Chapter Text
my heart beats for you [it bleeds for you, too]
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The first time she saw him, he had thrown open the grand doors of the great hall and sauntered to the head table with a casual confidence and cockiness that made Rhaenyra smile.
It was the sort of attention seeking behavior her stepmother hated.
The sort of behavior her father would label as childish, immature, and inappropriate for someone of their station.
Perhaps for that exact reason, It was the sort of behavior Rhaenyra admired.
She had not felt much admiration for anyone in recent months, and her smiles had been few and far between—and so the one this handsome blonde stranger brought to her face was the first of that day, but it would not be the last.
It seemed the stranger was her uncle. Banished the day Rhaenyra was born as a protest to her being named heir. Her father had never spoken of him—she had never known of him. Whether out of shame, or out of genuine fear, Rhaenyra wasn’t sure. But it was Daemon—her uncle—who told her the truth of the tale.
A snake whispered in Viserys’ ear—words of warning about his bloodthirsty brother. What might he do to take the title of heir for himself? It wasn’t safe for Viserys, nor his child, not if Daemon remained in King’s Landing. Viserys didn’t have the power to banish him—but his grandfather’s advisor, the Old King’s advisor, swore he would do all he could to protect Viserys and the babe that still rested in his young wife’s womb.
Daemon was sent away, to Vale, to a wife he didn’t want—a banishment disguised as a bride, he claimed. And he was never asked to return. Not when his grandfather died. Not when his father died. Not when his brother's wife died, nor when he remarried. No celebration or tragedy was enough for Viserys to approach his brother with apologies or an invitation.
“What changed?” She asked him, and he smiled.
“I couldn’t resist seeing the Realm’s Delight for myself, before she was banished as a bride.” He told her.
“And? Does she disappoint?” Rhaenyra asked, leaning towards him ever so slightly.
“No—quite the opposite. Delight is not an appropriate word for what your beauty and charm inspires.”
She grinned into her cup—she was indulging far more on this night than she had the others, for she was enjoying herself with Daemon by her side. A welcome change from the half dozen others she had suffered through. This was one feast in a series of more than a dozen leading up to her nuptials—now just a week away.
The celebrations would start in earnest now, with melees and jousts beginning the following day.
“Will you compete?” She asked him, not knowing if he took after his father—Baelon, who had been beyond proficient with a sword, or after his brother—Viserys, who would scarcely know which end to hold.
“That depends.” He said, his words drawn out and making her wait in anticipation for each one to pass through his lips. “Would the princess offer me her favor?”
“That depends—will you win?”
His eyes were bright as polishes amethysts in the glow of candlelight, “I think—regardless of the results of the tourney, having your favor is the true victory.”
“It sounds like you do not expect to win the tourney.” She said, watching his eyes narrow slightly. “But—perhaps when you lose, you could wipe your tears on this?” She had tugged the handkerchief from her sleeve and dangled it before him, held loosely between two fingers.
He snatched it with the speed of a dog taking a bone, almost violent in his enthusiasm—as if it would disappear if he did not strike quickly. She might have smiled at that, but she was distracted—watching the embroidered cloth crumple in his fist.
She was oddly jealous of it.
The cloth got to feel what it was like to be formed into something by Daemon’s palm—it got to feel the warmth of his chest, where he tucked it away. Perhaps it would even get to kiss his flesh, as it dabbed away debris or blood the following day.
She sipped her wine, thinking herself foolish—being envious of a handkerchief of all things!
It was silly, but Alicent would likely still think it a sin. Envy was, after all, a capital vice in every faith to exist in Westeros.
Though not nearly as sinful as what was to come. The heat in her gut was forming, the beginning of unbridled desire that could only be described as lust.
.
Daemon’s armor was almost humorous in how elaborate it was—more suited for a parade than actual battle. Modeled after a dragon, it had scales hammered into every metal component, and the head of a dragon pressed into the helm. The helmet had gleaming rubies as eyes, a mane of red feathers, and wings on either side, truly ostentatious in a way Rhaenyra found delightful.
It seemed it was not just for looks, though.
He won the melee with her handkerchief peeking out from the scaled wrist guards he wore.
