It hurt—it had, before. Now it’s only cold, the warmth pooling underneath her yet so far out of reach. She tries to move, but her body won’t obey. She tries to breathe, a wheezing kind of futility.

She’s drowning, she thinks. In her own blood. There’s a knife sticking out of her chest, or was when she fell down, but she can’t feel it anymore. She can’t feel much of anything, anymore. Just the cold and the encroaching nothing.

It’s a pathetic way to go, the way she goes, but she finds it hard to care enough to feel bitter about it.

She closes her eyes as the cold seeps into her bones, the quiet static around her.

Then, nothing.

○

Rhea knew that she shouldn’t have laid with Daemon, even for appearance’s sake, on their first wedding night. She didn’t really like him; he didn’t really like her. Their marriage was only because his grandmother commanded them wed. Neither of them held any illusion that it was the only possible way they became tied together.

It was a fine match. A rich match. A prince of the realm and an heiress of Runestone.

But Rhea had little fondness of men, of anyone, in general, and Daemon might have been a pretty face but his tongue was sharp and quicker than he, and his observations cruel and snide and crude. He thought her dull, he thought her ugly. For a while there she thought he wouldn’t even be able to perform his duty with her, with how displeased he was with the match.

It was only after she insinuated that he couldn’t when he did, only to prove her the contrary.

They managed, somehow, and it wasn’t even unpleasant in all honesty, though Rhea saw no point in the act, and now understood people’s obsession with sex even less. But they had to legitimize that marriage they didn’t want, because the Good Queen ordered it so, and they did. And now here she was, nine moons almost to the day after that wedding night, pacing around her bedroom with one hand on her swollen belly as contractions rippled through her body time and time again, and she wished she had taken that damned tea when it was offered to her.

She didn’t think one half-assed night would be enough for her to get with child, and yet, here she was. To her displeasure, Daemon was there too. Outside, because he didn’t really want to see her any more than she wanted to see him, but he was here, despite the moons of his increasing hostility and dislike of both her and the realm, he was playing the part of a doting husband and a soon-to-be loving father. It was pissing Rhea off.

“My Lady, it’s best you lay down,” the Maester fretted and she sent him a stink eye. The elderly midwife, broom still in hand, did too. Rhea didn’t feel like laying down, and right now no amount of pleading would make her. It was the pregnancy moods, she supposed, but the fretting Maester was making no sense and only pissing her off.

“Her ladyship will do whatever she pleases,” the old woman told him and whacked him with the broom for a good measure. “Her body will tell her what to do.”

“But the books—”

“Fuck your books,” Rhea hisses, bending forward as a particularly strong cramp makes her legs buckle. She leans forward, hands braced on a table as she moves from foot to foot.

“Men,” the midwife huffs. “Always barging in where they got no business! Go on, boy, fetch me more hot water! It won’t kill you to be useful for once!”

Rhea snorts as she sits down on a chair. It’s going to be a long night.

○

[Are you certain this is a good idea? Completely, absolutely certain?]

[…in truth, no, old friend. But what choice do we have?]

[Direct intervention?]

[This is a direct intervention.]

[This is—]

[It is.]

[This is us ripping the future as we know to shreds and diving into the deep. If we do this, we will have no way of knowing what happens anymore—]

[And neither will they. It is not nearly the vice you think it will be—sometimes, it’s best to not know.]

[All this, losing all that foresight, for faint hope of fate changing in ways that will truly be out of our hands this time?]

[Yes. But we must try this; we have failed so many times, I fear the world itself will collapse if we keep going the way we were.]

[…I truly hope you know what you’re doing, Shrykos.]

[As do I, Balerion. As do I.]

○

The child arrives at midday on a calm, sunny summer day. The labour was easy, the midwife tells Rhea, very quick for a first-time mother, not even a full day’s worth from when it began in late afternoon. She wants to call bullshit, but the old woman has had plenty her own children, and aided even more other births, and Rhea only partook in this one, so she says nothing. If it really can be worse than this, then she’ll count her blessings. It hurt like all hells, that’s for sure, but now, she realizes she doesn’t feel all too bad.

She’s heard enough horror stories about women unable to leave the birthing bed for moons on end, of birth fever and excessive bleeding that could end a mother’s life before the Maester would even get to her chambers. But she feels fine; the old midwife told her she’s healthy and that she shouldn’t expect many complications.

The child isn’t wailing like she’s been taught to expect, thank the Gods, but it is mewling in displeasure as the maids delicately bathe it in warm water and wrap it in soft blankets and shove it into Rhea’s arms. She stiffens, unsure what to do with it. She can’t wait to push it onto nannies and nursemaids; she’s done her part, and she’s not sure she wants anything of Daemon near her, even if the child is half of her, too. Half of Daemon is still a Daemon too much.

“A healthy girl, my lady.”

Ah, so the it is a she.

