Work Text:
Curses
.
It was not an unusual story—though it was one often scrawled on a page rather than lived by a human being.
She was a princess, who ran away with a knight. She had a child, and tragedy befell them all—perhaps a punishment for her sins, her dalliance, and her abandoning her duties. The lesson of this tale would, of course, be that little girls should always listen to their parents and always follow the rules.
Rhaenyra had, unfortunately, never excelled at either listening nor following.
Perhaps that was how she came to be standing at the doorway of a grand keep in Dorne, alongside a dozen other hopeful girls—many with swollen bellies or carrying young babes. These served as evidence of their capabilities, Rhaenyra supposed, and made them more likely to be chosen for what appeared to be a competitive position.
Because of course it wasn’t going to just be given to her. Why would anything come easily, to a girl who had sinned such as her?
That is what would be scrawled on this page of her life, she thought. That was how others would see this.
But as the person living it, she saw things a little differently.
.
Rhaenyra was, perhaps, slightly to blame for her situation.
As a girl she knew marriage was a reality awaiting her. As a princess, she knew it would be discussed earlier for her than it would be for someone of non-noble birth. And as a Targaryen, she knew the timeline was accelerated even further—her mother had been just eleven when she wed Viserys Targaryen, the current King and Rhaenyra Targaryen’s father.
She was lucky, they said, that her father waited until she was a girl of three and ten.
She did not feel lucky, when she was paraded in front of men old enough to be her grandfather. She refused every man whose name she heard, until her father stripped her of the right to choose at all. It seemed fate was on her side though, and not her fathers. Much to Rhaenyra’s delight, some unknown force seemed determined to sour his plans. Again and again.
Her first betrothed was gored, the wound festering and him perishing of infection. The second drowned. The third was slain on a battlefield. The fourth was poisoned. The fifth was apparently stung by a bee—his entire face swelling until he could not breathe!
“Perhaps I’m cursed,” She had said cheerfully when she heard the news. Viserys had glared. Alicent had admonished her for talking so casually about a good man’s death.
There were others after that, but truly at some point you forget the cause of deaths. There were so many. But finally—finally, one made it to King’s Landing. Made it to the wedding, even. He was a fine man, the heir of Driftmark and pretty to look at—even if he seemed more interested in his squire than her.
He was certainly more interested in his squire than their vows, which were rudley interrupted by his murder. A rogue knight had pulverized the squire’s face until mere chunks and matted blonde hair remained. Laenor threw himself on the man's body—and took the knight's morning-star straight to his pretty face. What a pity.
Perhaps she was cursed. She thought, a little more morbidly this time after having witnessed the bloodshed in person.
It seemed Alicent—her stepmother, the Queen had the same thought. But as per usual, they disagreed about how to resolve the ‘problem’ that was Rhaenyra’s future.
The conversation Rhaenyra overheard consisted of Alicent pleading with Viserys to send Rhaenyra away. This was a sign from the gods that she was not to marry—she could become a septa. Aegon was already heir, there was little need for a daughter. How many more men would Viserys doom to death by betrothing them to her?
Rhaenyra shifted, feeling twitchy from the insult but not wanting to give away her hiding place. Her nails dug into her palms hard enough to draw blood when she heard her father speak.
“Perhaps you’re right—I shall think of it.”
.
She seduced her guard. He was fond of her. Fond enough to do right by her, she thought.
They discussed running away as they lay together, after. She would bring jewels and dresses—things to fund their travels and acquire a home for them. Criston had family in Dorne, she would like it there, he swore. He would be good to her. He loved her. He’d always loved her, he whispered into her hair.
Perhaps not what she wanted to hear, given that he had been her guard since she was a girl of seven.
But she would rather be chained to him than a church. And she would rather wear light silks in Dorne than a heavy veil in King’s Landing.
So she smiled. She told him she couldn’t wait to begin their life together.
It wasn’t a lie, not entirely.
.
won't you stay with me, my darling
when my walls start burning down
.
Their life together began on a boat—the captain wed them, and they were shoved into a tiny cabin with an even tinier bed. It was not glamorous, and Rhaenyra quickly learned she cared little for her new husband’s…everything. She grit her teeth and tried to bear it—it would be better when they reached Dorne, she told herself.
She ignored the whisper that said, that is months away.
She spent a great deal of time on the decks. Away from him and the stuffy space they shared.
.