.
At dinner, he was not seated next to her—but he did approach her for a dance after, which allowed them to speak some.
“You must meet me tonight.” He told her.
She shook her head, “I can’t.”
“I must return your favor—it is bad luck if I don’t.” He was pouting, the suave prince looking more like a spoiled child in that moment.
“Why don’t you return it now?” She asked.
“I do not have it on my person.”
“Why not?” Surely it would have made more sense to bring it with him—to where he knew she would be.
His smile was almost—but not quite—shy. “Because I want to meet you tonight.”
She swallowed, his hand on her back and shoulder suddenly feeling very warm and heavy in a way that heated the pool in the gut.
“Okay.” She whispered.
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There was a passage from both of their rooms—it snaked beneath the palace grounds, exiting just outside the gates of the Red Keep. They met there just after the clock struck midnight.
He passed her back the handkerchief, his fingers lingered on her own, thumb brushing the lines of her palms. He was so, so, close—she thought he might even kiss her. But then he whispered, “I want another favor.”
She shook her head, “I didn’t bring anything.” Her casual frock had sleeves too loose to carry a ribbon or swatch of cloth, and her hair lacked any suitable decoration to give him.
“Do you have stockings on?” He asked, and she nodded—but he could hardly tie one of those around his arm.
He knelt before her and she stabilized herself on his shoulders intuitively, though she wasn’t fully aware of what he planned on doing. When she did realize what he had planned, she made no move to stop him as he rucked up her skirts. Fingers traced the seams of her stockings, until they reached the finished edge at the top. He stroked the bare skin above in a way that made her gasp, before deftly tugging at the tie of the embroidered garter that held the thin silk up.
He was out from under her skirts a moment later—stopping only to trace the sharp bone of her ankle before standing back up to his full height.
“Thank you, princess.” He whispered before leaving.
.
He won his match that day, too.
That night when he returned her garter, he asked for a different sort of favor.
A kiss.
.
The following night, he asked for a taste.
“It is my last match tomorrow,” He said after—when her body collapsed against his, both of them leaning against the brick wall in an abandoned alley near the passage exit.
Rhaenyra made a humming noise, mindlessly stroking his chest.
“What shall I get if I win?” He asked her, and she looked up at him. “Was having my favor not already victory enough.”
He shook his head. “I’ve grown greedy—gluttonous, in my desire for you. Now I wish not to have your favor, but to simply have you.”
Gods. He was saying—what was he saying?
”Have me how?” She needed clarity, on a matter as serious as this. “Do you wish for simply having my body—my maidenhead? My companionship in your travels? Or my hand—for I am a princess.”
“Yes to all of it and more, I wish to have your life, as you will have mine.” He swore.
She inhaled sharply, continuing to stroke his chest. “Then—perhaps tomorrow, if you win, you can begin by having my body.” She said, a little shy with her words, but meaning them wholly.
He tipped up her chin, “You mean it?”
She nodded—and their lips sealed the promise with a kiss.
.
She grinned when he won the whole tourney.
.
She arrived at their meeting spot first, or she attempted to—but the empty alley they had shared whispers and kisses in was nearly unrecognizable now as it was packed full of people.
She heard jeers and shouts and nearly a dozen men laughing, a cruel cackle so unlike Daemon’s warm timbre. She shivered at the sound—backing away and running back to the passage. She would return later and try to send word to Daemon.
She had a guard she could trust with the missive.
Must delay the favor. 1AM.
.
Daemon didn’t trust the guard who passed him the slip of paper—who was to say he wasn’t aware of their plans to meet, and attempting to corner Rhaenyra when she was alone at midnight?
He wouldn’t risk it—he would go at the time planned, and simply wait if she was truly delayed. He could pass an hour easily—perhaps even use it to rest.
He was not as young as he used to be. The brawls during the day were taxing, as were the late hours spent with the princess. But he wouldn’t change a thing. She was far better company than even his dreams, because she was more wonderful and beautiful than anything he had imagined.
He wanted her so wholly that he would do anything to have her. There was no price not worth paying if it meant her being by his side. And tonight—gods, he would get to press himself into her and join them together in the most intimate act a man and woman could partake in.