She’s ugly, Rhea realizes, looking down at the child. All red and wrinkly, pug-nosed and looking more like a big caterpillar than a human, but the midwife assures her that all babes look like this, so it’s probably true. The girl’s eyes are closed shut and her tiny red hands are clenched into fists, and, really… It is truly the ugliest thing Rhea has seen in her life.

She cannot fathom how some women enjoy caring for those things.

Then the door swings open, and the second ugliest thing Rhea’s seen in her life barges into the room.

“Is it done?” Daemon asks, and the fucker has the gall to actually look excited. Rhea rolls her eyes as the girl starts to mewl louder in her wooden-stiff arms, and shoves the bundle-of-joy at her idiot husband. He takes the child, and it just might be the first time he’s done anything well in his life.

“Here, you hold it. It’s a girl.”

And hold her he does; with some amount of skill, too. If Rhea remembers correctly, he had a niece born few years ago. Two or three or four—she doesn’t remember right now, exhausted as she is.

She can’t say she cares for much other than some food and a nap right now, though.

She thinks she hears a rumbling sound from him—purr?—but ignores it.

“Have you thought of a name?” he asks her, and it actually sounds genuine, if only because he’s distracted by the babe. She has no use of his genuine care; he’s offended her twice and their dislike was no secret. If not for her falling pregnant on their wedding night, he’d have long since fucked off somewhere, she’s sure. Probably would have had a bastard well on the way by now.

“No. Name her if you want her named, I did enough birthing her.”

She held the child long enough to see the white wisps of hair well, and she did not doubt the child would have violet eyes to match, and if the traditions were anything to go by, the child would soon enough have a dragon of her own; the only reason it would be delayed was the lack of eggs at the current time but some would be laid eventually. Or, once she grew, the child would claim some dead relative’s already-grown beast.

Rhea doesn’t want any dragons in Runestone. She can’t wait to be rid of Caraxes, ugly and misshapen even among other abominations of its kind, and a second dragon is the last thing she’d want.

Daemon’s smile is almost charming. Almost. He looks happy, at least, oddly soft when he looks down at the bundled babe. She imagines he’ll look like that when she dies; or when his grandfather, the king, agrees to annul their marriage.

(With them having a child, there’s no reason to annul, and she decides she will live a long life to spite him. Outlive him; him and this accursed child both, Gods willing.)

Rhea tells herself that the way the child instantly calms in his hold compared to how it doesn’t stop mewling in hers doesn’t put a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Well, I’ve been thinking—”

“Think less, then,” she snaps. “Or faster. I’m in pain, hungry, and tired, I’m in no mood for this.”

He huffs, but he’s still smiling, looking down at the ugly human caterpillar. Rhea doesn’t know why the larva makes him this happy, but if it keeps him away from bothering her, she’ll take it.

“Daelyra,” he says. “Daelyra Targaryen.”

Very Targaryen, that name, but what else was she expecting.

“We’re not making any more,” she warns him. He only laughs.

“Please, you couldn’t pay me enough to sleep with you again. It’d be more fun fucking a driftwood log, at least that would react. Your men here fuck sheep, I heard. They sure are prettier. I hope Daelyra takes after me in looks. She deserves that much, at least."

Rhea almost throws her cup at him, stopped only by the child in his arms. She doesn’t hate Daemon, at least not yet though there’s plenty to hate, but she has no fondness for him either and plenty of dislike. And right now, he’s pissing her off.

“Get the fuck out. Find her a wetnurse, or something, I need to sleep.”

He leaves without any more of his snide remarks after that, taking the child with him.

○

She opens her eyes swaddled in warmth, ambience of a soft voice overhead.

She can’t see much—anything really, everything is blurry and she feels her body being rocked back and forth even though her limbs feel like they’re made of lead. The voice above her is melodic… Singing, she thinks. She can’t hear very well either, as if she’s underwater.

Her last memory is cold, dark, and silent.

But what was it? She can’t remember much. She can’t remember anything, really, though she feels she should.

She feels sleepy, heavy and tired and sluggish even though she just woke up.

She feels safe.

Surely, a nap won’t hurt.

○

Daemon has never quite considered himself a family man, or a father material for that matter.

When grandfather knighted him and given him Dark Sister a little over a year ago when he became of age, he felt like the world was unveiling its secrets before him; like he could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone he wanted.

When grandmother told him he was to be married, to some lady in the Vale no less, he felt like his world shattered right there in his palms.

He was a man grown, but only barely; six-and-ten namedays and the second son of the second son, with a sword, a knighthood, and a dragon, and to a boy it seemed like everything, but to a man it wasn’t much at all.

He raged and pleaded and begged, but to no avail. His grandmother insisted; grandfather often agreed with her in those matters, his brother was useless to help as he himself was married and about to be a father, and his father never went against grandfather either. If his mother were alive, she would have not stood for it; but alas, she died to bring to this world a babe that outlived her for barely six moons, and Daemon was barely old enough to speak and walk when that happened.

