Chapter Text
She’s twelve when he comes to her for the first time in the night. The soft click of the doorknob and the creak of the floorboards wakes her from a delicate sleep. Her eyes open wide, blinking owlishly, until she can see the shape of a tall shadow, silhouetted against her bedroom wall by the white light of the moon.
The shadow’s steps are quiet, but not silent, light pats against her floor and a dull thud as it steps onto her rug. It’s tall and imposing, exhaling loudly in the quiet of the room. Rhaenyra’s heartbeat thuds in her chest, thumping wildly against the bone, fluttering high in her throat. As it approaches, she catches the glint of a round, flat ring on its pinky finger and she knows then, in an instant, that the tall shadow isn’t a shadow at all.
It’s her Uncle, Daemon.
Rhaenyra pushes herself up, her covers shifting, and watches as his face emerges from the shadows. He looks pensive, his heavy brow hiding indigo eyes that match her own, and serious— mouth pressed into a straight line, jaw tight with flexing tendons.
He stops just before her bed and stares down at her. Rhaenyra shifts uncomfortably, skinny arms wrapping around her torso to stave off the chill of her room. Her Uncle notices — Daemon notices everything — and she sees the smallest twitch of his lips and tilt of his head.
“Issi ao iōrves?” Are you cold?
“Daor.” No, she lies.
Her Uncle sighs loudly and steps up to her bed, one hand grasping the covers that have fallen, laying limp in a pile around her waist, the other pressing firmly to her shoulder. His palm is hot, searing against the nearly bare skin of her shoulder and upper-arm, covered only by a flimsy strap. He presses her back down against the bed until her head is resting comfortably on her pillow.
He’s careful as he pulls the covers up, over her chest and her shoulders, and tucks her back in. Up close, she can see the tension in his face and in the strain of his eyes. Something is troubling him.
“You will need to learn to lie better,” he says plainly, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “A Targaryen is always a skilled liar— like a second tongue.”
Rhaenyra bristles at the comment, she has lied plenty to her father and always gotten away with it, but ultimately ignores it in favour of studying his features. She can see the similarities in them, other than the obvious silver hair; the shape of his lips, the upturned tip of his nose, their eyes— although hers are flecked with lavender.
“What’s the matter, Uncle?”
He frowns at her question, his brow and lips turning down. He’s staring at her bedside table, lost in thought as opposed to looking at something in particular, until he flicks his eyes up to look at her. He studies her like she studies him, eyes falling over familial features and the wisp of hair that falls across her forehead.
His fingers press the wisp back, tucking it behind her ear.
“Isse se ñāqatubis, kesan henujagon.” In the morning, I will leave.
Rhaenyra sighs deeply. She hates the way she feels when he leaves, even for a small amount of time. Something always feels deeply wrong, incomplete, when he’s gone.
“Syt skorkydoso bōsa?” For how long?
It’s a surprise when he slips out of Valyrian. He is always the one encouraging her to use the dead language, that it’s both her birthright and her responsibility to use the language carried forth through time by her ancestors.
It has always been their thing. Her father, though he can speak the slippery language, chooses not to unless confronted with other members of their family. But her Uncle has always taken pride in speaking with her in small, secret conversations hidden from the rest of the world. Something for only them.
“I don’t know, Rhaenyra. For a long while, I should think.”
She clears her throat and lets out a low breath through her nose, watching as he brushes his hand over his forehead, pressing against his closed eyes. He seems shaken, almost, though it’s hard for her to believe that the man so confident, so sure of himself, could ever be shaken. But when he moves his hand and she gets a look at his face, she knows that he is.
It’s difficult to witness.
“Why?” She asks simply.
Daemon sets his elbows on his knees and tilts his head down, his chin pressed to his sternum. She can’t tell what he’s thinking but she desperately wants to know. It only takes a second and a sharp rustle of her covers to press herself up onto her knees and lay her palm on his shoulder. The strong line of him sags under her touch.
He’s warm through his shirt and she leans forward to rest her chin there. They’ve sat in this same position many times over the years, but it feels different this time. With a shaky breath, Rhaenyra leans forward and rests her forehead against his cheek and jaw. It tenses under her, moving and twitching.
“You would leave me here? Alone?”
Her words are cruel. She knows that he’s not leaving by choice, that her father must have something to do with his apparent banishment, but she can’t fathom a life without her Uncle there alongside her. They have a bond, something special and delicate, something more meaningful than her relationship with her own father, or any others in her family. Losing him would be like losing a piece of herself.