He couldn’t wait—and he found himself walking faster through the passageways, so much so that he stumbled over the final step leading to the exit.
The alley was empty—perhaps the note had been from Rhaenyra? But something was off—even in the dim moonlight he could tell that much. He walked across the rough brick, only stopping when he reached—gods.
There was blood smeared and spattered across the brick wall—the pattern level with Daemon’s chest, as if someone smaller had their head slammed against it repeatedly. When he looked down, there was more blood. A pool of it—and if it belonged to one person, he doubted they had survived.
There were drag marks—likely left by the bloodied clothing of the injured person—or corpse, he thought, morbidly.
Daemon followed them to the opposite end of the alley, onto the cobblestones that signified they were in the city proper. There were a few women huddled together, crying. Planters overturned outside of shop windows, implying some sort of ruckus.
He asked a boy what had happened—knowing first hand that they were the eyes and ears of this city, or they had been. The boy shook his head, refusing to speak to him until he was plied with a coin, after that the story fell quickly from his chapped lips.
“A bunch of men took a girl back there.” He nodded towards the alley Daemon had come from, “There were screams—got people worried enough to send a guard, but they don’t care much. Took an age for them to come and round the men up, by then it was too late.”
The boy shrugged, but Daemon couldn’t move.
“A girl? Did you see her?” He asked.
The boy nodded, “Uhuh, real pretty—even all bloodied like that. Long blonde hair, like the princess.”
Like the princess.
What if it was the princess?
“It was…too late?” He asked, knowing what that meant but needing confirmation.
The boy looked a little sad at that, “The guards took her body, but no one can live through that. No one would want to, I don’t think.” He said. “Is that all?”
Daemon nodded, stumbling back into the alley.
He had to brace himself on the brick—managing to fumble his way towards the bloodstained stone. He collapsed on the wall across from the puddle of blood—her blood. It had to be her, didn’t it?
The place. The timing. The hair.
Like the princess. The boy had said, even unknowing of the plan for the princess to be there.
She was dead.
He let out a hopeless sob, making no move to wipe away the tears that fell. What was the point? What was the point of anything now?
He had told her he wished to have her life, and now her life was gone.
He had thought there was no price not worth paying if it meant being by her side. He still thought that, he realized. This was not a desire changed by her death, it was just one that would cost him his own life—whatever existed beyond this world, wherever souls went after passing, he didn’t know. But he couldn’t get there, couldn’t join Rhaenyra there while he still lived.
He unsheathed the dagger—weighing the shaft in his palm, before stroking the valyrian steel blade with his thumb. It took no effort to pierce the calloused pad of the finger—sliding through the first layer of skin so cleanly it scarcely hurt or bled—the beauty of the material it was made from, and its ability to hold an edge.
He hoped it would not hurt when it pierced his heart.
.
It was poetic, he thought—in the moments while he waited to bleed out. He was dying of a broken heart. Or, perhaps, a bleeding heart, he amended with little humor. He could feel the blood, so much of it—pouring down his chest like a gory waterfall, wetting his tunic and forming a pool in his lap.
It was what he wanted, though. It was a fine death. He was slain by the man he admired most in the world—himself.
And the woman he wanted most awaited him in whatever was next.
He hated waiting, though. Impatient even in this, he willed his body to bleed out faster.
It was a testament to the prince’s stubbornness that his body listened.
.
She was tired but determined to meet Daemon—she had promised him her body if he won, and she was going to honor it. She was going to honor it eagerly, if she was honest, for her enthusiasm was only slightly dampened by the delay and her fatigue.
She paused at the end of the passage—pleased that all seemed to be silent so far. Her steps were hurried now, as she walked the short distance to the entrance of the alley—peering around the corner to ensure it was empty before she rounded it fully.
Her brow creased—and then she smiled, Daemon was already there—he was just sitting and leaning back against the brick wall. She supposed he was tired from the hour, and from the day's events—it couldn’t be easy wielding a blade like that, and wearing so much heavy armor.
She approached him quietly—if he was resting or sleeping she was quite keen to surprise him.
She was the one who was surprised.