He didn’t even remember her face, not really.

He was not happy to be tied down to a woman he didn’t even know, in a land he didn’t even like. And as he was the second son and she was the heir, it would be he who would be tied to her. He hated that too. He was the second son of the second son, and he hated that this was apparently the best he could and would ever get.

His place was by his brother’s side, not in the Vale. Why couldn’t they see that? He was his brother’s support, the pillar for Viserys to lean on. Always has been. How dare they take it from him? How dare they push him away from it? Why couldn’t they see that was where he belonged? When they were what made it his place to begin with?

But everyone insisted. It would be good for you, they said. You’re too wild, it’ll help you settle down.

He didn’t want to settle down. He wanted to fight and explore and protect his brother.

And they pushed him away. Gently; he could visit, still, always, Caraxes for his long neck could carry him over long distances before needing rest. But he wasn’t by Viserys’ side anymore and that stung in a way he didn’t know how to name. Viserys didn’t seem to notice, too busy with his wife and daughter to notice the hurt in his eyes.

So off he went with a bitter taste in his mouth. He wedded Rhea Royce in a dull ceremony, bedded her only when she goaded him to and didn’t enjoy any of it, and then drank himself into a stupor.

And then Rhea Royce was with child.

He balked at first; surely, one night wasn’t enough? She must have slept with someone else in the meantime—but that wouldn’t make sense. It wasn’t that she wasn’t thrilled about him specifically, she didn’t seem to find sex exciting at all. And she was entirely too stuck-up and, sadly, too honourable, to mother a bastard.

Daemon… Didn’t take to the news too well, he will admit. He was upset, truly, that his marriage to Rhea would be sealed in a way quite this permanent. He got drunk, gotten into a fight. Might’ve goaded Rhea into a screaming match; might’ve gotten a vase thrown at him. The cut still smarted.

But he accepted his fate; he couldn’t exactly kill Rhea, he’d be suspected first.

He was prepared to—he was expecting to hate this child that he didn’t want, that he sired on a woman he didn’t want during a night he didn’t really enjoy. He may have even wanted to hate this child, deep down, he thinks. It would have made it easy to leave, to not care about the comings and goings of Runestone. He was stifled by this place enough.

He waited, still, by the birthing room, for the whole night. Part of him just wanted to hear Rhea scream; part of him, he thinks, was almost excited to see the child. Part of him, one that he’d soon learn to loathe, was hoping the child would die. Part of him, one that remained, hoped Rhea would die.

She lived, sadly. The child did too, and he delighted in the hateful glare Rhea sent him when he entered the room. When the child, the girl—his daughter—was pressed into his arms, he didn’t expect much. He’s seen his brother’s daughter, an ugly worm-like thing that screeched and shat and ate and slept and did nothing else and didn’t find any appeal in it.

He didn’t expect this to be any different.

But she had to grab onto his finger, that daughter of his. She had to calm in his arms when she fused in her mother’s. Defenceless, fragile, yet instinctively so trusting. Not of Rhea, the mother who birthed her, but of Daemon; a rogue barely year into adulthood and yet already known for violence and quickness to anger, who rode a vicious dragon and carried a Valyrian steel sword he never hesitated to use.

He’s only ever felt like this around Viserys, and even then, it was less. That warmth spreading through his chest, that bone-deep certainty that this was exactly where he was meant to be, what he was meant to be doing.

How was he going to leave now, when he had a daughter to care for when her mother clearly didn’t?

Ruining his plans before he had the chance to enact them. Truly, blood of his blood.

Daelyra, he names her, after Daelyra Valtigar; a half-real half-made-up heroine of a series of books, treasures now, salvaged from Old Valyria when Aerion fled, that he read over and over again as a boy and imagined all the adventures, and her dragon of shadow and bone and terror, and the blood magic she wielded almost as well as her blades, and all her adventures in Sorthoryos and east of Asshai.

He’s not sure why it’s the first name that comes to his mind; he’s not sure why it feels so right, but it does. He’s not thought about the nae for a child at all, but he sees his daughter, and then she’s just—Daelyra.

He makes up his mind then and there; he may be a second son, and he may not have much at all, but he will give her anything she wants. He will be free one day, he knows, and she will be too. And when she finds her dragon, they will fly all the way to Essos, away from all this politicking and all these people who will hate her just because she is his daughter.

He will teach her whatever she wants to know; dragonriding and High Valyrian and anything else she wants to know. He’ll teach her how to fight if she so wishes, he’ll learn hawking and how to use a bow in the way of the people of the Vale if she prefers that.

Seven hells, he’ll learn embroidery for her, he thinks, if she only asks.

And she’s not even a day old yet.

And as he sits by the fireplace in the nursery, where fire rages comfortably bright and warm, calling forth a memory of his mother and the lullabies she sang is easier than he thought it would be. He’s not used to singing, he never really sings at all, but High Valyrian rolls off his tongue easily enough, and Daelyra sleeps peacefully against his chest, and that’s enough.