She was visibly pregnant by the time they reached Dorne. She had suspected it, given the disruption of her courses, but she could blame that on stress, and the nausea on seasickness. But the protrusion from her stomach was unmistakable, evidence that there was no returning from this choice—this marriage. She would be tied to Criston in the form of a baby.
He was delighted, so much so he cried tears of joy.
Rhaenyra cried, too.
.
Criston joined the guard—but he joined something else, too. A subgroup who patrolled the streets of the most lascivious areas of the city, breaking up couples they deemed inappropriate and breaking fingers of those who were clearly practicing infidelity. It was for the good of man, Criston claimed. It was for the good of their gods.
Rhaenyra didn’t fear him, exactly, but she realized in this moment that one day she might.
Perhaps that was why his death was a relief.
He lasted longer than the others, she thought. He even lasted long enough to marry her.
.
She was sixteen years old and a widow, heavily pregnant as she watched dirt topple over her husband's wooden casket. Some of his extended family had come—offering condolences to her, when she didn’t deserve them. She wasn’t sad that he was dead—she was sad that she was alone. And the looming prospect of caring for a baby by herself was…terrifying.
Perhaps it was luck that she didn’t have to look after him for long.
The birth was horrific, something she never wanted to repeat. The pain was enough to make her beg for death to take her, for it would be kinder than having to suffer such agony. And when it was over, finally over, they set the brown haired babe to her chest and she…felt nothing.
He was not the blonde haired purple eyed Targaryen she had dreamed of. He was a tiny Criston, the little leech drinking eagerly from her breast just as his father had with her spirit. Resentment bubbled in her throat, acidic enough that it burned and made her want to vomit.
Criston’s cousins cooed over the babe, a few staying the night to watch over the babe so Rhaenyra could rest. She nearly sobbed in relief, sleep coming easily as her body and mind were both exhausted from the labor.
When Rhaenyra woke, the brown haired infant was pale and cold to the touch. Everyone was distraught.
Everyone but her.
The midwife said babies were fragile—one could appear healthy but pass quickly, it just happened sometimes and no one was to blame.
Rhaenyra was…numb, nodding along and indifferent to it all.
The babe was buried next to his father, the cross bearing a date but no name.
.
this house says my name like an elegy
echoing where my ghosts all used to be
there's still cobwebs in the corners
and the backyard's full of bones
.
Rhaenyra healed quickly thanks, in part, to her young age—or so the midwife said. Her malaise led to little appetite, and weight from pregnancy fell off of her in a matter of weeks. She looked at her body in the mirror each night, tracing the marks that had appeared as her stomach grew. They were fading too, and she wondered if one day there would be no evidence to tie her to the fact she had been a mother for one singular day.
But then, she would weigh the weight of her breasts in her palms—the size of which still seemed obscene. They had grown along with her stomach, and she barely noticed for the bulge in her abdomen was so much more jarring. She had known they were larger, but they had seemed proportional to her stomach, and to her.
But now her stomach was flat, and her chest remained…prominent.
It demanded her attention for more than just its size, though. Her breasts ached.
And, they leaked.
At first, she was told to ignore it—with nothing to nurse the milk would dissipate.
But it didn’t, and it hurt, gods it hurt, the skin feeling so tight and swollen she feared it would burst. She sobbed as she tried to massage them like the midwife had said too, but the pain was too much for her to continue. Finally one of Criston’s cousins took pity on her. Her baby was a few months old, eager for sustenance and uncaring of whose tit it came from.
The relief she felt as the baby latched was indescribable. She cried after it was done because it was so wonderful to feel like herself again. Her body was hers in that moment, not her husbands, not her child’s, hers.
But then her breasts swelled, again.
It was the midwife who made the suggestion—at her six week checkup she inquired about Rhaenyra’s output, and warned her it wouldn’t stop if she kept nursing. But Rhaenyra had tried to stop and the pain became too much—she didn’t know what to do.
The midwife had clucked her tongue, “It isn’t such a bad thing I suppose. Tis the way of things, more babes than there are breasts to feed them. The wages of a wet nurse can be good, depending on who hires you. I can show you where the postings are—the pole in town, just for em’.”
A year ago Rhaenyra would have laughed at the suggestion.
Most women of her station didn’t even feed their own children—Alicent certainly never had, and Rhaenyra wouldn’t have been expected to. But things were different here, or perhaps Rhaenyra just saw a different side of things here. The village truly raised each child, caring for them and sharing the burden of everything from feeding to clothing to teaching them. Breastfeeding was an expectation if you were capable of it.
