proved myself capable?”

“Not even the finest ground will grow sprouts unless seed has been planted…”

“My seed is fine, thank you.”

“Ugh—this damned tea will be the end of me, it is disgusting, you know.”

“Am I not worth it?”

“You are for now, I suppose.”

⚡

He clearly hadn’t had enough wine, because the next night he was awake enough for a shadow of a memory to draw him from his bed, leaving him rifling through his bag by moonlight until he came across the bound stack of letters his father had sent—half a dozen or so in the last three months.

He could remember the mention of the dragonpit in passing once before, but not the details, but that seemed like a pattern that may be significant.

...there was a carriage accident on the way to the Dragonpit, head coachman, M. Massey has been promoted to guarantee the safety of all carriage occupants in the future...

It should have been more concerning at the time, but it was an earlier letter—he couldn’t remember where he was when he received it, or who he was in bed with.

It was the only sort of sweet he had been able to stomach since leaving King’s Landing.

It was addicting, but not as addicting as her.

He should have worried.

He was only worried about how much he craved her, still.

The carriage was used for Rhaenyra, Baelon—and his cousins, he supposed, but they were less likely passengers since Laena was with him and both Laenor and Rhaenys had little taste for the city. They were supposed to have left months ago and he could not imagine them lingering for long enough to be a victim of this.

Which meant one of them—his father or her— had been in a carriage accident. Gods.

Accident.

Promoted to guarantee …it was avoidable, whatever it was.

Was it truly accidental?

He hadn’t even asked if they were alright in his response to this, he was certain of that. But if they were hurt—his father would tell him, wouldn’t he?

They had to be fine.

“Daemon? It is late, come back to bed, some of us are used to the heat of the desert and lack the heat of a dragon to warm us from within…”

He had left his dragon behind.

Was she still warm?

Was she with his father now?

“You want something to warm you from within, hm?”

He was fine.

“ Of course, who can resist a Targaryen prince?”

Who could leave a Targaryen princess?

He was fine.

He just needed to sleep.

⚡

“Do you want children?”

“I—I suppose so, yes.”

“Just not bastards.”

“No. Not bastards.”

“Pity, that.”

“Is it?”

“You may grow bored before you ask me a question that would allow such a thing.”

“Do I seem bored?”

“You can never predict the longevity of a man’s interest. It is why women must shackle them with marriage and fatherhood, so they cannot escape so easily.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. We must put our wombs to use if we wish to keep men in our beds…”

“Is that what you want? To put your womb to use?”

“I wish to keep you in my bed. But the tea does taste rather awful…”

⚡

The tavern they booked in Norvos was nice—nicer than he had anticipated based on the exterior. But they were near the river, the streets muddy and wet in a way that made everything rather filthy on the surface.

But the spirit of the street and city was good, and the interior was rather lovely—it felt both cleaner and safer than many places they had visited in the past handful of months—a fact Laena was grateful for, and took advantage of by requesting two rooms.

They had shared a bed on occasion in those first two months, before his was filled with Mysaria. It was out of convenience more than desire by the end, though it wasn’t like they weren’t compatible. They just weren’t what the other wanted. Or at least, not everything the other wanted.

(He only wanted her, even now, f*ck.)

“Do you wish to visit Dragonstone next?” Laena asked the following day while she explored the market. “We are not very far from it, it is on the way to Braavos, really.”

Yes, because there might be news of her—

No, because there might be news of her.

“I do not think anything good is waiting for me there, we could visit Driftmark, though?” He suggested, trying to sound casual, for she didn’t realize the terms he had left on.

She hummed, “Yes, that would be nice, I do not miss home—not really—but it would be good to see my brother.”

She turned to him, “Are you certain you do not wish to see yours first?”

Gods, he hadn’t even thought about his brother once on this trip. He was too focused on missing her to think of much else.

It hadn’t even been four months.

How many more months could he take of this?

How would he survive a lifetime of this?

