Requested by: no one
Rating: green - blue
Plot: Daemon returns home after a battle in the StepstonesTime often passes too quickly.

   Days have turned into weeks. Weeks into months. And his absence is felt more and more. Your marital bed is always too large to accommodate just you. You miss flying together, playing and drinking, making love and fighting. All things that resurface only when you are alone. A dragon of Dragonstone and a direwolf of Winterfell. In the eyes of others, your marriage of convenience, cold on the surface and devoid of feelings, hides fire and ice; perpetually at war with each other but filled with fury and passion.

The long summer is still warm, the streets of King's Landing always bustling. The corridors of the Red Keep are always filled with bustling servants and guards, all rushing about, busy, like so many little ants in an intricate anthill. An anthill made of secrets, conspiracies, betrayals, and impatience. This is the general sentiment among the members of the Targaryen family and all their allies. The war in the Stepstones does not seem to want to come to an end anytime soon. Victory and defeat are still far off and nothing else is talked about at the Small Council table. Many issues fill King Viserys's mind, and the battle led by his impetuous brother troubles him more than anything else. Perhaps on par with the issue of the succession to the throne. The king, in fact, remains steadfast in his idea regarding the heir to the Iron Throne. The Small Council tries in every way to change his mind, nominating the little and spoiled Aegon, just two years old, as the legitimate heir. But to Viserys, only his daughter Rhaenyra can and must sit on the Iron Throne after him. You have often found yourself walking in the Godswood in the company of your brother-in-law, the king, often reiterating your loyalty to the crown and to the princess. But the issue of the Stepstones seemed a fixed point, despite the passing of time.
  The Red Keep seems to tremble under the beating wings of Caraxes, and his roar echoes in the skies of King's Landing. You would recognize that sound among a hundred dragons. <<Prince Daemon has returned, my lady>> says one of your two ladies-in-waiting, rushing into your quarters. You smile, grabbing the hand of the other lady-in-waiting as you step out of the large bath you are soaking in. Wrapping a towel around your body to dry off, you let down your long dark brown hair, shaking your head from side to side to tidy it up. <<Any news from the battle?>> you ask as they help you dress. The precious and light fabrics of the south are beautiful, rich in decorations and embroidery; but you sometimes miss the heavy garments of the cold north. <<Your husband has won, my lady. He has returned victorious, and with him, the royal fleet>> continues the girl, tying the ribbons that keep your dress snug at the base of your back, left exposed by the deep neckline. You lower your head to look at yourself. The southern dresses are beautiful, of course, but they attract many looks and leave very little to the imagination. The long sleeves squeeze your arms, the bodice limits your breathing and makes your breasts more visible; as if they weren't already. Sure, there are women in Flea Bottom who boast truly ample bosoms, others who almost make no difference from very young women. You are a middle ground that attracts stares, and you have never liked that. At least, in the north, you could hide it. You sigh again, averting your gaze.

Like the rest of the court, you reach the throne room, passing through the gigantic oak and bronze door, blending in with the murmuring crowd. They whisper about your husband's deeds, the battle, the victory. Many speak of loyalty, others of brazenness, still others of the king's happiness at having his brother back home. Among them are also the men who have spoken ill of Daemon for years, of his position as commander of the City Watch, as master of laws and coin. You take a place in the third row and look around. The banners of House Targaryen adorn the sad and cold walls of the throne room; the massive columns support the high and imposing ceiling from which chandeliers hang, which, along with the windows on the north side of the room, illuminate the wide corridor. And on the steps covered with a thousand still-sharp blades leading to the throne, the king stands, his gaze fixed on the entrance of the hall. The steps of the white cloaks and the clinking of their armor resonate in the main corridor, and the crowd falls silent. Your heart beats in your throat. Only once have you experienced these emotions: on your wedding day...
When you are just a child, you think that people marry for love. It's never true. In your world, marriage is many things, but certainly not a gesture of love. It is a means to forge alliances, to unify lands, to end wars, to create heirs and unite families. A marriage, as in your case, is a game of power and strategy. By marrying the king's brother, the Targaryens had a convenient access to the north. For the Starks, security in maintaining solid power from the Riverlands to the Wall. Your first meeting was on the day of your wedding itself. At Winterfell, it was just the two of you and the Grand Maester of Winterfell who united you in the cold and ancient Godswood, under the watchful eyes of the Weirwood Trees. You joined hands, tying a gray ribbon and a black ribbon around them; symbols of your now united families. It all ended with a simple and unexpected kiss on the forehead that the prince of Dragonstone gave you.
The first of many.
There was a very sober banquet, music, and dances, but that night your husband slept on the fur-covered floor. <<It's not the time>> he said, bidding you goodnight.The real celebrations were in the south. King's Landing remained in celebration for three days. The High Septon married you in the name of the Seven Gods, and at the Red Keep, there was a banquet worthy of the royal family: performances, music, dances, and gifts for the newlyweds.
  That evening, Princess Rhaenyra gave you a dragon egg whose pearly shell reflected only the cold moonlight. Your spouse, on the other hand, gave you two gifts: a Valyrian steel sword, "Hūra," which in High Valyrian means "Moon," sharp as his Dark Sister, and a direwolf pup with fur as black as the night.
At bedtime, you were sure everything would change, that the magic of the festivities would take away even the sweetness that the prince showed you when it was just the two of you. <<You are as delicate as a rose of the Reach, Y/n, you might break under a simple kiss>> he said before kissing your forehead, taking a pillow and blanket, and sleeping on one of the sofas in your room. It took a long time before the prince decided to even touch you. A terrible, distressing night. The following ones were no better. Daemon, in his way, tried to help you.
And slowly, everything changed. The pain turned into pleasure. And you were no longer two strangers united by power and politics.