○

[How do we choose?]

[We don’t. It’s a bit like fishing; we can narrow down the soul selection at best.]

[Are you sure this is wise?]

[Not at all! But we must hope for the best.]

[That’s an awful lot of things you’re leaving to chance, Shrykos.]

[Yes, yes, my friend. Now will you help me?]

[I cannot believe we’re pulling a dead soul through the fabric of reality. I cannot believe this is actually working; we’re pulling a dead soul through reality itself!]

[Well, death is your domain, and passages are mine. Don’t ask how or why it works; just be glad it does.]

[And what do we do with this dead soul? It’ll need a live body, will it not? Will we just decimate a pre-existing soul?]

[No. There is a perfect vessel, though; one that will take the soul. One that never lives no matter how many iterations we try.]

[That’s… Are we talking about Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce’s never-born child?]

[Precisely.]

[…Shrykos.]

[What?]

[I don’t want to scare you, but if we want to put a new soul into a babe, we will need Meleys’ help.]

[Oh. Fuck.]

○

He was a fortnight old when his mother took him for his first fly on dragonback, or so he was told, and then often since, for as long as his mother lived. Cousin Rhaenys rode his mother’s dragon now, but Caraxes was no less red than Meleys, the same wolfish thing, jagged and evil-looking and beloved all the same.

Caraxes looks at him curiously when he approaches, dressed in riding leathers and with Daelyra in a sling across his chest, fast asleep and unbothered, swaddled in blankets and a leather brace to protect her from wind. Caraxes trills and chuffs in greeting, sniffing him curiously, nosing at Daelyra.

Daemon is hit with a near-overwhelming wave of curiosity from his dragon, with undertones of excitement. What did you bring me? he seems to ask.

<It’s my daughter,> Daemon tells his dragon in High Valyrian. <See? This is Daelyra.>

He twists the sling to show the babe to his dragon. Caraxes trills, nosing at the babe gently, understanding how delicate a creature it is. Daemon trills back, and Caraxes purrs. Curiosity melds into contentment, happiness, and a bit of protectiveness he no doubt siphons from Daemon himself.

Presence presses against his mind, filling in the cracks of his being and fitting where it belongs. Warm-happy-protect. Hatchling, Caraxes tells him. Daemon smiles.

<I’m taking her flying today.>

He rests against Caraxes’ snout bodily as he fixes up the sling. He can see the servants fretting at the side, and he doesn’t care. This is a Targaryen’s right, and he will not be denied dragonback, and neither will his daughter.

Caraxes presses more emotions at him. Happy-sky-free. Don’t wait. Go.

Daemon laughs. His dragon has always been the bossy kind, but his dearest friend all the same.

Caraxes turns, leans down ever so slightly to make climbing onto the saddle easier and Daemon doesn’t need any more encouragement to climb onto his dragon and snap the belts and chains to keep him in place. He keeps one hand on Daelyra and the other on the reins, heart beating wildly. It’s not just because he’s not flown in entirely too long (a fortnight!) but because he’s not flying alone, and he is excited to share it with his daughter, even though she will not remember this first flight.

<This is what we are,> he whispers to the babe. <This is who we are.>

Caraxes chitters as he crawls to the edge of the cliff, vibrating with energy. Daemon chuckles and pats his red scaly back, and Daelyra mewls, blinking slowly, now awake. Daemon is purring before he even makes a conscious decision to do so, and she calms down before she can begin to fuss. Her eyes are so dark they’re almost black. Normally they’re blue, Daemon’s been told, but not, in the light, he can see glimmers of deep violet in the darkness. He smiles, kisses her forehead, and turns to Caraxes.

<Fly, my friend!>

And fly he does, and Daemon swears Daelyra giggles when they’re in the air.

She’s asleep again by the time they land.

○

She dreams of flying among the clouds and chittering red dragons.

It’s a very pleasant dream.

○

Daelyra makes Runestone ever so bearable.

True, as a babe she’s little more than a toy, and all she does is eat and sleep and shit and sleep some more and make a disgruntled baby noise if something displeases her, but Daemon doesn’t find it boring.

She’s not a difficult child, rather easy to care for really. Quiet, too; it worries the maids who care for her, but Daemon doesn’t mind. He learns her tells faster than anyone; when she’s hungry, when she’s uncomfortable, when she’s tired. He hands her off to the wet nurse to feel and rocks her to sleep even in the middle of the night, and glares at Rhea when she deigns to waltz in to check if the child yet lives, and make a disgusted face when she sees Daemon there more often than not.

Maybe she’s upset to have given him something he likes.

He leaves Lyra alone only to train with his sword and to fly Caraxes, but he’s with her more often than he isn’t. He moves a cot into the nursery and sleeps there more often than anywhere, and the serving girls moving about give him odd looks, but get used to him soon enough. Especially when it quickly becomes apparent that he can calm Daelyra and they cannot.