She goes to tell him, but he stands abruptly. Her jaw and teeth click, biting down at the jostling movement, nearly catching the tip of her tongue. Rhaenyra frowns as he steps away from her bed and moves over to the window, looking out at the dark grounds of the sprawling estate.
“Uncle—“
He interrupts. “I suppose I should give you your gift now. But, you must promise not to open it until your birthday.”
Pushing up off of her bed, Rhaenyra stumbles to her feet, eyes catching on the slim wrapped box clutched in his hands. She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest, scrunching her toes into the plush rug.
She doesn’t want the gift early. She doesn’t want the gift at all and would happily give it up if that meant keeping him. Her lip trembles and her jaw tightens, her eyes burning with the onset of tears. She pinches the skin of her palm to stop them from falling, grinding her teeth.
“Uncle—“
“Take it, Rhaenyra.”
“Nyke ȳdra daor jaelagon ziry!” I don’t want it!
Daemon steps forward, tall and intimidating, moving into her space. She’s shaking with…not anger, but some kind of fear for what this means going forward. She doesn’t want to lose him. She can’t.
And yet, it seems she has no choice.
Her Uncle is careful and his fingertips are soft when he cups her cheek, looking down at her. His eyes, her eyes, are open and searching, lips pursed as through preparing to say something. His thumb pets the apple of her cheek, grazing her eyelashes as her eyes fall shut, as she turns her cheek into his palm. She warms under his touch.
“Sagon sȳz.” Be good. “Gīmigon qilōni iksā.” Remember who you are.
Rhaenyra keeps her eyes closed even as he pulls his hand back from her face, even as she feels the barest brush of his lips against her forehead, even as she hears the soft creak of the floor and the click of the doorknob. She stands there, in the moonlight, with her eyes closed for far longer than it takes him to leave. Minutes. Dozens of them.
When she does finally open them, she’s alone and cold and the slim, wrapped box sits on her bed.
.•° ✿ °•.
°•. ✿ .•°
Rhaenyra’s hands shake as she holds the slim, wrapped box that has been hidden in the trunk at the foot of her bed for the better part of a year now. She’s sat in this position, on the plush rug with her legs folded and the box in her lap, in her hands, more than a dozen times since she received it.
Time and time again, she made to open the gift and defy her Uncle’s wishes but found she couldn’t. Time and time again, her fingers tugging lightly on the corners of the plain brown paper, she’d huffed a harsh breath and tossed it back inside her trunk, stomping out of her room and down the stairs to get as far away as she could from the reminder of her Uncle.
Her Uncle who had left her.
But now, in the early hours of the morning, watching the numbers on her phone flip to 6:35 a.m. — the time of her birth — she holds the gift again. Rhaenyra had expected to feel excited, eager, to open the gift that has been in her possession for months. But she still looks down at it with trepidation.
Once she opens the slim box it will no longer be a mystery. It will no longer be this secret between her and her Uncle. Whatever it is will be out in the open for all to see. Will it change the connection she still feels with him?
With a shaky breath, Rhaenyra slips her thumb underneath the corner of the plain brown wrapping and tears it open, ripping through the tape. It slips out of the paper easily, a soft, blue velvet box with a hinge on one side. She runs her fingers over the material, a frown crinkling between her brows as she imagines her Uncle doing the same.
Had his fingers brushed over the same material? Had he pressed his thumb into this same spot?
Is he thinking of her now? At the exact moment of her birth? Does he miss her?
It hurts to think of him, living his life without her. Her father hadn’t made a single mention of him since he left, not even to explain his disappearance. It seemed he was only interested in pretending his own brother did not exist and Rhaenyra did not dare bring him up.
A knock sounds on her door, then, startling her, and she drops the jewellry box onto her rug. It makes a dull thunk against the floor just as the door opens with a soft click. The familiar waves of her father’s hair greet her first, long and dangling around his face.
“Rhaenyra— you’re awake.”
Her father looks tired, his eyes squinting against the full, bright light of her bedroom. He takes her in, sitting on the floor, and offers her a half smile, just the edge of his lips quirking up as he is wont to do. She sees almost no similarities between her father and his brother, except for the silver colour of their hair. She feels no comfort when looking at him, nor from his voice.