  You snap back to reality at the sight of your prince. His look had changed, as had he. He no longer wore his hair long. It was short like any common soldier. His gray clothes still covered by a simple armor.
Dark Sister at his belt and the crown of the Stepstones on his head. Not even a glance at the attendees. His eyes fixed on his brother and his steps brisk. Upon reaching the foot of the throne, the White Cloaks draw their swords, pointing them at the prince. <<Add it to the throne>> he says, letting a rudimentary axe fall to the ground, the iron clinking on the floor.
  <<You wear a crown. Do you now call yourself king?>> Viserys asks, looking down at his brother. <<After the defeat of the Triarchy, they named me 'King of the Narrow Sea>> Daemon replies as the people's murmuring grows louder, like the sound of the wind through the branches. <<But I know there is only one king, your highness>> concludes the prince, kneeling and lowering his head, leaving everyone present surprised. <<My crown and the Stepstones are yours>> he says, offering Viserys the bone-made crown. The two sons of Baelon exchange words that you can't hear due to your anxiety, and then, after moments of tension, they embrace, making the crowd burst into loud applause.

  The banquet and celebrations continue for many hours. Hours in which you haven’t even exchanged a glance with Daemon. <<He’ll be all yours tonight>> whispers Queen Alicent, handing you a cup of wine. As usual, you are on the sidelines while the king drinks himself into a stupor. Without replying, you down the cup’s alcoholic contents in one gulp.
  <<He leaves King's Landing as a problem to be rid of and returns as a hero>> you say, pouring yourself more wine under the queen’s watchful eye. You’ve bonded during the time the prince has been away, something that hasn't distanced you from Princess Rhaenyra. <<Perhaps you’re overdoing it with the wine>> Alicent says, looking at you with concern. You shake your head before agreeing with her. You’re no longer used to drinking so much. You lower your gaze to little Aegon, who is tugging at your skirt to be picked up. You oblige. His platinum hair, almost white, reflects the candlelight, and his sweet, albeit tired, smile fills your heart. <<I often wonder if he would have been like this too>> you whisper, stroking the head of the child resting in the crook of your neck. The little prince struggles to keep his eyes open. Alicent strokes your arm, smiling at you sadly.
  You watch Daemon’s face from across the room. But he doesn’t seem to notice you. Probably never has since his return. Perhaps when he left, he left behind a young and beautiful wife whom he no longer loves now that he’s back. <<Calm the wolf inside you, Y/n. I know that look, and you’re wrong if you think that. Daemon is not a noble and chaste prince, but he would never do such a thing to you>> Alicent says, taking Aegon, now asleep, from your arms. <<He cares too much about his life and the pleasures it brings to end up serving in the Night’s Watch>> she concludes, reassuring you, helping you to relax your face, dispelling the look of pure and blind fury that was crossing it.

  With a quick, appropriate farewell to the queen, you bid her goodnight, doing the same with Rhaenyra, too engrossed in dancing and drinking to notice the night has fallen over the city. You return to your room and, warmed by the fire, free yourself from the southern dress. Wearing only a nightgown, you sit on one of the sofas, petting the direwolf, Night. You watch the live flames dancing in the fireplace, remembering the long nights spent watching the fire at Winterfell where the old nurse told you stories. She knew so many things that you often wondered if she had known Aegon the Conqueror or if his fame was as great as his deeds.

  You open your eyes, waking from your sleep, and focus on the figure that entered the room. Daemon moves about the chamber, removing the belt with Dark Sister and the boots that, as usual, he leaves on the floor. Night starts growling, and the prince turns.
  Finally, your eyes meet. <<Go back to sleep>> he says, continuing to unbuckle his armor. Night growls again, this time sensing your anger. You frown and stand. The direwolf rises with you. <<You’ve been gone from home for four years. You return and don’t even look at me, and the first thing you say is to go back to sleep?>> you say in Valyrian, advancing toward him. As usual, he doesn’t even try to hide the challenging, mischievous grin. You stop in front of him, looking up with your arms crossed. <<It excites me to hear you speak Valyrian>> he replies in the same language. You’re so beside yourself that you feel your ears burning.
  His scent envelops you, and you resist the urge to jump on him. Then, as if the stormy waters of the bay had seeped into your spirit, your anger transforms into something else. Your chin begins to tremble, and you have to bite your lips to stop it. Your eyes fill with tears, and you decide to walk past him, going to the window. You have gazed at the stars many nights, but even though the sky is always the same, the southern stars have never reassured you like those of the North.
  For four years, he has also been there, lighting up the night. You hear the armor being removed and placed on the table, followed by Daemon’s silent steps approaching you. His hands caress your arms, and his lips rest on your cheek. In his ancient tongue, he whispers apologies and reassurances while holding you, covering your face with gentle kisses. <<Rhaenyra told me everything>> he whispers, looking at the view with you, still standing behind you. <<Now you can mourn him, Y/n. I’m here with you>> he says, referring, as tactless as ever, to the child you discovered you were expecting after his departure, born dead amid blood and pain. And so, for the first time in four years, you give in to mourning in your husband’s arms. In the glass case next to the never-filled cradle, the dragon egg glows under the moonlight.
A reminder of pain and hope.