They give him odd looks when he purrs and chirps at her, on when he sits a little too close to the fireplace, and he hears them say that he’ll loose interest soon enough. He’s a lord, after all, a man; men don’t raise children.

He decides that he will, if only to spite them.

○

She wakes in parts, and her days are full of silver hair and violet eyes and a language she’s growing to understand, and warmth and the overwhelming feeling of content she’s not certain the source of.

She doesn’t want to let go—so, she reaches for it.

She doesn’t remember feeling quite this content before.

○

Years pass quickly when he’s busy. He trains, he treats, he politicks how much he feels like, sends ravens here and there.

Daelyra grows from a quiet babe to a quiet toddler. She speaks little but with intent, and he claims her a little genius in the private confines of their rooms. She walks with purpose, too. It was amazing, the first time she stood up and looked at him with a concentrated frown, and he stopped then too like a hunted deer and watched in amazement as she took a step, and another, and then—

And then he dove and bruised his knees painfully but he caught her before she fell face-first onto the carpeted floor. She didn’t cry, just looked at him with those big almost-black eyes and patted his face.

<Great job little flame,> he told her anyway. She doesn’t quite understand, barely one nameday and some moons old, but she understands well enough when he stands up with her and presses her against his chest. She curls into familiar warmth and only makes a small disgruntled noise when he sets her down among her toys. It’s near enough to the fireplace that she doesn’t mind.

A wood-carved dragon with neck just a little too long, painted in red lacquer, is her favourite.

It’s Daemon’s favourite, too.

“Cawaxes!” she says, holding the toy out to him, and he smiles.

“Yes, Caraxes,” he agrees as he sits down. It’s adorable when she can’t pronounce ‘r’ properly yet; even more so when it clearly annoys her, judging by the way she scrunches her nose. He can’t help but poke her cheek, and she pouts at him in return. “And do you know what colour he is?”

He shouldn’t expect her to know. She’s only started speaking very recently, and this is a higher level of association. She wouldn’t be able to tell—

“Wed,” Daelyra tells him after a moment of consideration, and Daemon blinks at her, surprised and so proud it’s threatening to burst out of his chest.

“Yes, red,” he says with a nod, patting her head

Gods know his brother’s daughter was stupid in the way all small children were, from what he’s read from Aemma’s letters. Daelyra at least never tried to drink the ink he wrote with, or eat worms and dirt and leaves, and Daemon knows to count his blessings if only from all of Aemma’s horror tales.

Daelyra did stick her hand in the fireplace, though.

It shocked him at first, and he shoved his own hand in the fire to grab hers on instinct.

It was with some delay that he realized it burned neither of them.

○

It’s only when he looks close enough is when he realizes, and only in bright midday light. Daelyra is perched on his hip as she often is when she tires, and she puts a clumsily-woven flower crown on his head.

It’s only when they’re so close their noses almost touch that he realizes—that he sees.

Daelyra’s pupils are slit. The sheer darkness of her irises hides it well, is all.

○

The bandits he kills bleed red just like Caraxes’ scales, just like Daelyra’s toys.

Red stains Dark Sister, and his hands, and his armor. He needed this, so long he spent caring for his daughter, and this is his reward. Violence, blood, death.

A dragon has his cravings, after all. It’s unwise to put them off for too long.

He comes back to the castle covered in blood, apprehension crawling in his veins. He wants to see, he needs to see, what she will think.

He comes across Daelyra and her nanny in the hallway. The nanny gasps, paling rapidly, and Daelyra runs off on quiet feet.

Did he scare her? Does she finally understand—

She runs back with a rag in her tiny hands and holds it up at him.

“Kepa, wash!”

He kneels down, full armour on and covered in blood and marvels at this tiny creature as she diligently rubs half-dried blood off his face. She sticks her tongue out, like every other time when she’s very focused on her task.

It’s adorable.

He wants to hug her, but she’s wearing her favourite pale-blue cotton dress and he knows better than to dirty it; she can hold a grudge almost as well as he, after all.

He’s almost afraid to see what she’ll grow into. Almost. Mostly he can’t wait.

He hisses when she finds a scratch on his face under all the grime.

“Kepa! You hurt!”

“It’s nothing, perzītsos.”

“No!” she says and puffs her cheeks and stomps her foot for good measure. “Kepa hurt! Hurt dirty! Kepa go to aunty Missy!”

“Not to the Maester?” he asks with a chuckle, and she scrunches her face.

“Gray-man stupid. Kepa go to aunty Missy, aunty Missy not stupid,” she says with a finality and wisdom of a child of two who knows exactly what she’s talking about. Maybe she does.

Missy—Melissa, oldest daughter of the old midwife who delivered Daelyra, is a stern woman of well over forty who’s taken liking to the girl, if only to indulge in their shared dislike for Maesters.