“My brother and I are not close, and—his wife is not fond of me.” That was putting it lightly. She was not thrilled by his relationship with Rhaenyra, and he was quite certain the way he had ended things would not earn him more of her favor.

Laena spun to look at him, her eyes narrowed and suspicious, “Is she your love?” She asked, sounding hopeful.

He snorted, in a way she wasn’t far off, but the sisters were not comparable in his eyes. Not at all.

She sighed, “Pity, the drama of being in love with your brother's wife. The future Queen!”

“So eager to wish that upon me?” He said, hoping he sounded amused by her theatrics rather than annoyed. “And I never said I was in love.” The distinction mattered a great deal.

She shrugged, “I may not know a great deal about love, but I know of your reputation. I don’t think you would be so affected by a woman to the point you have been if you did not feel more than simple ‘like’ for her.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Clearly one did not even need to be perceptive to see the depth of his feelings.

He wasn’t used to having feelings like this, much less hiding them.

Not the way Rhaenyra was. She knew how to love. She knew how to hide, too.

He wondered if anyone had noticed the impact that his leaving had on her, or if she had hidden that, too.

Or was she impacted at all? Perhaps she had moved on already.

He swallowed down the thought, “And what of Mysaria? You do not think her lovely enough for me to forget the mystery woman?”

Laena shook her head, “It does not matter what I think— you do not think her lovely enough to forget whatever you had before her. That much is clear to me, though perhaps you have lost clarity in the haze you induce each night, cousin?”

⚡

“Who has earned your correspondence today?”

“Laena’s parents—my cousins—we are going there next, Driftmark.”

“We? Will they let you bring a whor* with you?”

“Pardon—? You aren’t a whor*, Mysaria.”

“I am not a lady, either, and I doubt they are acquainted with any sort of woman in between.”

“They will let me bring whoever I wish to.”

“And you wish to bring me?”

“I—yes. Of course.”

“They will not think us overly serious, then?”

“They will think what they think, Mysaria, that is irrelevant to us both..”

“Oh? You are certain? Do you often bring women with you to your cousin's ancestral seat?”

“I have not done it before—I have not brought a woman anywhere on Caraxes before.”

“Does that make me special? Or is that because you are accustomed to women who ride their own dragons?”

“You are very capable of riding my dragon, Mysaria.”

“Don’t flirt—take a moment to consider what they might think, what it will look like to them…it is not a light thing, to have a woman accompany you to your family. Not when you are a prince. Not even when your company is far from being a princess.”

⚡

Laenor welcomed him with a good-natured hug, while Mysaria was given a kiss on her hand and wrist, along with compliments on how Daemon had found someone even prettier than his sister.

“A difficult feat, to be sure,” Mysaria said, winking in Laena’s direction. No matter what qualms his cousin had about the woman, they did get along. A sort of antagonistic sisterhood he was quite certain they were both rather fond of.

But it didn’t stop Laena from voicing her concerns.

While Mysaria lounged in their chamber, he and his cousin were stripping their dragons of their saddles.

“I realize her meeting my parents means little—my father will find no fault or make any question of a pretty face, and my mother finds fault in all. But neither of their opinions means much of anything to you.” Laena said.

“Is there a point coming to this, cousin?”

She glared, “My point is , can you imagine her meeting your father? The King? The Queen? Your brother ?”

The Queen.

He swallowed the anxiety the mere thought brought on. What would Rhaenyra say? She had said she hoped he would visit with his family someday. He was sure she meant it, because she would not lie to him, but— she had been crying when she said it.

If he had to forget something about her, he would like to forget her face crumpled in sadness. She had told him to forget that, or at least, to remember her at her best.

But he couldn’t, because he remembered everything.

No matter how many droplets of that damn tincture he took.

When the initial rush of anxiety had abated, he thought about what Laena had said—was Mysaria his family? Was she going to be?

She could be. She had made that clear.

She did not annoy him in all the ways Laena had during the early days of their travel—though they had managed to find a balance when it came to conflicting habits and preferences, it only worked in a temporary sense, while they were travel companions but gods, as life spouses and Laena would be miserable.

