High Valyrian in bold.
Daemon Targaryen
127 AC
The quiet of the night settles like a warm cloak over our chambers. Visenya lies draped against me, her head resting on my navel, her fingers tracing idle patterns along my chest, her skin a soft glow in the dim light of the hearth. We lay entangled in the aftermath of love, and her eyes are fixed on mine with a depth of feeling that makes my heart twist painfully, a feeling akin to loyalty but sharper, fiercer—a adoration tempered in fire.
The corner of my lips tilt up as a soft, gevie, brushes past my lips, her doe eyes locking on mine.
"Daemon," she murmurs, her voice low, as if afraid to disturb the night. "I do not know what lies ahead for us—what this crown, this realm, may ask of you. But there are things I would ask of you, that I would have you hold close, even if you forget all else. Please, don't let the power consume you and make you forget your own family."
Her words come with an earnestness that makes me pause, makes me listen in a way I am rarely given to do. She lifts herself, pressing a soft, warm palm against my chest as if to brand her thoughts into my very heart. Many times does she remind me of not letting the power blind me from what it truly is important in life. I'm not Viserys, I wish to say.
"You have hungered for the throne," she continues, her gaze unwavering. "I know it well, have seen the way ambition flares within you. But you are not Maegor, Daemon. If you were, you'd have taken my father's life by now, or at the very least, his children's, I and Rhaenyra." She pauses, giving me a look as if to drive the point home. "But here we are. All of us alive. And Rhaenyra... she is likely somewhere in her chambers, weeping, licking her wounds. And I have been fortunate enough to wed you and give you children, healthy and sturdy. And many male heirs."
It is rare, this open vulnerability, and something in me stirs as she continues, her voice breaking slightly.
"Remember that you are my husband, my protector, my lover—the father of our children. You are the only man I allow to rest between my thighs and into my heart." Her voice quivers as her fingers clutch at my chest. "If we were stripped of all of this, if the realm turned its back on us, if we were left to scrape a meager existence on the Stepstones, with naught but a shit-stained hut to shelter us and these worn clothes on our backs... I would still choose you, Daemon. I would always choose you. For I was made for you, just as you were made for me. I beg, remember this when the time comes."
Her words fall between us like a vow, a binding oath in the dead of night, and for a moment, I am left speechless, undone by the depths of her devotion, her fierce loyalty. I gather her close, feeling her tremble, feeling the weight of her words settle over me.
Yes, of course I have always wished to be considered heir, as I was the only living male heir of Viserys, and my brother's health took an abrupt turn in the past years. But I also cherish what I have with Visenya, as she has been a devoted wife and mother, and even if she has grown into a lovely woman, some days that shyness makes itself known, just as I saw how hard she tries to tame her temper. I've watched her grow, knowing her ways and even after six children and ten years of marriage, no matter how hard I tried to coerce her out of her fucking ways, for as loyal as devoted as my wife was, she only trusted herself.
The past few years have been filled with many fights, and most of the times she was the one backing away, agreeing to whatever I had to say, as if mentally taking notes of how I acted, preparing herself for what may come. I see the anger she bottles up, and as much as I relish her fire, unlike me, she never lashes out, which is more than precarious.
A common fight we had, after Arlion was born, was her bloody need of having more children, as if how many we had were enough. She always brought up her vision and I was sincerely getting sick of the same fight over and over again, whenever we laid together, simply I would spill on her thighs or we would not lay at all. She never questioned me whenever we were at Dragonstone and I would come into our shared chambers, late at night. Her body always soft and welcoming, pale hands inviting me to hug her and drift off to sleep.
***
Viserys should have stripped Rhaenyra of her titles by now; I have spoken to him more times than I care to count. Yet, his endless mercy extends even to the brazen lies before him. In the days that followed my trial by combat, Rhaenyra's standing seemed more fragile than ever, her influence waning as questions of her sons' lineage spread through the Realm like wildfire.
The Velaryons themselves have come to court, no doubt to keep ward over their grandchildren, Aegon and Helaena Velaryon, after Otto Hightower's passing. Their arrival has fanned the flames, letters arriving in droves from all corners of the Realm, lesser houses murmuring of rebellion, of mistrust in Rhaenyra's line. It's a small ember now, but one spark is all that's needed to ignite the realm.
They stand with us. Rhaenys, wary though she may be, has chosen to pledge herself to Visenya's claim. I see her watching us, her calculating gaze never wavering, as if assessing each move. My dear cousin was not one for foolishness, and she senses that the Lords would not choose either Rhaenyra nor Visenya, she knows that as much as I do. She is not one to swear loyalty lightly, and I do not mistake her allegiance for sentiment. She is a dragon's daughter, and she knows well where strength lies.
The political maneuvering becomes sharper, each move more calculated. I attend the Small Council meetings, gathering intelligence, gathering whispers. Meanwhile, Visenya dedicates herself to securing alliances among her ladies-in-waiting. Ellyn Baratheon, in particular, has been a fruitful connection; through her family's favor, we've betrothed our young Arlion to a newly born Joanna Lannister in 126 AC. Slowly, we weave our alliances: the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Velaryons with Corlys' fleet—together, a force to rival any other. If we could win over the North, we'd have a foundation as solid as Dragonstone itself.