He hates the Maesters, too; and Melissa has a good head on her shoulders, and the wounds she tends to heal better than when any Maester touches them. True, Melissa washes the wounds with alcohol and it hurts like all Hells and smarts for hours after, but she’s clearly onto something, given how well they tend to heal. Boils all her needles and threads too—some woodswitch taught her, apparently.

Compared to the Maester who doesn’t even wash his hands after he wipes himself after going to the outhouse, he’ll take Melissa and her alcohol washes and boiled needles anytime.

He imagines his mother would’ve liked the woman.

He imagines his mother would’ve lived, if she was attended by some smallfolk woman-healer like Melissa, rather than a Citadel-borne grey rat.

○

With Daelyra demanding his attention, his affection, almost every waking moment, he feels almost at peace—and lack of summons from Viserys almost doesn’t hurt.

But that doesn’t change the truth. This is not his place; his place is by his brother’s side, as his pillar, his support, his protector. Their father made it clear enough when they were growing up, so why doesn’t Viserys see it? Why hasn’t he asked him to come yet? Why is he stuck here, in the Vale, for years on end, festering like some—

“Kepa,” Dealyra says, tugging at his tunic. She points to where a ginger tabby is washing its face “Kepa, look, kitty!”

He smiles. “Do you want to pet it, perzītsos?”

“Uh-huh!”

Daelyra is his only respite from the bile scratching at the back of his throat whenever he thinks of Viserys. The only thing staving the fury off, with her big near-black eyes ad tiny hands grasping at him. She’s so small. So much smaller than Viserys ever was. So fragile.

Not even his brother trusts him so wholly. Not even his brother needs him so much.

Does he even need him at all? He left him to rot here—

But does Daemon need his brother, really, sitting cross-legged under a tree with his daughter in his lap running her hands through a purring cat’s soft fur?

○

She lives in a confusing kind of haze, with only constants being white hair and violet eyes, and red—so much red of all kinds.

She uses it to ground herself, finds comfort in it. It doesn’t make sense, none of this makes sense.

She feels most awake when she’s about to fall asleep, like she’s forgetting something important at the periphery of her awareness but doesn’t have the ability to name it.

Or the knowledge.

Then she turns around and curls under her father’s arm, presses her face against his side and he lets her even though it’s ticklish, and everything is okay when she drifts away.

○

His father dies. Burst stomach, after five days of agony.

Daemon is among the first to be informed, at least.

He takes Daelyra to the funeral on dragonback, and pretends he doesn’t cry when grandfather lights his father’s pyre. And, oh, this is probably the first time in years when the Old King is a grandfather first, rather than a king. Jaehaerys talks to them; they sit in a room all together and it almost feels like a family again.

But they go back to politicking soon enough. Baelon was Jaehaerys’ last surviving son. Last heir.

And the Old King is old.

So, what’s next? Or rather, who’s next?

○

Rhaenyra, having recently acquired her own dragon, decides to show off. Why she needs to show off to her toddler cousin is anyone’s guess, but Daelyra appears to be appropriately awed. That is, until Syrax turns into putty in her small hands much like Caraxes often does, much to Rhaenyra’s displeasure. She huffs and puffs and Daelyra is very smug at the whole ordeal, but they eventually manage to make enough peace to take a nap under Syrax’ wing together.

They’re not friends by any means; Daelyra is barely three and Rhaenyra is almost seven, but the older girl finds it impossible to boss her younger cousin around the way she does with everyone else. It’s a humbling experience Aemma says she’s sorely needed.

Aemma seems also quite taken with the quiet and well-behaved child that her wild good-brother somehow managed to make.

“Are there no eggs available still?” he asks Viserys. His brother shakes his head.

“Dreamfyre laid a clutch recently but they all turned to stone within hours. It worries us greatly. I’m sorry Daemon. Daelyra will make a great dragonrider one day, I’m certain of that. I saw her handle Caraxes beautifully, and now Syrax, too.”

They don’t mention wild dragons on Dragonstone. Daelyra is much too young to try claiming any.

There’s something wistful in Viserys’ voice. Balerion’s passing killed something in him. That very flame that burns so bright in Daemon and Daelyra; it made Viserys painfully, insultingly human.

Daemon bites the inside of his mouth. He’s less worried about his daughter—there is a dragon just for her out there, he knows, she only needs to find it and that can take years. It took him years, too. But the egg issue, that is very worrying. That’s another clutch that just turned to stone so shortly after it was laid for seemingly no reason at all.

Their dragons weren’t growing as well as they used to, and their eggs were becoming less and less viable.

Just what was going on?

○

Daelyra is three years old when Daemon leaves the Vale without her. She understands more than most at her age, and Daemon is loathe to leave her, but his grandfather—the King first, grandfather second, always—is calling council to determine his heir. Daemon has a claim, but he’s a second son of a second son, and his hopes are low.

In all honesty, he’s not even going to press his claim seriously.

Viserys, though.