His cousin was, however, rather adept at both sex and conversation.

Mysaria was that and more than that. But was she enough?

She couldn’t compare.

But who could?

Could anyone?

There was something about Rhaenyra that…gods, she made him feel like a dragon, like he was burning and they were exchanging flames not mere breath when they were kissing— when they were f*cking— because things were so hot between them it was hard to tell the difference between fire and flesh.

It was more than that, though— she made him feel more than that.

She made him feel like a f*cking King, like he was on a throne when she was on her knees because she swallowed his co*ck and let him f*ck her mouth like she was a whor* desperate for any taste of royalty, even their seed.

She took it so well. She took everything he gave her—so f*cking greedy and spoiled that she always sighed in relief when he pressed his length into her, like she had spent her whole life waiting for his co*ck. The time of day didn’t matter, and the place rarely did, either. She was always so eager for it, so wet for him, and when she wasn’t—

⚡ ⚡ ⚡

“It’s ok, don’t want your fingers, just—f*ck—it will be fine, just f*ck me—”

“You’ll get me in trouble if I do that, princess.”

“Nooo…I will just feel you later, when Kepa is…”

“When he is f*cking you, princess? Is that what you want? To be all achy from this and so well f*cked on my co*ck that you can’t escape it even when a different man is inside of you?”

“Daemon, please—lēkia — please, I can take it, I swear—”

“I know you can, princess. You always do.”

“f*ck—no—nono, too much, Daemon, f*ck—”

“I thought you said you could take it?”

“I can—just—not so fast—please—”

“You want it faster? Pleading for it even, if you insist, sister, I suppose…”

“Gods—”

She made him feel depraved in the best possible way, capable of being the dirtiest and roughest f*ck he’d ever had, all from the luxury of the Queen’s chambers. The contradiction and pleasure of it all was something not even the most expensive whor* in Essos could offer.

⚡⚡⚡

His father had found them on one particular occasion, just as he was finishing inside of her—pressed as deeply as he could into her pretty c*nt while she arched and ground against him. When he pulled out, Rhaenyra sighed—exhausted, relieved, and disappointed over being left empty.

She wasn’t empty for long.

At first, he hadn’t wanted to see this—he couldn’t see this. He was aware of it, but witnessing it was different. He had looked away entirely or had only looked at her, trying to remove his father from the equation entirely.

He still did, in some ways, for that was hardly where his interest in the pair lay, but seeing them together didn’t bother him the way it used to—it didn’t make him jealous, because what his father had with her was so different.

Daemon could never be that for her, he didn’t think. He didn’t want to be. But seeing her be with someone in that way, falling apart at someone else's words and touch...

She was so beautiful during this, so beautiful when she came, and watching without the distraction of being inside of her was just, gods.

He was no stranger to talking in bed, but his father— gods— he didn’t infantilize her, not really, but he sounded so soft and indulgent as if asking a child which flavor of candy they wanted rather than the reality which was asking his wife which position she wanted to be in while he f*cked her.

And when he did…

It was a string of compliments—endless, a showering of praise against her skin that made her whimper even before he had his co*ck inside of her. Practically panting for it, whether it was because of the words or because she knew what was coming next, he didn’t know, but it worked for her.

For them.

There was no rush in the way he took her, no harshness, just one firm stroke after another, smoothly f*cking into her while his hands wandered.

When Rhaenyra writhed on his co*ck, he liked pinning her down—liked feeling her fight his grip despite them both knowing how bad she wanted it. But not his father. No, he stopped, he called her impatient, and told her to be good for him.

And she was. Or she tried, but by the end of it she was arching and pleading even as the pace remained unchanged. It didn’t have to change, not when the strokes were building alongside her arousal and making them feel deeper with each pass.

When she did come— she always came, his father always let her come— it was all gentle kisses, reverent hands stroking down her sides, telling her how pretty she was, how sweetly she took him, his good little Queen.

“You were just made for your King’s co*ck, weren’t you little vēzos?”