He was not resting, nor sleeping.
He was dead.
She let out a sob as she kneeled—crawling towards him and touching his cheek, his lips, his neck, his chest—there was no response from him, and there was so much blood. It was all over her too, now, she realized, for she had rubbed against his chest where the wound it all stemmed from was.
A stab wound.
Her fingers touched it—then her eyes fell to his hand, clenched so tightly around the hilt of the dripping steel dagger that it left little mystery as to who had done this.
But why?
Did it matter why?
He was gone.
She didn’t know how long she stayed there, sitting in his lap and sobbing into his cooling skin. He still smelled like himself, smelled like the man she was going to marry. And perhaps that was why she pressed her lips to his neck—tasting the pale skin she had grown to love in just a few short days. He tasted like himself, too.
She cried harder, pressing kisses more forcefully down his neck until she reached the opening of his tunic, close enough to the fatal wound to tint her lips red with his blood. The metallic taste contrasted sharply with the salty tears, mixing on her lips and drawn across her taste buds by her tongue.
Her fingers twisted in his long hair—the lack of response was infuriating, a sign that this was wrong. His flesh was too hard beneath her, too, but she didn’t want to acknowledge that—she didn’t want to acknowledge him being gone. Because he wasn’t, not yet, not when he was right there—his form beneath her even in this state altered by death.
She tipped his head back—the weight fully supported by her palms, his lids shut and blonde lashes long against his cheekbones. He was so beautiful. He was hers. His life was hers, he had said so himself, when admitting his desire for her own.
She wouldn’t deny him that. She wouldn’t deny him anything.
She kissed him but it was brief—the unresponsive lips made her feel sick. She curled herself against him, fingers buried in blonde locks as she clutched his head to her chest. Her promises were whispered into the crown of silver strands.
“You wanted to have my maidenhead—I swore you’d have it if you won. And you did, my prince. And so you’ll have it—and then you’ll have my life too. A companion to travel beyond this land, a hand to hold if not take in marriage.” Her voice was unsteady, the few short sentences riddled with cracks and sobs as the loss of him continued to rattle her.
The movements that followed were frantic—suddenly desperate to follow through with her promise, desperate to get through this act that was supposed to be sensual and joyous. It wasn’t desire for this that motivated her now, but rather a desire to join him after.
Her hands shook but worked quickly, tugging on the lacing of his breeches and tearing the opening when it didn’t leave enough exposed to her, letting out little curses and sobs throughout the frustrating act. When done, she wiped her eyes and pulled his smock from the loosened breeches—letting out a sigh of relief when she saw skin opposed to additional smallclothes.
Gods, everything smelled like blood now—coating her front, and leaving her fingers and palms slick with the quantity of it that had blanketed his body. It didn’t matter, he was hers, it was her blood as much as it was his, and she refused to be disgusted by it.
Her hand reached beneath the loose fabric and met something hard—something she had ignored when seated on his lap. She assumed it was the hilt of a sword—he always had several blades at his waist, a fact she was painfully aware of. She had bruises at her own waist from crashing into them while she clumsily kissed him the previous few evenings.
But he was not wearing his belt—his sword was not beside him, the only visible weapon being the blade in his hand. Whatever she had felt was different, and beneath his clothing. It was—oh.
She swallowed, the appendage seeming to spring towards her and into her hands now that it was freed from the fabric containing its length. Gods, it was so firm—so hard. Still warm. It was beautiful, and in a perfect world she would have admired it for hours—and Daemon would have teased her, maybe daring her to taste it.
She might have, if the slight ammonia smell hadn’t mingled with the heavy scent of blood for a passing moment. No—his cock would not meet her tongue in this life, but she would not neglect it, either. She rubbed the head with her thumb, marveling at the bead of fluid that appeared from its slit.
She didn’t know how he was hard—she hadn’t considered the alternative, though she felt silly for it now. She could not find logic or reason for a man to have an erection when post death muscles relaxed to the point even contents of the bladder were expelled. Perhaps the gods were taking pity on her for losing him? For letting her have him like this, just once before death had her, too?
It didn’t really matter.
Nothing mattered but this.