And clearly, it could be a job, too.
Her half siblings had wet nurses—they were older, though. Their faces lined and bodies round. It was said the fat in the body produced fatty milk and healthy babies, at least in King’s Landing. But she wasn’t sure if that was true everywhere—if it was, her prospects didn’t look good.
She never imagined herself working. Much less the job entailing the use of her breasts. But she would try—it was something to do. And she needed that, something to ground her here and keep her from running back to her father. She needed a life here. And perhaps, that life would begin with a job.
She reminded herself for what must have been the thousandth time—it was better than being a septa.
She would rather die than live a chaste life devoted to gods she didn’t believe in. And at least in this moment, she would rather try to live than die—even if it meant not just living, but working like a commoner.
.
singing songs to the secrets behind my eye
all my aching bones are trembling
and I may yet fall apart
.
There were a dozen pieces of parchment pinned to the post in town—some were written in a neat hand, where others were mere scribbles on a scrap of paper. A young boy asked her if she needed help, and Rhaenyra realized that most women wouldn’t even be able to read the listings detailing what was required. She thanked him but shook her head.
Perhaps it was ambitious of her to pursue what was clearly the best of the listed opportunities. It was written on crisp letterhead, the cursive spoke of the writer's wealth—or the fact he was wealthy enough to employ one to write it. The request was from a Lord. He had two young daughters, he was widowed, and it was a live-in position that would pay accordingly.
Rhaenyra got the impression most women who took on such work did it in addition to their other jobs, and in addition to feeding their other children. It would make them poor candidates for this, even if the position was considered ‘better’ — Rhaenyra hoped her lack of commitments, lack of children, would make her better suited in the eyes of whoever was interviewing for the position.
Report to House Targaryen, 8am Saturday morn.
The seal at the bottom was of a three headed dragon—not one her family had used for several generations. But one they had used at one point, which—if the name wasn’t evidence enough—implied some relation.
She would ask the Cole women about it, she decided, to see if they knew how the Targaryen family came to be in Dorne. If Rhaenyra hadn’t heard of them, they were likely quite far removed, and she doubted they would try to report that they found someone resembling a princess.
.
They were not ‘quite far removed’ at all.
It seemed after winning the war in the Stepstones centuries back, the third Targaryen son had retired in Dorne with his cousin by his side. Their children had married, as had their children, as had their children, keeping the bloodline nearly as pure as the one Rhaenyra herself came from.
Well. Fuck.
.
She went anyway, deciding if her father didn’t inform her of their existence, then they likely wouldn’t be inclined to inform him of her. If they recognized her at all, that is, which she doubted. There was little reason to expect the first born daughter of the King to be in Dorne dressed as a commoner and looking for work as a wet nurse.
Because that was precisely what she was doing, in that moment, as she stood outside the keep with a dozen other women. All of them were older than her—most taller, and bigger too. Rhaenyra knew her strength, but she wasn’t sure it would be recognized with a passing glance, and so her odds did not seem good.
They were let in at eight, and seated in wooden chairs that lined a hallway. The ornate carvings on the wooden backs made Rhaenyra think of home, as did the tapestries on the walls and plush carpets beneath her feet. She had not starved since leaving King’s Landing, but she had not lived in the same level of luxury, either. And damn it to hell, she missed it.
A wiry man in a suit surveyed the women seated before him—finally gesturing to one, with a sharp, “You!,” Before directing her to follow him. Rhaenyra watched the plump women enter the office of whoever was responsible for hiring, while the rest were left to wait.
Rhaenyra didn’t like waiting. It made her nervous and it took every part of her to avoid picking at her nails. She could no longer fiddle with rings like she used to, for she no longer wore them at all. Nothing spoke of wealth quite like wearing a fortune on your fingers. She missed that, too.
The plump woman left the office, walking quickly through the hall without an escort—presumably towards the door they had come through. Rhaenyra gathered it didn’t go well, and this was proven when another woman was selected by the well dressed man.
And then another.
And another.
Babies were crying now, the women muttering amongst each other and tapping their shoes. They were obviously growing impatient and Rhaenyra was too, while she waited her thumbnail picked at a stray thread of her dress so aggressively a small hole had started.