“Made for you, Kepa, just like—ah—you made lēkia for me.”

The first time he had heard that…

Gods.

“What did you mean by that—that he made me for you?”

“Mmmm? That you—you’re from his seed, from his love with Alyssa, he made you…and his sister—my mother—made me for him, too, I think. Then he raised me…cause’ I was meant for him, but you—you are meant for me, gods—”

He wanted to hear what she was saying but he couldn’t pay attention, not with three fingers curled into her c*nt, so soft and wet—dripping all over his hand as the mix of spend spilled out.

“ Not gods, princess, lēkia, remember?”

“Yesssss, please, lēkia , please.”

“You need more? Already?”

“I always need you, Daemon.”

⚡⚡⚡

She made him feel like an older brother—she had made him an older brother, in some ways.

⚡⚡⚡

Aenys was thrust into his arms while she carried Sōna to the palace gardens with the excuse of, “Boys must stick together!”

“Oh? Then I suppose I won’t stick it in you tonight.”

“Daemon! There are children present!”

“You’re not quite a child anymore, princess.”

“Technically you are my child because—”

“Do not say you are my stepmother.”

“Why not? What are you going to do about it? Tell on me? To who?”

“I’ll tickle you.”

“Very mature, Daemon.”

“I have a very poor example of maturity, you know, you should meet my stepmother, I swear she acts half my age sometimes…”

⚡ ⚡ ⚡

She made him feel like a son—like he was his father’s son—like his father was proud of him.

He had been, before he left.

⚡ ⚡ ⚡

She made him feel like a child again— coming up with the most inane ideas and making him feel light in a way he thought impossible in adulthood.

⚡⚡⚡

“I bet I can climb that tree faster than you.”

“Don’t be daft, you’ll get hurt.”

“I’ll get hurt? Me? It sounds like someone is afraid of losing.”

“Afraid of you losing your grip, maybe.”

“Would you not catch me?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Who is going first? I would not risk injury by being your savior if my turn had not yet come.”

“You’re terrible!”

“I’m clever. You are a minx, you’d probably fall on me on purpose just to win.”

“I won’t be getting on you on purpose tonight, that much I am certain of.”

“Ah—well, I can live with that. You look just as lovely on your knees.”

“The only one who should be on their knees is you. Groveling.”

“Is that so? Your title has changed you, I think, now roused by obsequious displays…”

“Can you blame me for craving obedience when you act the very bane of my existence?”

“I am your very favorite bane, though.”

“Well—perhaps. You do look rather lovely on your knees, after all.”

“Thank you—I know what I said of you, but my memory is fading…perhaps I need a reminder of how you look on yours?”

“Oh? Well, I suppose if you insist…let me just find my husband and then I can demonstrate for you—Daemon! Put me down!”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Daemon! You are acting like a child!”

“I do not think that is such an insult, after all, I am your favorite son, am I not?”

⚡ ⚡ ⚡

Had he ever told her of his feelings? Of all she made him feel? Of how good she made him feel?

He hadn’t told her he loved her, but had he even said that much?

She had told him, though he hadn’t quite realized the importance of it at the time. Things were still so new then.

⚡ ⚡ ⚡

They had raced by dragon to some unimportant island, a hunk of rock too insignificant to house anything but beyond, dirt, moss, clover, and various weeds…

“A bed made by Mother Nature's hand.” Rhaenyra had said, as she lay back against it.

“You look like Mother Nature.” He admitted, and she grinned, “Truly? Even in my riding leathers?”

“Well—perhaps the likeness would be better without them,” He said, sounding rather hopeful, because he was.

“Well— perhaps you should take them off of me, then.” She suggested, nipping at the fingertip of her glove before pulling it off with her teeth—revealing a pale hand that lay across her stomach, a flash of white amongst the sea of dark wool and hide. There was something so alluring about the contrast, the promise of how much lovely flesh was hidden from him, ready to be freed to his gaze and the skies above.