He approaches and Rhaenyra stays seated on the ground, stuck in this spot she has chosen for herself, as if between a rock and a hard place. Her eyes flick to the jewellry box lying upside down just off to the side. Now, suddenly, she wants to open it desperately.
“Happy birthday, my darling— my delight.”
His beard is rough on her skin and his lips lack the softness of his brother’s when he presses them to her forehead, hands clasping the sides of her face. She tamps down on the urge to rip her face from his grasp, accepting his wishes and his kiss as they come.
“Kirimvose,” she whispers roughly, thank you, in the language of their ancestors.
He pulls back, standing over her, and she sees when his eyes catch on the blue velvet box that still sits at her knee. Tilting his head, he eyes it carefully before turning back to her with a clear question in his eyes.
Rhaenyra grasps it again before he has the chance to lean down and take it himself. She refuses to let anyone else open it, the gift is for her, after all. Her father moves to sit down on the closed lid of the trunk, brows twisted and hands grasping his knees.
“A gift already? Who is it from?”
The shape of his name is still familiar to her lips and she says it with only a slight shake to her voice. “Uncle Daemon.”
A tick jumps in her father’s scruffy cheek and his knuckles turn white with the force of his grip on his knees. It seems clear to her, then, without asking any questions, that her father is unquestionably the reason for her Uncle’s quick escape. She had thought as much.
“Daemon? He was here?”
“No,” Rhaenyra says, shaking her head. “Before— before he disappeared, he left it for me.”
Her father hums in that way of his, the kind that indicates displeasure, but his words are casually neutral. “I suppose that was nice of him.”
“Is it?” She asks icily. “Ziry geptot nyke.”
“Rhaenyra,” he laughs, though nothing about this seems funny to her. “He didn’t leave you, he left this family.”
She grits her teeth and tries not to react. Her father doesn’t understand because he has never understood the relationship she has with her Uncle. It’s better that they don’t talk about this, but, all the same, her mind races with questions. What could that mean— that he left this family? Had he been disowned? Did he change his name? Could she no longer call him Uncle?
Is it possible that she won’t see him ever again?
“Well?” He asks, after a few silent moments. “What did my brother gift to you?”
Rhaenyra turns the box over in her hands before slipping her thumb along the crease. She would much rather open it on her own but it seems clear that her father won’t leave until he sees it. With a sharp inhale, she holds her breath and pries the lid open—
It shines brightly in the light of her bedroom, silver links with hints of red jewels and a round, twisted symbol with a big red gem in the middle. She touches it carefully, softly, feeling the smooth finish with the pad of her finger. It takes her a few seconds to remember to breathe and she lets out a gushing breath, blowing out and down over her hands and the necklace.
Pressing her finger underneath the symbol, she’s surprised by the weight of it— or lack thereof.
“It’s Valyrian steel.”
She whips her head up to look at her father, brows furrowed at his words. His face is lax, his eyes creased as he takes in the jewellry in her hands. He’s studying it carefully. Valyrian steel? It can’t possibly be. The pieces that continue to exist today are few and far between, mostly forged into weapons that now hang on the walls of their sitting rooms and hallways.
Valyrian steel is something to covet, not to gift to a thirteen-year-old niece.
“That’s impossible,” she says, shaking her head. “It can’t be.”
Her father lifts his brow and nods his head. “It is— set with a ruby. There is much I can say about my brother, but—“ He leans over and brushes his thumb along the links and down to the symbol that hangs in the centre, weighing it in his hand. “—but Daemon would only ever gift you the best and this is undoubtedly Valyrian steel. It is a great honour, Rhaenyra.”
Daemon would only ever gift you the best, repeats in her mind. She finds that hard to believe.
“Even from him?” She asks quietly, thumbing the ruby.
Her father pats his hands down against his legs and stands up, running a hand through the length of his hair. “Yes. Even from him. You should wear it tonight for your party.”
It’s difficult for her to accept the meaning behind the gift with the way her Uncle left. If she was so important to him — as the gift suggests — then she can’t explain away his behaviour. Either her father ordered him to go or he left of his volition, but either way, he left her: his Rhaenyra.
Did their closeness mean nothing to him? Did he not grasp how much she had come to rely on him? Her father’s quest for the perfect son had left her, the so-called delight, behind in a cloud of dust. A child but not an heir. Less than what he desired in every single way.
Daemon knew how she felt, being second to her father in everything. The heir and the spare.
