ℒove always wakes the dragon (Aemond x OC)

The wind of change (part 1)

Rhaenyra's face looks void of emotions as she is staring at the letter in front of her. Her eyes are following the same strings of words written on the piece of parchment, over and over again. Daemon is watching his wife closely, waiting for her reaction, trying to take a hint but there isn't any. She's an image of imperviousness as if her facial features were cast with marble, striking yet still. He can only distinguish that the irises of her eyes are overshadowed by darkness.
It's a dead giveaway that she's livid.

"How in the seven hells did that happen?" when Rhaenyra finally speaks, her voice flows low and strained. But strangling in its fury. He learned a while ago that patience is not the virtue she possesses.

"It only just now came to my knowledge," Daemon tries to explain, to apologize in advance, tries to make himself smaller. With his broad shoulders and his temper that usually can barely be reined in, it's hardly possible, and it angers her even more.

"And I'm asking you how did that happen? How could you not know that you had a daughter?"

"I've already told you, we did not..." — they didn't see each other after that one night, didn't make any promises, didn't make any plans — only it's not they, it's just him. "We did not keep in touch."

"You are saying you just fucked her mother and then left into the sunset? Because no way that would bear any consequences, right?" the consequences she speaks of are very well-known to Rhaenyra — she has three of those, with raven-colored hair and curls they did not get from her. "And shall I mention the egg?" she pinches the bridge of her nose. "Why would you even entertain the idea of giving her a dragon?"

The truth is that Daemon didn't think much back then. He only remembers the sickening feeling of helplessness, his own whistled breathing, voice hoarse with desperation. But there was also a cabin in the mountains, a glowing warmth of the fire, a pair of hands that brought him relief, the miracle of coming back to life. He keeps those memories to himself.

"Rationality must've left me in the face of death," there's no mirth in his voice. "I had no hope of surviving the night, thought the Stranger would take me by the morning. And she saved my life. And I... I decided it would be a worthy reward."

"Great, that was great thinking," Rhaenyra is clearly sarcastic. "So the way I see it, now we have an untamed dragon flying somewhere in the mountains doing gods know what — and a girl who spent twenty years of her life not knowing who her father was. Or am I mistaken?" her eyes land on him, trying to dig into his head.

"No, it sounds about right," his reply comes out remarkably quiet.

Daemon keeps imagining his daughter as a little girl, all alone in the obscurity of forest trees, reaching her arms to him. He never got a chance to know that version of her, he wasn't there for her — and that feeling is poisoning his heart with regret.

"What are we to do now?" Daemon has never been the one without a plan yet at the moment he can't come up with any.

"That is what I'm trying to think of," Rhaenyra huffs with annoyance.

She doesn't look at him anymore. Daemon stands up from the table, getting around it and towards her, wanting to lean closer as he always does. He likes lowering his head on her shoulder, steadying himself, finding comfort there, breathing in the warmth of her body that's filled with the same blood that he has in his. But right now he hesitates.

"I can only hope that this righteous anger of yours will not graze her, and you can spare the girl," his words are meant to be a plea but come off as an exaggeration.

Rhaenyra's gaze is immediately on him, a look of disbelief on her face. "How could you assume such a thing? The girl has done nothing wrong, I'm not angry at her. Why should a woman pay the price for a man's stupidity?"

What she means to say is that it's all his fault — and Daemon welcomes the concealed allegation. He lets the weight of his remorse push him to the ground as he falls to his knees, the move startling and confusing her.

"I am at your mercy, then," Daemon bows his head, a strand of white hair falling loose. He holds this position for a few seconds, before cautiously glancing up at her.

"Are you seriously implying that I should behead you?" she scoffs but there's a hint of a smile on her lips. "If I were to chop off your limb every time you did something stupid, I would be left without a husband."

Her jesting is a silver lining, a respite from this torturous conversation.

"Thank gods I have such a loving wife," in a crawl-like manner Daemon comes to her feet, nuzzling up his face against the thick material of her dress, intaking a long-awaited gulp of air filled with her scent. She lets him, briefly carding her fingers through his hair.

"Keep pushing your luck and I may change my mind. And I will start with your cock," her humor is biting, exactly the way he loves it.

"I thought that's your favorite part," Daemon smirks, yet watches her with keen attention, hoping that maybe he can get on her good side, tone down her ire. He almost succeeds — but when their eyes lock, whatever she sees in his makes her smile waver.

"Your wit is very much appreciated but not right now," Rhaenyra's tone is dismissal, her gaze aloof. "I need to think things over and I prefer to do so without distractions."

Right now, she isn't his wife, but more so his Queen, and she makes a point to remind him of it. Daemon can't help but obey as he always does — voluntarily, time after time he chooses to surrender his pride just to satisfy hers. He loves her like this, when she evinces her flaming stubbornness, her passionate spirit. Except, witnessing it is not the same thing as being the one it's aimed against.

She allows him a kiss on the crown of her head. On his way out, Daemon looks over his shoulder. Sometimes he wishes he could open up her skull, the reason behind it isn't hateful but curiosity-driven — in moments like this, he's dying to know what she's thinking about. But the Queen has a mind of her own.

Rhaenyra drops the act the second he closes the door. She lets her head sink into her hands, a muffled growl leaving her lips. She's frustrated with him, with that turn of events — but mostly with the uncertainty. Daemon's expectations are romanticized yet she has a different opinion on what's about to happen. She knows her husband is a proud man, and the idea of having another child, blood-related and flesh of his flesh, clearly flatters him. Rhaenyra, on the other hand, is wary of letting a stranger into their life since it's not just a girl, with her judgment not clouded and innocent, but a full-grown adult. Having a mini version of Daemon can be troublesome enough, and a woman twenty years of age sounds like a downright threat.

But when Rhaenyra tries to picture her, she thinks of an unexpected outsider, and it reminds her of her own youth, of the way she felt growing up in a castle filled with people who believed that she didn't fit in. Behind her back, they would call her a disagreeable menace, who was undermining decades-old traditions and wasn't meant to rule. Her experience of coming out of age was bitter and harsh, soiled with death and betrayal, but it could've been different, had she lived away from King's Landing.

She sighs and realizes that it would be quite hypocritical to label someone the way she's been labeled her whole life. The stranger in question couldn't even be called that: Daemon's blood gave her connection — however unwanted or accidental — to their family, and the Targaryens are famed for valuing their blood bond.

Deep down, Rhaenyra also knows that she would've wanted to meet her child, too. So she thinks there's only one decision she can make as she fetches a blank piece of parchment.