She rucked up her skirts, kneeling over his lap and curling her bloodstained fingers between her thighs. She thought of him fighting that day—of his tongue licking at her cunt the night before, of his smile and eyes and every single thing about him.
The tears fell, but she ignored them, a third finger pressing into her folds—no matter the pain of grief thrumming through her, her body couldn’t resist the ministrations of her fingers. Nor could it resist the promise of Daemon’s member. Every part of her wanted him, however she could have him, even if that meant having him in death.
She took a deep breath, fisting his length as she sank down onto him.
It hurt in the way she had expected—but the pain was overshadowed by the ache in her chest, and she pushed past it—pushed past her maidenhead as she took the remaining inches of his length into her cunt.
For a moment—a single, brief second, she could imagine everything was alright. She was giving herself to a man she loved.
But it wasn’t alright. No palms reached out to guide her, no fingers stroked her face. No one mocked her or complimented her or kissed her because Daemon wasn’t capable of any of those things, not anymore.
But she was capable of this.
That thought drove her to move—little thrusts of her hips and gyrations before she began riding the length in earnest—lifting herself up and down in a way that made the ridged tip of him press somewhere good.
Better than good. She was still sobbing—but she was panting too, moans bleating from her along with the cries. Her fingers were sticky from half dried blood as she curled them into the linen covering Daemon’s shoulders—her grip so tight that it would bruise living flesh.
She braced herself on his shoulders, using them for leverage as she moved faster—grinding down against his pelvis with each thrust, pushing him deeper, until she felt the release wash over her. She cried out his name, into his neck, and then she just cried.
It was strange, to hurt emotionally the way she did, but to feel good physically at the same time—the sensations were opposites, brought together on this night by tragedy and seeming to intensify each other until Rhaenyra was shaking and scarcely able to take a full breath for the way her chest heaved.
Eventually choked sobs turned to gasps which turned to whimpers. Her shaking body calmed to a stillness—only broken by the internal clenching of her core, her cunt feeling the intrusion of Daemon’s cock much more clearly now that she had clamped down on it while in the throes of passion.
He was still firm, another sign of this being wrong, she supposed. She could remedy it now, though, now that this was done.
She wiped her eyes—hissing as she pulled off his length. She was surprised at the noise, a sickening squelch of fluids in a far greater than self pleasure had ever brought her before.
This was evidence, in a way. Daemon pleased her more in death than she pleased herself in life. She could think of no greater sign that what she planned was right.
She seated herself next to him—looking at the white globs of release clinging to his member, glistening in the moonlight. Perhaps he had come too? The contractions of her muscles providing enough force to draw spend from his body, even in death? She hoped he had, that she had pleased the vessel of him that remained, even if his soul did not.
She tucked the length away, not wanting him to be found with his cock out—not wanting people to see his cock at all when he was hers.
She pulled his palm into her lap, the fingers so tight around the hilt of the blade that she struggled to free it—the phrase of death grip having a new meaning in her eyes. Whatever god existed was likely laughing as she used her teeth and hands and feet to brace herself and get enough force to unwrap his fingers from the handle.
She was sweating by the end of it. This must be the cursed side of the trick that made his cock harden. Perhaps it made all his appendages stiff and unmoveable? That was balanced duality, she supposed. For as frustrating as it could be, it was why she wasn’t afraid of death, either. Because no state of being could be all good or all bad—and she believed she would find the good in death with Daemon by her side.
She pressed the point of the blade to her chest, feeling it pass through the silk of her dress, her chemise, her skin, and then deeper and deeper until she could feel nothing but a torrent of blood pouring down the front of her gown.
She closed her eyes when things got blurry, leaning into Daemon’s side.
It took longer than she had thought to die—the ache in her chest becoming great enough that she distracted herself by focusing on her heartbeat.
Its pattern was steady, but getting slower, and slower.
It made sense, after all—its reason for beating was gone—laying dead beside her.
It made her realize that dying was a very quiet thing—or at least hers was. The soft thumping was the only thing she could hear at all.
Eventually there wasn’t even the thump of her heart to listen to—for it stopped.
But that didn’t matter; Rhaenyra was gone too.
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tbc