Viserys is the old king’s eldest male descendant. And as loathe as Daemon is to go against cousin Rhaenys (she who was chosen by his mother’s dragon, she who carries a piece of her mother with the magnificent beast she rides) he is Viserys’ brother first, and it’s his duty to protect his brother, and his claim, and even his pretty half-dragon Arryn wife and their daughter.

So, he goes to Harrenhall even though maybe he isn’t needed, and suddenly Viserys is the heir and once he’s king, Daemon will be his heir because Viserys has no son.

He wonders if that’ll make Viserys notice him, finally. Call him to his rightful place at his brother’s side, where he will stay. Ask him to the side, ask him to stay.

He doesn’t. It tastes bitter, and it tugs uncomfortably at his lungs.

Daelyra is happier to see him back than to see the gifts he brought her.

It feels like sunshine on his face, and when she drags him to weave flower-crowns and chase cats for her to pet and climbs Caraxes like he’s the best playground there is, the hole in his chest doesn’t feel nearly as all-consuming anymore.

○

Vale is a cesspit and Runestone is one of the seven Hells that the Faith keeps screeching about, and Daemon is going insane. Daelyra, too, the more she understands the more she loathes the place and all the Maesters and Septas who try to force Faith of the Seven down her throat.

Daemon threatens to kill them.

They will not be forcing Andal customs and Andal religion and fake Andal gods on his child. He will not allow such crime to be committed on his child when he yet breathes.

Rhea rages against it, but Daemon reminds her that Daelyra is his daughter first, and that was Rhea’s choice too when she refused to care. He cares for her, he raises her, and if this is when and where she wants to involve herself with the child, it’s four years too late.

He tells Daelyra of their gods when they sit under Caraxes’ wings, and of Old Valyria and their history and customs. Sitting by a living dragon, telling tales of their people, it feels different. It feels right.

His child will not grow up ignorant of their family’s history.

○

She dreams of gods. They speak to her, and she cannot hear, doesn’t remember what they say.

She wakes up angry for no reason in particular.

“What’s wrong, perzītsos?” her father asks, voice laden with sleep. The sun isn’t even peeking through the horizon yet, and the room is swaddled in darkness, but she sees everything clearly.

“Weird dream, kepa,” she says and makes herself more comfortable, using his stomach for a pillow. “But I forgot it.”

He nods and runs his hand through her hair, lulling her right back to sleep with the touch and a purr that rolls through his chest. It’s a familiar comfort she’s learned to crave.

Since when does she have a father? One that loves her, no less?

○

Nobody sane would think a dragon would be a remotely appropriate nanny for a child. Daemon thought these people were stupid. Caraxes was as besotted with Daelyra as he was, and she spent hours on end lounging with her back against the beast, slowly making her way through the books Daemon has gotten her.

It made Rhea jittery and upset when Daemon would leave to have his alone time, whether he was killing highwaymen or entertaining whores, and Daelyra spent all that time with Caraxes in his cave, reading her books, singing her songs, and tending to a fire, eating rabbits she hunted and skinned herself.

It’s a nice outing. The weather is warm, she has her blankets, and food, and fresh water. Caraxes is warmer than a fireplace, and will kill anything that will approach, and the cave shields them from both wind and the incessant sun.

It’s a nice few days, though, that she spends camping half an hour walk from Runestone.

She remembers several songs and sings them to Caraxes with a trained kind of skill she should not possess. He seems to enjoy them a lot.

<I think I need a guitar,> she sighs despondently, and the dragon chirrups in answer, huffing a gust of hot air at her face. She pats him under the eye. <I don’t think I should know what a guitar is, though. I don’t even know if they invented it yet. Do you think they did, somewhere?>

Caraxes chuffs and shakes his head. He doesn’t know what a guitar is, she supposes.

She knows things she can’t explain. She figures she should stop trying to, and just roll with it.

○

Rhea teaches her to hunt; when Daelyra marches up to her mother and asks to be taught. Rhea isn’t fully enthused about spending time with her daughter, but it is by far the best and longest time they spent together. Mother-daughter bonding, or something like that.

But Rhea finds Daelyra unsettling. All the noises the girl makes; the growls and purrs and chirps and chitters have her nervously stepping from foot to foot like the horse she rides. All the noises she’s heard Daemon make too, when the two communicate without words. It’s not unlike a mother cat purring and meowing at her kitten.

It’s not unlike two dragons when they’re together.

And the wisdom beyond her years, and the unerring patience and quiet comprehension of the world a child of not even five namedays should not have.

Rhea is thankful Daelyra learns quick and learns well. The sooner she does, the sooner Rhea can leave.

And Daelyra doesn’t even seem that bothered by her mother’s unsettled state. It’s a sad kind of acceptance that sometimes almost tugs at Rhea’s heart. She knows she’s a bad mother—

And then a piece of a pheasant they hunted falls into the bonfire, and Daelyra reaches into the open flame unbothered until Rhea screams, and she has the gall to look at her with confusion, hand still in the fire, red flames licking at the cuffs of her shirt.