She looks up as her father makes to leave and swallows around the lump in her throat. “Why did he leave?”
Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, is not a ferocious man. He doesn’t yell and fight and push others around him to bend to his whims. He is of the blood of the dragon, but not in the way that her Uncle is. Her father is undoubtedly the peacemaker of her family, her Uncle more inclined to violence.
But the sigh that comes from his lips coupled with the squeezing of his eyes, the way he looks like he wants to be anywhere other than in her room, is something she’s never seen from him before. Her father is a lot of things, but never one to hide from a discussion— or a fight.
“He left for the same reasons that all men do: in fear or to plot,” he says solemnly. “Be glad we haven’t heard from him yet, I’m sure it won’t be long.”
.•° ✿ °•.
°•. ✿ .•°
It feels like a long time, but it isn’t really. Another birthday passes, fourteen, and then they approach the next, fifteen.
Sometimes she wonders if her father spoke the future into being when he said those words about her Uncle. It seems like too much of a coincidence otherwise. Perhaps, if he hadn’t said those words, then she wouldn’t have felt her heart break into millions of little pieces.
Perhaps, though, that’s what he wanted.
She doesn’t often walk the halls near her father’s office, but her Uncle’s gift has made her more curious about the Valyrian steel weapons that now act as decoration in her ancestral home. The Targaryen’s are one of the largest collectors of Valyrian steel; it comes mostly in the shape of swords, strung up on the walls like she lives in a private museum.
Her two favourites — Blackfyre and Dark Sister — sit on either side of her father’s office door. They’re the two largest, with beautiful black hilts and gold embellishments. She studies the way the steel of the blades ripple, the same rippling that can be seen in the twisted emblem of her necklace.
Rhaenyra twists the necklace between her fingers as she studies the swords. It’s a strange thing— to own a piece of Valyrian steel that isn’t meant for the walls. She wonders, often, about who made the jewellry and why it was made in the first place. It’s easy to let her mind get away from her with thoughts of a love so intense, so ardent, that something so precious as Valyrian steel was taken from a weapon and turned into something so beautiful.
It’s hardly real, she tells herself. It was probably from the old times, great ancestors past, when Valyrian steel was plentiful. But the story she tells herself still makes her belly flip with the knowledge of who gave it to her.
Lately, when she thinks of her Uncle, she can’t help but think of their last moments together— the soft press of his fingertips to her cheek, the brush of his lips against her temple, his breath pouring over her nose, his intimidating stature in her space. It hardly makes her feel as a niece should her uncle and it’s a feeling so confusing, so perplexing, that she always tucks it away, hidden—
Only for it to reawaken in her belly when she’s alone.
Her thoughts are scattered, the swords blown from her mind, when she hears a crash from her father’s office. Rhaenyra frowns and takes a timid step closer to the door. There are raised voices coming from inside though their words are indecipherable, just loud shouts and noises that worry her.
With a shaking hand, Rhaenyra reaches forward to tug on the doorknob when she’s jerked back and away, led down the corridor by Otto Hightower— one of her father’s associates. She rears back from the dark-haired man, trying to stop their movements.
“Stop! There’s something happening in there!”
Otto shakes his head. “It’s under control, Rhaenyra. You need to go up to your room.”
“No,” she says firmly, tugging her wrist out of his grip. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Her father is not one to shout. He’s a calm man, someone who prefers to logic the situation instead of yell and scream. So unlike his blood in that way, her Uncle used to say. Targaryen’s are known for the tempers — It’s the dragon’s blood, Rhaenyra — and yet her father could always find a way out of an argument.
Except, of course, with—
“Why is my Uncle here?” She demands, turning and walking back towards the office door.
She hears Otto’s loud sigh and grumble under his breath. “He’s not, Rhaenyra. Please, go up to your room.”
It’s a lie. She knows because she’s a Targaryen, she’s the one with the second tongue.
If she can just get past the door, if she can just see her Uncle, if she can make him see her, maybe things will be better. Maybe he’ll come back, or— maybe he’ll take her with him. She misses him, she misses being understood by someone, and there’s no chance she’s letting him leave again.
Hardly a step away from the door, her hand once against outstretched, wriggling away from Otto, the door swings open with a loud bang. It startles her a few steps back, one hand pressing just beneath her collar bones as she gasps.