The tension, however, only grows. Lord Lyonel Strong now sits as Hand, a man I trust as much as a rats arse. Viserys' health deteriorates, each passing day leaving him more haggard, more desperate. Visenya tells me of her mother Aemma's distress, how she must hold Rhaenyra back from lashing out, the strain leaving both Aemma and Visenya in tears, forced to comfort each other as well as their father. It's a harrowing sight, and my heart aches for her, yet in truth, this is exactly the opportunity we have waited for. Viserys' peace is but cowardice dressed in white silk. He fears bloodshed, fears decision.
***
One morning, we gather in the gardens to break our fast, our children laughing as they share bread, berries, and conversation. Daryon and Darones argue merrily about some anecdote told to them by their Maester, while Daemalia picks at her oats, only to be urged by Daryon to eat something more substantial. She scrunches her nose and refuses, only for him to press a small piece of baked egg to her lips with a whispered jest, kissing her cheek when she accepts it. The look of horror and delight on her face makes Visenya and me share a silent laugh, her own hand resting over her heart in an unconscious gesture of warmth.
Arlion, our youngest, sits nearby, gurgling happily under the watchful eye of his wet nurse. We are interrupted by the sudden arrival of Ser Harrold Westerling, who strides into the gardens with a grave look etched upon his face. He presents me with a letter, bearing no seal, and I take it with an arched brow. A letter from my brother, perhaps about the recent unrest in the city, minor rebellions I had orchestrated through whispers and unseen hands to remind the people of our strength.
Do I have to bring the war to your doorstep brother?
I read it once, twice, then a third time, my mind piecing together the implications. I dismiss Ser Harrold with a nod, rolling the letter tightly in my hand, placing it down with finality. My eyes lock with Visenya's, her expectant gaze searching mine. She can tell what I am about to say, even before I say it.
"Viserys," I tell her quietly, the weight of the words pressing upon me, "has called for another Great Council."
She stares at me, her brow furrowing as she processes the significance. Another Great Council—a second chance to lay our claim openly before the lords of the realm, a chance to topple Rhaenyra's fragile inheritance once and for all. Now we will have the chance to reap the fruits of all our hard work, yet Visenya seems saddened by the news, as if something is gnawing at her. She has yet to mention another vision and she gets recalcitrant whenever I ask her, avoiding my questions altogether, which end up in us not talking at all. Yet she does not stay mad enough as we both enjoy each other's company to put aside our differences.
***
Night falls, and I retire to our chambers after a long day in council, the tensions almost making me blast all of this and set the Red Keep aflames once and for all. Visenya sits by the hearth, her face illuminated by the golden light. I cross the room to her, drawing her to her feet, feeling the tension radiate from her as I press a hand to the small of her back, bringing my forehead to hers, our breaths mingling.
"The Great Council could be the very thing we've waited for," I murmur, our noses touching, "but Viserys is a fool. He sees only what he wishes to see, clings to his daughter's claim as though it were his salvation. This is it Visenya, finally we will rule."
"He thinks himself Jaehaerys, Daemon. He is content to let the realm teeter on the brink, so long as he may sit upon his throne in peace."
I smirk, the bitterness in my heart a familiar ache. "Peace is for the weak. The realm does not need peace—it needs strength, it needs fire and blood."
She watches me, her hand resting on my cheek, her expression softening. "Promise me," she says quietly, "that when the flames of war come, you will remember what I told you. Remember my words, remember our purpose, and our duty to the future."
Her words echo in my mind, the memory of her voice, the quiet passion, the devotion that runs through her veins as hot as dragonfire. I take her hand, pressing it to my lips, my eyes never leaving hers. The blasted vision of hers makes me want to roll my eyes but I supress it, wishing to lay between her thighs tonight.
"I am yours, Visenya. Always. For fire, for blood, for peace, or for ruin—I am yours."
***
The spires of Harrenhal, blackened and twisted, rise on the horizon like ancient, gnarled claws reaching toward the heavens. The chill in the air is an eerie reminder of the curses woven into these stones, yet Harrenhal remains a site of power—a fitting battleground for the future of the Seven Kingdoms. The autumn, although the season in which our last babe Arlion was born, brings a cold air that lingers in our bones.
Our journey here on dragonback was swift, each beat of Caraxes' wings pushing us forward with the promise of victory. Visenya and I soared above, our children carried by their dragon mounts, the sky itself seeming to part in reverence as our army approached.
Daryon is perched upon the Broze Fury, his sister's dragon Valyrax behind the great beast, as Daemalia tries her best to keep up with the mighty dragon. Darones, Eglyana and Arlion, share a wheelhouse with Ser Darklyn and their wetnurses and maids, my wife's sworn shield Nekrion, Darone's mount of only age of five, sits on the rooftop of the wheelhouse.