When she retracts it, piece of meat between her fingers, her skin is entirely unmarred. Not even reddened, let alone blistered.

They return to Runestone the same evening and Rhea isn’t ashamed to admit that she runs.

○

<Dad, Mother is terrified of me.>

<Is she now, little flame?>

<Mhm. I think I might be too much of a dragon for her tastes.>

<That may be so. I think I might be too.>

<Some food fell into the fire.>

<Oh. You picked it up in front of her, didn’t you.>

<Sorry. It’s a habit, I forgot she’d freak out.>

<It’s alright. You’ve done nothing wrong, little flame. You’re just a bit more a dragon than most of our family, is all. You should be proud of it, not ashamed.>

<I’m not ashamed. I’m annoyed at Mother overreacting. At least she didn’t notice my eyes glowing in the dark. I think.>

<It’s certainly a sight.>

<You shrieked like a maiden first time you saw.>

<I did not!>

<Did too!>

○

Targaryens are closer to gods than men.

It has to do with their dragons; but not with their ability to ride them.

Not entirely.

○

“Gods be good,” Rhea whispers, laying in her bed wide-awake as full moon slides across the black sky. She grips the seven-pointed star pendant until her knuckles creak and turn white. “Gods be good, that girl is a monster.”

That girl is a dragon, is all.

○

Time passes in Runestone, dreary as it is.

Rhea avoids her daughter is if her life depended on it.

Daemon takes her flying and teaches her Valyrian, and when she’s tall enough asks her if she’d like to learn to fight, and with a gleam to her eye she excitedly agrees. And if Daemon exaggerates his defeats when she does well, it’s all in good fun.

She’s more skilled with a small sword than he expected her at this age, but she is his daughter. She has much more patience than he had her age, though. Maybe that’s why.

She is also wise beyond her years; patient and stubborn, calm but unwilling to bend to others. She knows things she shouldn’t and grasps ideas children twice her age struggle with, and runs circles around the Maester for fun. She seems to have instinctive grasp on her numbers, struggles with letters only briefly, seems to genuinely enjoy studying maps and history and all the highborn houses.

She makes the Septa cry when the woman refuses to stop with her thinly-veiled insults, and Daemon sneaks her cookies as a reward, and they catch rats together and put them in the Maester’s rooms after he smacks Daelyra’s knuckles with a wooden strip because she solved and equation using the method he didn’t approve of.

Ignoring the fact that her method was better.

She keeps mumbling about maths and arithmetic and how much she hated them in school for days after. Daemon doesn’t really understand what she means, but he’s not overly fond of numbers either.

It’s not bad, living like that. He almost gets used to it.

And then Old King Jaehaerys, First of His Name, dies.

○

Rhea comes to see them off, at least, when Daemon straps the most necessary luggage to Caraxes’ saddle and Daelyra makes sure her riding outfit is properly fitted. The flight will take two days, but it’s preferable to carriage procession which will take two weeks. The crow took its time to fly to the Vale, too, and they don’t have time to lose in Daemon’s opinion.

Rhea watches them with apprehension, and Daelyra seems to ignore her entirely.

“Shouldn’t you be happier?” Daemon calls with one of his infuriating smirks. “You’re getting rid of us.”

“Oh, believe me,” Rhea scoffs. “I will be celebrating your departure for the whole week.”

“Don’t celebrate to hard; all the realm is supposed to mourn the king.”

“We’ll tell them we’re celebrating the new one.”

He hums in answer and walks forward. Pats Daelyra’s head.

Rhea doesn’t miss how the girl leans into his touch, like a spoiled cat. She finds herself envious of it sometimes, still, even though she can scarcely look at the girl these days, after the hunting trip.

Mostly, she just ignores the child and Daemon both, for her peace of mind.

“Don’t come back,” she says. “Either of you.”

Daemon smiles. “If I have my way, you’ll never see either of us again.”

“Good.”

He means to annul their marriage. She hopes he can succeed, with brother for a king. And that he keeps the brat. Privately, Rhea thinks that Good Queen Alysanne must have grown senile in her advanced age to match them to begin with.

Rhea thinks she’s learned to hate him, though all these years.

“Goodbye, Mother,” Daelyra says and looks at her with those unsettling black eyes, and smiles brightly. “Have fun pretending we don’t exist and living your sorry life in this sorry middle of nowhere!”

That whelp. Rhea glares at the girl, but she only keeps smiling as she happily skips to the disfigured red beast Daemon has for a dragon. She climbs it skilfully and Daemon after her, snapping belts and chains around them both to secure them on the saddle.

He still manages one last smirk and a two-fingered salute, and then with a loud “sōves!” the red beast flaps its wings, rising from the ground, and then they fly.

It’s a majestic kind of view. Rhea hates it.

Good riddance, she thinks.