There, in all of his silver-haired glory, is Daemon. He looks different, his hair shorter and features hard, glaring. He’s still of the same intimidating stature that she remembers, although perhaps more muscular. He seems to fill out his shirt more, the material stretched over his shoulders.
“Uncle—“
He barely spares her a glance. Just a brief flick of his indigo eyes in her direction, a small pursing of his lips, before he’s glancing around the hallway and turning to face Dark Sister, hung on the wall. She sees her father inside the office, his face red and veins popping in his forehead. When he sees her, his mouth twists.
“Rhaenyra, go.”
She shakes her head. “No, no— I, Uncle— you came back.”
Daemon doesn’t respond. Instead, he moves towards the wall and runs his fingers over the sword he’s been staring at. Dark Sister is the prettier of the two swords, if that is a reason to choose a sword. The fluttered gold embellishments have always looked like dragon wings to her, but the blade is considerably more slender than Blackfyre.
“Daemon, don’t you dare,” her father warns, moving to the hallway. He shoulders in front of her, as if that’s going to convince her to leave.
Not when her Uncle is standing right there. Not when she’s wished for him to come back, over and over and over again. If she could just talk to him, if she could just get him to understand, then—
“It’s my birthright,” Daemon says in a rough voice, the first words she hears him speak. “And I’m taking it.”
He fits his hand underneath the hilt of the sword, gripping and pulling it until it tears from the wall. Rhaenyra’s eyes go wide, her mouth falling open as he holds the once-decorative sword in his hand. With his stance, and the look in his eyes, it has never looked more like a weapon.
Daemon turns around to face her father, sword in hand, and tightens his jaw. “Get out of my way, Viserys.”
Rhaenyra can’t stop herself from trying again. “Uncle, please—“
He turns to face her with such fury in his eyes that it makes her cower. His features are strained, angry in a way she’s never seen them, only heard about before, and it makes her want to dash up to her room and hide.
The words that slither through his lips are in their old tongue, their language, as though his only goal is to hurt her worse than he already has.
“Qrīdrughāks, Rhaenyra.” Go away, Rhaenyra.
Rhaenyra steels herself, trying to straighten herself out of the cowering curl of her shoulders before she speaks. “Jaelan naejot ȳdragon naejot ao.” I want to speak to you.
Daemon hunches over, just enough so that he’s looking into her eyes. His eyes are alight, a blazing purple, as she stares at him. His features are all as she remembered; the straight, strong line of his nose, the dip of his cupid’s bow. He has only ever looked at her with love and affection before, but now there is none to be found.
His eyes flick down, so quickly she’s unsure whether it really happens, but her fingers immediately tangle in the necklace at her throat— the necklace he gave her.
He wets his lips with his tongue and speaks slowly and clearly. “Nyke ȳdra daor jaelagon naejot ȳdragon naejot ao.” I don’t want to speak to you. “Qrīdrughāks.” Go away.
Rhaenyra stumbles back, her shoulder hitting Otto. She looks at him, at her uncle, again, his cruel words ringing in her mind. His eyes narrow and she tilts her chin up; she will not cry in front of him, she will not show him how much he’s hurt her.
She feels Otto grasp for her sweater but turns out of his grip. There is only silence as she turns and walks down the hallway, away from her uncle.
.•° ✿ °•.
°•. ✿ .•°
“Why did he take Dark Sister?”
Rhaenyra sits at the breakfast table, her right leg crossed over her left at the knee, and flips through the newspaper as she stabs a strawberry with her fork. The weeks following Daemon’s visit have resulted in many a stilted conversation and an immense amount of internal conflict. If possible, she has even more questions about him than she did before.
She wrestles with herself constantly, agonizing over how she’s supposed to feel about him. It’s not like a switch that she can simply turn on and off, depending on his attitude and behaviour toward her. But make no mistake, she wants to hate him. She wants to loathe him and everything he has ever said, done, or given to her.
He made it very clear, at least in her mind, that she means nothing to him— that she is nothing. It’s difficult to come to terms with such a drastic change; this is her uncle, after all. This is the man who has been her friend and confidant, who had taken it upon himself to each her the old tongue, to comfort her when she was faced with the unfortunate truth of her birth.
He, himself, had faced that unfortunate truth, many years ago, he’d said.
“It is technically his,” her father says, sounding tired and staring off into space, his spoon clanking against the edges of his teacup. “Just as Blackfyre is mine.”
“Hm,” she hums, staring down at the open page of the paper. “But…what is he going to do with it?”