This time when the women left the office, a man followed her out. A different man. This one was well dressed too, but not skinny like the other—he had broad shoulders, and a commanding presence. An intimidating man, Rhaenyra thought. But in addition to that he was handsome, so, so, handsome. He had the bone structure of royalty—that odd mix of high cheekbones and softness that resembled marble carvings. His skin was fair, and his hair a silvery blonde that Rhaenyra would recognize anywhere as Targaryen.
His brow was furrowed, and jaw clenched. He stomped rather than walked through the hall, giving a quick once over at the remaining women before pointing at her. Rhaenyra blinked in shock, and the skinny man who had selected the others openly gaped. “Are you sure?” In a near sputter, only to earn a glare from the blonde who was clearly his superior. Rhaenyra was glad he had been the one to ask, because she had wondered the same, but she didn’t want to suffer the weight of that gaze.
“Come.” He said, simply, gesturing for her to follow him. She scrambled, gathering the bag at her feet and doing just that. The nerves seemed to bubble in her gut now that she had been chosen—the realization she had no idea what to expect or to do became enormously clear as the heavy door slammed shut behind her.
She hadn’t been alone with a man since Criston was alive, she realized. But Criston had never made her feel like this—twisted up in knots and unsure of herself. She had been his superior before they wed, and even after his adoration was skewed in such a way that made their marriage peculiar. He’d never really had power over her. The only man who had that was…well, her father. And she hadn’t been nervous with him, either, she’d been angry. So this was different and she wasn’t sure if she liked it.
The man sat behind his desk, leaning back in the chair and looking at her curiously. Rhaenyra wasn’t sure if she should sit, or remain standing, but either way she felt awkward being so far away. She walked closer to the desk and when her head tilted towards a chair, the man nodded in confirmation.
She sighed as she sunk into the plush velvet cushion, much more comfortable than the wooden one she had been in for the better part of an hour.
His eyes narrowed slightly, before he shook his head. “I am Lord Daemon Targaryen, as I presume you know.”
She didn’t, actually, but she nodded.
He looked at her expectantly. Oh, she blushed realizing she was supposed to introduce herself. “I’m Rhaenyra T—Cole. Rhaenyra Cole.”
“How old are you?” He asked, almost sounding bored.
“Seventeen.” She muttered, fiddling with her dress again out of nervousness.
“Does your husband support this?”
She swallowed, “I’m a widow.”
He hummed, “And so young—how tragic.”
“Perhaps not as tragic as being married to him.” She muttered without thinking. Oh gods she wished she could take those words back but—the lord was smiling. Keen to ignore her comment apparently, he carried on.
“And your children?”
“One baby. Buried with my husband, as of a six weeks ago.”
“And where did you come from, Miss. Cole? Wearing a fine dress, with no references, no husband, and no child.”
She bristled, “I do not believe the quality of cloth and the fact I’ve been dealt two losses has anything to do with where I come from.”
It was not a polite answer, but she didn’t care, his question was rude. It wasn’t even a question, it was an assumption. He ignored this, though, swiftly moving on- this time with a demand instead of a question.
“Take down your hair for me.” He said, his eyes seeming to sparkle as he stared at her, almost amused.
She could leave. She had no real need to abide by this request. But she did, reaching for the pins that secured the plaits to her head in a crown like fashion. With them out, the braids could easily be undone with her fingers—leaving her wavy silver locks pooling in her lap.
“Gorgeous.” He whispered. She looked down, fiddling with the split ends as she felt her cheeks heat slightly at the compliment. It had been an age since she got one. She almost wanted to say his hair was gorgeous too, because it was—the same color as hers, and almost as long.
“Take off your dress, now.” He said, in the same casual tone as the first command. But this time her eyes snapped to his, and her face twisted with indignation—”I will not!” She said, firmly, before even thinking about it fully.
He leaned back again, “You want this job, don’t you?”
She nodded, despite everything she did. She had been adjusting well to life in the tiny stone cottage, she thought, but just a half hour spent in a keep that was warm and didn’t smell of lard and smoke was so refreshing to her senses, she didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to have to make bread every morning, and pay extra for meat because she didn’t know how to hunt and skin things. She didn’t want her fingers to become calloused, scaly, and bloody from scrubbing stains out of laundry.
“This job requires nursing two infants—and I see little evidence that you would be capable of that, just a wisp of a thing in a pretty gown. You could have been sent to seduce me, even.” He said, seeming amused by the prospect.