After—when they were both nude among the grass Rhaenyra rolled onto her stomach and began fiddling with the stem of a nearby dandelion. She was so lazy at night—a lump, truly, that was so grumpy at the prospect of movement—but the rest of the time, she was rarely still. Too much energy, too much life, it had to escape through activity, or else she might burst.

“I was wrong.” He said softly, just looking at her, “You don’t look like Mother Nature.”

Her lip quirked, “I don’t?”

It was true, because she was so very young.

He thought she would look young forever, because she was so… vibrant. There was something youthful to her spirit, something required to balance out the wisdom she wielded when one least expected it. He couldn’t see that changing in a decade from now, or two, or three…

But at the moment, she was young.

“I don’t feel young.” She admitted, turning on her side and reaching out for him, touching his neck and combing her fingers through his hair.

“What do you feel like?” He hadn’t meant it to be a question with great depth, he hadn’t realized it was at the time. But in hindsight…

“When I’m with you? I feel so many things—good things and new things and I feel things so strongly, but—” She paused for a moment, her thumb brushing his lip, “I always feel like myself. Not like a mother or a queen or a sister or a wife—I don’t have to be anything, I’m just Rhaenyra.”

She leaned in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips before pulling back just enough to whisper, “And yet, for some reason, you are here with me anyway.”

She sounded genuinely surprised by this, and he wanted to reassure her, but then their lips were joined again and his mind was blank.

He didn’t think he had to say anything, really, surely it was obvious that being with her was exactly where he wanted to be.

⚡

It was still where he wanted to be.

But he couldn’t go back.

Right?

⚡

It wasn’t even the sex he missed the most. It was the… everything else.

Feeding the ducks. Watching the clouds. Racing on their dragons, ending up god knows where on the shores of the Narrow Sea, and skinny dipping on a dare. Watching the sunset and the sunrise. Feeding her cake while she lazed in a tub, because her ‘hands were wet’. Bathing with her, scrubbing between her toes—finding where she was ticklish and touching her there until they were laughing and water was everywhere.

Listening to her tell stories to Aenys. Holding Aenys. Seeing Sōna fly. Talking about how someday, Aenys would fly with her. Carriage rides with dirty boots in his lap. Visits to the Dragonpit and holding hands in the gardens. Teaching her how to play Noddy and Trappola. Teaching her to gamble and sneaking out to Flea Bottom to make bets.

Her practically swimming in his armor, which she begged to try on. Her wearing nothing but his golden cloak. Her sneaking Caraxes sweet breads, despite his argument that he was a ‘f*cking dragon’ — ‘it doesn’t matter what he is, Daemon, he likes it!’

Early mornings, late nights, staring contests during council meetings, his hands slipping beneath the table during a boring dinner while she tried to speak to some lord he didn’t give a f*ck about. Breakfasts with her and his father. Stealing her pastries from her plate and making her pout. Surprising her with cakes from the city. Pushing her into a pond and intothe sea at Dragonstone—only for her to pull him in after her. Sparring and it devolving into arguing—or kissing. Her stupidly cold feet, penitent for stealing the covers, and love of sleeping on top of him like a blanket.

The way she felt in his lap, the way her head tucked under his chin, the way she smelled, the way they laughed, and moaned, and just—being with her.

He missed her.

He loved her.

But he couldn’t go back.

⚡

“I’m not ashamed of Mysaria.” He said a bit defensively, as if that was why he would have an issue with bringing Mysaria to King’s Landing.

Ashamed that I left?
Ashamed of how I disappointed him?
Ashamed of how afraid I was to stay?
Ashamed of how I didn’t tell her that?
Ashamed of how badly I want her?
Ashamed of how badly I wanted to stay?
Ashamed that my pride wouldn’t let me?
Ashamed of the fact I haven’t returned?

“Why would I be ashamed?” He definitely sounded defensive now.

“That is what I am trying to figure out.” She said with a sigh, moving to the other side of Sheepstealer to undo the last of the latches.

(It was easier to run away. He knew how to do that. He always did that.)

⚡☀️ 🌥️ 🌙