There’s an article about him in the paper nearly everyday now. Half the time it’s about business — something about the Stepstones and the Targaryen family fortune he now finds himself disowned of — and the other half of the time he’s pictured with some socialite or another, a lit cigarette in his mouth and his hand sneaking up a skirt.
It hurts to see him that way, but she can’t help studying the picture. Her eyes follow the length of his fingers, the veins visible in his hands and his wrists, the ring on his pinky. She knows how those rings feel against her skin— the shock of cold before the climbing warmth.
“Stop thinking about him, Rhaenyra,” her father says, exasperated, instead of answering her question.
He hardly answers any of her questions now.
“I’m not,” she lies— convincingly. She turns the paper around for him to see and points at the small picture of Daemon and the article that follows. “He’s simply in the paper, again.”
Her father grunts. “Yes, well…stop reading the paper, then.”
“If you would simply answer my question about Dark Sister, then I wouldn’t need to read the paper or continue to ask you about it,” she says primly, sniffing and turning her face to pretend to read the next page.
Her father’s fist thunks down onto the table, a sound so loud it startles Rhaenyra. His silverware crashes to the ground and, when she looks at him, he’s clenching his jaw, his hand covering his face.
“It’s to complete the deal at the Stepstones. Alright, Rhaenyra? Have I answered your question now?”
Rhaenyra folds the paper closed and uncrosses her legs. She pushes the chair back from the table, her breakfast forgotten, and stands up. “One day you will need to share this information with me, without me having to fight you for it.”
She tries to stand up tall, as tall as her small frame can be, but she fears she looks nothing more than a child. It’s hard to get her father to take her seriously, to try to see her as his only living heir and not just a little girl.
He doesn’t trust her with anything, not with information or family secrets, not with his thoughts or the business. There’s only so much she can take, being left in the dark, before the day comes where she will no longer be interested in what he has to offer her. One day, when he has no other choice, she knows he will come to her.
She might say no.
“That day has yet to come,” he finally says, voice low. “Go elsewhere— and stop thinking about Daemon.”
.•° ✿ °•.
°•. ✿ .•°
The second time Daemon comes to her in the night, it’s in a dream. She’d fallen asleep thinking of him, so it’s hardly a coincidence. It happens sometimes with other things, when she whispers the words to a song and it appears in her mind, when she thinks of a celebrity or a friend, and there they are.
In it, she’s wandering the halls of her home, stretching up on her toes to run her fingers over all of the weapons and decorations she can reach that hang on the walls until—
Daemon is there, picking her up from the floor, arms wrapped around her torso, and holding her up to the very sword that still hangs in their hall. It looks the same, glinting silver in the light of the hallway. Could this be a memory?
“It’s called Blackfyre,” her Uncle says, voice quiet in her ear. “Have you learned of it?”
Her younger self — eight or nine — nods. “It belonged to Aegon the Conqueror.”
“Sȳz riña,” he praises, squeezing her around the belly. “It was passed down after that, kept in the family, until it landed in the hands of Aegon the Unworthy’s son— do you know his name, Rhaenyra?”
She shakes her head, leaning her head back against his shoulder, still staring at the sword. It’s pretty, the more she looks at it— gleaming silver with a black hilt and gold embellishments. Its blade is thick and sharp, the pattern of the steel rippled.
“Come now, Rhaenyra. This should be easy for you to remember.”
Remember who you are.
Rhaenyra shrugs her shoulders before it comes to her, to dream-her, suddenly. “Daemon! It was given to his son Daemon.”
His cheek presses against hers and she feels his nod against her skin. His lips are next, pressing softly to her temple.
Daemon turns with her then, moving her over to the other sword. It’s similar to Blackfyre with its black hilt and gold embellishments, but thinner down the blade. Still as sharp, still with the rippled steel.
“How about this one, Rhaenyra— what’s that one called?”
She stares at it for a long moment, focus stuck on the fluttered embellishment off of the hilt. It looks like dragon wings to her; fitting for their family.
“I don’t remember,” she says finally, turning and twisting to look at him.
Her Uncle hums in her ear, stretching out an arm and dragging his finger over the steel. “That, Rhaenyra, is a very important sword that belonged to a very strong woman— Visenya Targaryen, Aegon the Conqueror’s wife.”
He chuckles, then, and mumbles under his breath. “And sister.”
