ℒove always wakes the dragon (Aemond x OC)

Like father, like daughter

With someone else she might've wanted to hold back a little, to conceal her temper the way she's learned to through the years, like hiding a dangerous snake in a bag. But Lia knows that the heat coursing through her stems from the blood they share, from the kinship she never asked for. Her anger is the language that Daemon, out of all people, will understand the best.

The guard at his door shows Lia no reaction at first but it only takes one glance at her for him to become alarmed. She barges into the chambers without a word, the knight following behind. Daemon is an unmoving figure standing at the window, arms over his chest, shirt stained with blood that isn't his. He turns to the sound, then quickly takes a few steps toward her, his wistfulness dissipating to let in an expression more friendly — until Lia opens her mouth, her tone sharp.

"You came back to the tavern that night, didn't you?"

He can fake it, she thinks, act surprised or offended — or at least hesitate with his reaction. He doesn't. In an instant, Daemon's face welcomes pride and complacency, with no hint of regret. She wants him to actually say it.

"Leave us," Daemon commands the guard without glancing at him. The knight walks out so fast as if he wasn't there, his wish to meddle completely gone. It's somehow clear that the conversation will not be of a pleasant kind.

Lia can barely wait for the door to close. "What happened was only between me and those men, and our dispute was dealt with," she sounds mostly disapproving but there is also a tinge of bitterness which she reveals the reason for, "I dealt with them myself. There was no need for you to go there."

"It was only fair," Daemon punctuates, unruffled, "It's what needed to be done."

"Murdering them was fair? We clearly have a very different understanding of what fair is."

"Well, I shall rephrase it then — they got what they deserved, every single one of them."

Daemon's never been the one to care much about any moral principles — or the lack thereof. He's always had his own understanding of justice. So he waits, moderately bored already, for Lia to follow up with some more lecturing. It comes as a surprise when she tells him grimly:

"You did not get all of them. Because I remember leaving three men bleeding. Didn't Ser Harrold mention that? I assume he was the one to tell you about it."

Now Daemon finds himself confused, the feeling rare and unpleasant for him. "It's not like he stopped to count them. He said he didn't pay them as much attention as he did to you."

"Both of you didn't, it seems. Because the third one was left very much alive," she holds his gaze, then averts hers, "But he isn't anymore."

Daemon frowns a little, considers the reason for her aggravation. "You are not content with killing him."

"Oh, it wasn't me, it was the fire," Lia gives him a mirthless smile, then he watches it disappear from her face. "The fire he started."

Now Daemon's confusion is replaced by a cheerless inkling. His memories of dozens of scared kids are still fresh, undoubtedly unnerving. "And why would he do that?"

"I do not think he planned to. He just wasn't particularly considerate of his surroundings while he was busy trying to kill Mysaria."

Daemon snaps back to indifference. "His motives are none of my conce—"

"He hurt her in attempts to get to me," Lia's aggravation flares up, "He found it quite upsetting that I sent my friends to kill his, as he cheerfully explained to me."

Another feeling that's even more rare for Daemond is guilt. It anchors somewhere in his chest, uncomfortable heaviness plumming down to his stomach. Viserys was good at that — cornering Daemon with his never-ending moralizing, trying to mold him into something he wasn't. It was easy to dismiss his efforts.