Those who followed on foot and horseback would take far longer, yet we arrived ahead of them, positioning ourselves as tactically as we could. The armies are assembling at Harrenhal's base: 1,000 Lannister soldiers with the proud lion upon their breastplates; 500 Baratheon men in black and gold; and our own ranks, reinforced by Velaryon sailors and their steel. A gathering force of 3,500 men—enough to protect our claim, to show the realm we are more than words and parchment. Our dragons, however, are the truest mark of strength: Vhagar, Vermithor, and Caraxes. Harrenhal has seen much horror in its days, yet perhaps it has never beheld such a sight as these beasts of fire perched on its walls.
It is here that we shall make our stand. The Great Council that Viserys naively called, thinking the lords would pick between his daughters, will in truth choose between his children and his living male heir—me.
As Vhagar lands with a thunderous thud upon the ancient, crumbling walls, the sound of her roar sends reverberations through the very bones of this castle, as if shaking it from an eternal slumber. I watch Visenya, mounted upon Vhagar's back, her presence formidable as she directs the mighty dragon to let loose a bellowing cry. It is a display meant for the lords arriving in their processions below—a reminder of who holds the true power in this council, that even here, amidst ruin and decay, we command the might of the dragons. Vhagar, Caraxes and Vermithor, could form the next Conquest. In the distance I hear the indistinctable roar of Meleys, The Velaryons are here too.
When she slides from Vhagar's neck and steadies herself, I reach out to her, but she avoids my touch, gathering the children and looking as though she carries a weight unseen. Her silence unsettles me, and as we make our way into the castle, the scent of scorched stone filling our nostrils, I find myself watching her closely. Whatever has seized her thoughts lies just beyond my reach.
The smell of old fire haunts the hallways like an ill-omened spirit, a reminder that Balerion's flames once melted these walls. The children's laughter momentarily lightens the air, but even they seem aware of the gloom that hangs over the place, their voices growing softer, tentative.
As we pass through the halls, I notice Visenya stopping by a tall, shattered window, her gaze fixed on something unseen beyond the walls of Harrenhal. Her eyes, normally sharp as a dagger, are clouded with a haunted look that gives me pause.
I call her name, my voice low, a warning to keep her thoughts close and her head high. Yet she barely seems to hear me. Her eyes meet mine—glassy, unfocused, and laced with a fear I can scarcely understand. It isn't fear of this council, nor of our claim, but something else entirely, something that runs deeper.
"Visenya," I murmur again, drawing close, my fingers finding her arm as I pull her back from whatever specter holds her. Her skin is cool to the touch, and I tighten my hold, unwilling to lose her to this place's dark shadows.
"Forgive me," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, haunted. "The castle... it does things to the mind."
I glance out the window, seeing naught but barren land and the dark silhouette of the Riverlands stretching to the horizon. "It is only stone and shadow," I say, dismissing the unease creeping into me. Yet, her hand covers mine, fingers cold against my warmth.
"We cannot protect ourselves from what is evil, Daemon," she murmurs, as though her words are drawn from some dark well deep within her. Her eyes, ever fierce and strong, are clouded, like the mists that encircle this wretched castle. What have you seen my little flower?
I pull her close, bringing her forehead to mine, meeting her gaze. "Evil shall not touch you," I say, the words a vow etched in the marrow of my bones. "Not while I am here."
She searches my face, and for a long, strained moment, she says nothing, then whispers, almost imperceptibly, "I will no longer take the moon's tea."
The impact of her words strikes me silent, my mind reeling as I release her, fingers slipping from her arm as if burned. I barely notice her turn and slip away, her hand guiding our children ahead as she leaves me standing in the shadows of that cursed window. I lean against the cold stone, my mind racing.
No more moon's tea... The implications bloom within me—another child, another heir. She wishes to strengthen our legacy, even now, with everything hanging in the balance. Even now, the blasted vision is all she sees. Gods be good, I do hope we will win, or I shall gather all of us and flee to Essos, fuck the Realm and this cursed throne.
But why? Why does she choose now, in this wretched place, to speak of this? Does she sense something I do not? I cast a final glance out the window, unease clawing at my chest. There is nothing but the harsh beauty of the Riverlands, bleak and cold. Yet, something stirs within me, a feeling that we stand upon the edge of a blade, teetering between triumph and ruin.
I feel the weight of her declaration before it fully settles in my mind. I open my mouth to respond, to ask her what has driven this decision, but she pulls away, leaving me to stare at her retreating figure as she disappears around the corner with the children. I stand there, looking out at the cold, stone-riddled land below, feeling as though I am grasping at something that slips just out of reach.
Tonight, sleep is elusive, the castle's past casting its pall over the present. Shadows shift on the walls, and I hear whispers, imagined or otherwise, of curses and misfortune, of a place that devours ambition and spits out ruin. Harrenhal is a place of power, yes, but it is a power tainted by failure, and the weight of its history lies heavy on all who come seeking more than what they have. I feel the unease in my bones, and for the first time in many years, I wonder if ambition will be our undoing, if the cost of what we seek will outstrip even the wealth of the Seven Kingdoms.