Rhaenyra stares at the sword and reaches out with her fingertips, but Daemon steps back far enough that she can’t reach it. She pouts and turns her head to look at him, but he simply smiles at her with a single quirk of his lips.
“She even rode a dragon.”
“A dragon?” She asks, incredulously.
“Oh yes,” he tells her. “Back when there were dragons and other creatures we’ve lost along the way. We were dragon-riders, Rhaenyra. It’s in our blood— it makes us fiery and quick to anger but it also makes us fiercely loyal and protective.”
It makes sense, dream — or memory — her thinks. Their family is messy but they’re still family; they protect each other as much as they’re angry with each other. The Targaryen genes run deep, beyond their silver hair and purple eyes, beyond their vexation and penchant for languages long considered dead.
“You protect me,” she says.
Daemon squeezes her around the middle and rubs his cheek against hers. “Always.”
And then, quieter: “It’s all for you, my Rhaenyra. All for you. Remember that— gīmigon qilōni iksā.”
Remember who you are.
.•° ✿ °•.
°•. ✿ .•°
For weeks, approaching her sixteenth birthday, she tries to bring forth what she believes is that same memory. It was too clear, too jarring, for it to be anything that her mind made materialize out of thin air. Everything in it felt familiar, as if scratching a particularly annoying itch— she’d experienced it before, she knows.
At the same time, she learns that the Stepstones is actually a hotel that sits on a rather famous beach, taking its name from a bloody battle involving not just her ancestors, but a very familiar sword that has been recently torn from her home’s wall.
Dark Sister, it seems, had landed the killing blow— slicing a man through the belly to win her ancestor the long-waged war. It all starts to make sense then; after all, Targaryen’s are nothing if not sentimental.
What doesn’t make sense to her, is why her father was so vehemently against the purchase.
Sentimentality is not lost on him. He had searched far and wide for many, many years for a drawing of the dragon Balerion, refusing to stop until it was hung behind his desk in his office. His obsession with their ancestor Aegon the Conqueror knows no bounds.
She guesses the reason for his disinterest in the land lies with Daemon himself— or whatever Daemon has done to upset him. In any case, Daemon, at some point, clearly decided to take on the purchase himself, despite being disowned and no longer having access to the Targaryen fortune. She sees now that Dark Sister is more than just a connection to the land, she’s a bartering tool.
Rhaneyra desperately wants to go to her uncle and tell him that she understands, but she can’t help but think of the last words he said to her. Why had he been so cruel? What has she ever done but love him unconditionally?
Unconditional love is not something either of them are used to, with the exception of each other.
That doesn’t stop her from thinking of him— and thinking of him often. Usually when she’s slipped beneath the covers of her bed, a shiver running the length of her spine and her belly growing warm with thoughts of his eyes— their eyes, meeting across a crowded room.
They often sneaked from stuffy parties together, meeting in one of the sitting rooms on the ground floor to eat to their heart’s content and gossip about the party guests. Sometimes he’d let her sneak a few sips of his drink, the taste strong and bitter against her tongue.
Mostly, though, she thinks of the simplicity of her name on his lips, the sound rumbling from his chest, when he says: “Rhaenyra.”
Despite her reservations, it’s easy for her to slip from the house. Her father’s many associates wander but frequently seem more preoccupied with him than they are with her. The Stepstones isn’t terribly far, but it’s far enough that she has to take the train.
Bundled up in her black wool coat, she wonders how many people even stay at a hotel on the beach in the middle of winter. It’s unlikely that there’s any snow, but the imagined chill of the water has her shivering in her seat, through the heaters that fill the train.
On the way, she thinks of what she’ll say to him.
I understand how much this land means to you. I understand how much Dark Sister means to you.
I’m sorry for how cruel my father has been; he’s always been a cruel man.
I don’t know what I did wrong, but please tell me how to fix it.
I just want to be your Rhaenyra again.
She wonders how she can convince him to let her stay, that she’s meant to be there with him. How can she express how terrible things are with her father? He already knows, he’s always known the pain she experiences on a daily basis. She’ll say what she has to because she has no intention of going back.
Not permanently, anyway.
There’s not one other soul who leaves the train when she arrives at the station. Accordingly, she hops into the only taxi that’s waiting in the lot and hardly needs to give them the name of the hotel before they’re already on their way.