Her jaw clenched and she stood. Fine. She would prove it to him, then. She looked down at her fingers, which were shaking with anger not nerves as they pulled laces from eyelets. The dress wasn’t particularly flattering on her—she liked the color which is why she had kept it, but it had never fit her well. Too big and shapeless for her taste. But she became grateful for the quantity of fabric after pregnancy, when her breasts swelled to the point her other dresses fit too tightly.
With the lacing undone to the waist, she untied the sash, freeing the front of her dress. A thin film of cotton covered her, the chemise made from finer quality cloth than her dress—the weave so very thin that her breasts were nearly fully revealed to the man, even with it still on. She looked up but pointedly ignored his gaze, finding someplace to stare at above his head. This was humiliating, and she hated him for making her do it, even if a shred of her could understand why he had.
And then he asked her to come closer.
“Come now, you’re meant to show me evidence—I cannot see from here.” His voice was placating, as if trying to appeal to a child or stray dog— but it was a little sarcastic too. She huffed, looking at her feet—not him as she shuffled around the desk and stood on his side of the wooden monstrosity of a desk. He turned in his chair, looping his fingers through the dangling ties of her dress and using them to tug her closer.
She was still not looking at him.
Her breath hitched when she felt his fingers at her chest—undoing the knot that kept the chemise neckline cinched. She felt it happen, not even bothering to look down at herself as the fabric fell—gaping away from her chest and fluttering to her waist, leaving her breasts fully exposed.
She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady herself. This was fine. He simply wanted to see what would feed his children. She was just unused to showing herself to a man in this way. She was unused to herself looking this way, truly—and sharing it with a stranger felt intimate, and a little embarrassing, even if it was not intended to be.
Daemon’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she braced herself for another command. Another snide comment, if not something worse. But his voice was soft, as if full of admiration or awe even, and his words…
“I thought there was no beauty that would compare to your face—and then you took down your hair, and looked like an angel draped in silver—the word beautiful did not seem to be enough of a descriptor, and now.” He paused, “I think they must invent a new word, just for you, for the more of you I see the more I despair in my inability to praise your looks adequately.”
That—what?
She looked at him now, at the way he was admiring her breasts. She didn’t understand why—they were too big, heavy globes that no longer sat as high as they once had. Veins lined them, especially now, the flesh feeling slightly hard and swollen as it had been hours since she had last fed. But he looked at her like she was a goddess, one he couldn’t resist touching.
She let him.
She didn’t pull away when his palm cupped her breast, seeming to weigh it in his hand—which was impressively large, managing to support the entirety of her breast—though some flesh spilled between his spread fingers. He squeezed gently—so gently, but she whimpered at the light touch. He gave her an apologetic look before asking, “Very sensitive, hm?”
She nodded, “I—I haven’t fed in a few hours, they are… full.” She whispered the last word, sounding embarrassed because she was. Daemon nodded, seeming to understand—he released her breast, gently laying it the globe against her rib cage, before repeating the process with the other.
“You mean to say you could feed, now?” He asked, his hands having returned to his lap—a fact she hated herself for being disappointed about, but gods it had been an age since she was last touched by a man.
She nodded, she would like to, honestly, her breasts ached in a way that wouldn’t be relieved without it.
He smiled, his features softening into something she didn’t recognize. He pulled her closer to him, and she stumbled forward—until she was trapped between his seated body and the large desk. His eyes were level with her breasts, only inches between his face and her chest. She was going to protest, truly, but then his thumb reached up and brushed her nipple, the delicate touch making her shiver.
“Evidence, yes? I cannot know if your tits produce milk unless I taste it, can I?” She swallowed loudly—the gulping noise audible even over the thunderous pounding of her heartbeat in her chest.
“I—I don’t know.” She whispered. She assumed she would feed a babe in front of him,or perhaps show him the let down that would come soon if she was not given that opportunity. She didn’t expect that he would put his mouth on her. A man! A grown man! That was perverse and wrong and—
“I’ll be gentle, princess.” He whispered, and then…
Gods. It was different. So different. His mouth was large, his tongue licking at the swollen bud of her nipple before sucking on it—long pulls that made her moan in relief as the tension was drained from her breast. His teeth were delicately covered by his lips to avoid hurting her, and his thumbs brushed the think skin that spanned her ribcage, which felt oddly sensitive too.
He would alternate pulls on the nipple, and pulling more of the breast into his mouth—sucking on whatever would fit before returning to the nub that bore sustenance. She was clinging to his hair—long silver locks becoming tangled as she arched against his mouth.
