Work Text:
In Daemon’s defense, he’s more than a little fucked stupid when he starts going on about how his wife’s body was made for his babes. But that circumstance does nothing to lessen the impact of his words. Rhaenyra is still struggling to come to terms with how badly she aches for another child, trying to reconcile her desires with how hard she’s fought against the expectations of being a broodmare, and it strikes a nerve.
“Nice to know what my real value is,” she bristles, pulling away from his embrace.
“It’s not – I didn’t mean it like that,” he protests.
“How else could you possibly mean it?” she demands.
“I was trying to pay you a compliment, you impossible girl. I count it a blessing that your body was built for children. That can be praiseworthy without diminishing your other qualities.”
She softens in the face of his earnest explanation and beseeching gaze, and the soothing caresses that follow. He hooks a leg over hers, rolling her half under him, and, somewhat mollified, she allows him to reel her back in.
At least, until he casts about for a further illustration of his point and blunders again.
“That you are good at making babes does not make it the whole of your worth. We praise Syrax for being a generous layer, but that does not make her any less … uh…,” he falters and trails off. “On second thought, that’s a poor comparison. Never mind.”
“What, precisely, are you suggesting by that?” Her narrowed eyes and arch tone warn him to choose his next words very carefully.
A caution that Daemon entirely ignores. “I mean it as no reflection on you. But you have to admit, your Golden Lady is spoiled as a lapdog. Her only notable talent really is for getting herself bred.”
He falls into laughter at his own observation, and Rhaenyra gapes at him, offense boiling over.
She sits upright, shoving him away, and snatches the covers to herself. “I will not stand for this blatant disrespect!”
“Oh? What accolades can she claim, then?” Daemon presses. He arches an eyebrow in challenge, still smugly amused, unperturbed by either her ire or being so unceremoniously bared.
When she can find no immediate reply, he continues brazenly, “She’s far from the fiercest of dragons. I can’t even imagine her in battle.”
“I shudder to think she should have need.”
“Indeed. She won’t even hunt her own meat! When the dragonkeepers don’t bring it to her already slaughtered, she makes Caraxes kill for her. I’ve seen it.”
“If the infatuated fool indulges her, I don’t see how taking advantage is her failing,” she grumbles.
“And she’s certainly not winning any races,” he goes on, ignoring her rejoinder.
“She’s won plenty!” Rhaenyra protests. (Maybe not quite the majority of their races, but a very respectable proportion all the same.)
“Only when we let you,” he smirks.
“You wish,” she seethes. “Continue this slander and I’ll see you fed to her.”
*
Some hours later, Rhaenyra makes her way to the Dragonpit, eager for her and her Golden Lady to regain their honor in the swiftness of their flight. Her hopes are frustrated, however, as the dragonkeepers report that Syrax cannot be coaxed from her cavern.
What she finds when she ventures below to see what ails her dragon makes her bury her face in her hands. Surely the gods must be making sport of her.
It seems Syrax is clutching.