It’s dreary and grey because of the season, but she thinks it might be a nice place in the summer. When the breeze blows through and cuts the heat, when the sun shines and the grass is green, the sand warm and squishy between toes. But, for now, the small seaside town looks empty and the hotel looks emptier.
When she arrives, there’s a familiar head of silver hair standing up at the top of the stairs, just in front of the large double doors. Familiar, but different. He’s cut it, shorn close to his skull instead of wearing it in the traditional way, like her father. It makes him look more severe.
She doesn’t know how he knew to expect her, but she knows this is no coincidence. He waits and watches her as she steps out of the taxi, following her movements to the bottom of the stone steps. He looks stern, his jaw tight and his features carefully blank. It’s a long and daunting walk.
“Skoro syt issi ao kesīr?” Why are you here?
His voice is loud and echoing in the open space, cutting through the sound of the wind that blows her hair across her face. She waits until she’s reached the top step, standing just in front of the man she once thought understood her beyond everyone else.
He has always been more than just an uncle, more than just her father’s brother. He’s been her confidant, her friend, her protector—
“Rhaenyra.”
She looks up at him with a frown.
“Why are you here?”
Rhaenyra steels herself, clenching her hands into fists as she prepares to stand up to him. “Skoros gaoman iksis mirre—” What I do is none—
Daemon steps up to her quickly, his hand reaching out fast to grasp her face in his palm before she can even react. His fingers spread, his thumb trailing down to drag up the length of her throat to rub over the links of her necklace.
She gasps in a breath and finishes her thought in English. “—of your concern!”
His face is inches from hers; his eyes staring at her, his lips so close to her own lips, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him this closeup before and she finds she can’t breathe. It’s stuck in her chest, like a bubble.
“It is my concern, Rhaenyra,” he says quietly, his voice rumbling. “You shouldn’t be here— your father will—”
“I don’t care what he thinks!” She shouts, suddenly pulling out of his grasp and taking a step away. “I don’t care what either of you think. I’m not a small girl— I’m not a child any longer! I’m—I’m—”
“Yes,” he says, stepping into her space again. He doesn’t touch her, but his eyes flick over her face. Indigo, the same as hers. “Who are you, Rhaenyra? Tell me.”
His inane question only serves to infuriate her further. “Why would I ever tell you?”
He has the audacity to look hurt. “Rhaenyra—”
“No! You left me. You know what things are like for me and you left me. You— you abandoned me and you were cruel to me! Me! Your—”
Rhaenyra cuts herself off before she embarrasses herself further, a sob bubbling from her lips. Her hand comes up to cover her face just as he reaches out to tug her into his chest. She yanks herself back, again, and shakes her head. “No, Daemon. Leave me—”
He throws his hands up in the air and shouts. Daemon’s patience runs thinner than water. “I tried to get you back!”
She can’t breathe, hiccoughing up choked breaths. Her cheeks are hot and soaked in tears that she would do anything to stop but she can’t. Damn him, damn him and the things he does to her.
“I tried Rhaenyra,” he says, voice softening as he steps closer once more. This time, she doesn’t move away. “Nyke sylutan.” I tried.
“You told me to go away. You said you didn’t want to speak to me—”
“You didn’t do what I asked.” Daemon sighs heavily. He reaches out again and thumbs her chin, the edge of his nail sliding over the curve of her bottom lip.
She scoffs. “I won’t stand here and endure your cruelty, again—”
Daemon interrupts her. “Gīmigon qilōni iksā.” Remember who you are. “Gīmigon qilōni iksan.” Remember who I am.
But she’s tired of playing these games with him. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to remember or who she’s supposed to be. She doesn’t know how to be anyone other than herself— Rhaenyra, heir (for now) to the Targaryen family. She is looked over and passed upon and, now, without the only person who gave her some semblance of comfort.
Rhaenyra shakes her head. “I don’t know who you want me to be, Daemon, but I can’t be anything other than who I am.”
He leans in as she speaks, closer and closer until the tip of his nose bumps against hers. His forehead presses against her and she stares as his eyes close, his light lashes fanning over the tops of wind-reddened cheeks. If she parts her lips, she can taste the sweetness of his breath.
“Iksā iā Targaryen.” You are a Targaryen.
“Iksā hen ānogar hen zaldrīzes.” You are of the blood of the dragon.
“Iksā se dārilaros naejot aōha lentor.” You are the heir to your family.
And then in English, his voice soft as it drifts on the wind, he whispers: “And you are mine, Rhaenyra.”