He switched sides, as if knowing she was feeling unbalanced and—oh, gods it was so good. She had never moaned like this before, but it had never felt like this before. This wasn’t a wholesome act between a mother and a child, this was sinful. It was wonderful. She could almost peak from this alone, she thought, it was so good.
When he pulled away she nearly cried, but his hands took the place of his mouth—rubbing her nipples between his fingers and watching the bead of milk that the stimulation forced out. It dripped down her breast—and Daemon’s eyes followed the droplets, before tracing the path they took with his tongue.
Her breasts were more malleable now, sensitive but in a different, less painful way. She moaned at how he stroked her, the pleasure making her breasts leak and then his mouth was back, making sure nothing was wasted. Her hands were back in his hair, her body slack against him, supported by his seated form and his mouth as he suckled from her breast.
He drank until she was empty, until there was no more left, and then mouthed a while longer—as if he was still hungry. When he finally pulled away, he did not steady her—but rather encouraged her to collapse into his lap. His arms trapped her there, stroking her stomach with long fingers while his eyes continued to admire what was exposed to him.
She was flushed, breathing heavy and too tired to avoid his gaze.
“Too beautiful for words, truly.” He said, his lips turned up in a bit of a smile. “I never expected a Targaryen princess to fall into my lap, like this. In Dorne.”
Rhaenyra stiffened, fear washing over her and turning the heat in her gut to ice.
“It’s alright, I won’t tell anyone. I’ll keep you for myself, hm? And if they do find out…they could not take away my wife.”
She swallowed, not sure if she should cry out of concern or happiness—but quite sure she was going to cry of something.
He kissed the top of her cheek, his hands still stroking her lazily. “You’ll fit right into this Keep, won’t you? And you’ll fit in my bed just like you do my arms.”
.
oh ashes, ashes, dust to dust
oh, lay my curses out to rest
make a mercy out of me
tell me I am good enough
.
Rhaenyra Cole was seventeen when she became a Targaryen, a mere fortnight after meeting the handsome lord who shared the name.
She had been living in the Keep for almost as long, but the wedding was delayed until consummation would be possible—his concern for her condition after pregnancy was unusual and noble, the midwife said, sounding impressed.
Rhaenyra did not think noble was quite the right word, given that the same man suckled at her breasts numerous times a day. He claimed it was the only way he could enjoy the sweetness of her body, until he was able to drink from her folds, too.
Her breath hitched at that thought.
She could scarcely breathe at all when that thought became a reality. Their first time together bringing her pleasure she thought impossible for a woman to experience—much less repeatedly. Daemon was just as attentive to the tap between her thighs as he was her breasts—and she feared she would be a poor wife with him as her husband simply because she would never want to leave their marital bed.
When she shared her concerns, he laughed, hugging her close to him. “If that is the case then I am to blame, I suppose. But it is a husband’s duty to take care of his wife—and so your breasts will never spill over, and your cunt will never be empty. I swear it.” He said, and she believed him.
It was not the flowery promises of love and happiness that Criston gave her, after she took him into her bed. But this was better—it was honest. And that was all it took to make her believe that love and happiness may one day follow.
.
won't you stay with me, my darling
when the war starts in my heart
.
Years passed, but the passion between the couple never faded. Love grew—for each other, and for their growing family. Three sons had joined Daemon’s two daughters in the nursery, in the mere five years since he wed Rhaenyra. They were handsome boys with pale blonde locks and amethyst eyes—sure to be the talk of Dorne when they grew older. The couple doted on them, on all the children.
But. Rhaenyra never fed any of them from her breast.
Her husband was greedy—he refused to share her, even with his sons.
Rhaenyra thought him ridiculous, but agreed to this—assuming she could be responsible for hiring the wet nurse for them.
“You cannot be trusted.” She teased, thinking back to how they met.
Daemon just smirked as he too recalled the memory—though, his perspective was a bit different than hers.
.
{Rhaenyra never realized that a wet nurse wasn’t hired on that day.}
{She never realized that there was no intention of hiring one on that day.}
{No intention of anything at all, beyond acquiring a Targaryen princess as a bride.}
.
the devil's after both of us
ooh, lay my curses out to rest
make a mercy out of me
oh my, oh my
.
{Sometimes a curse is a man made invention.}
{Sometimes the devil chases you to his doorstep.}
{Sometimes it is him, who offers mercy.}
.end.