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Chapter Text

Six-year-old Rhaegar dipped his little hand into the crystalline pool at their Pentoshi manse. 

For some inexplicable reason, the act was always soothing to him. Being around water, being in water, soothed his soul like no other. He had told his father that he felt more at home in the sea than in the sky. Rhaegar had expected his father to be angry with him, for Daemon Targaryen was known for his obsessive love over all things Valyrian, but the man had only smiled fondly at him, pride shining through his eyes. 

“‘Tis no less than I expect, my son,” his father had said, as he caressed his curly, silver hair. Rhaegar sometimes thinks Father searches for Mother whenever he looks at him. “The sea is within you. In your veins, runs blood purer than even those of Old Valyria–the blood of the Gods.” His father then cupped his face gently in his hands. “Blood meant for a crown.”

But how could that be? Rhaegar had thought. There was not a chance he could ever sit the Iron Throne. Although he was the firstborn son of Daemon Targaryen, Rhaegar had been born a bastard. He had been born whilst his father was still wed to Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone. His birth meant further public humiliation for Lady Rhea, as it was said that The Rogue Prince was so in love with Rhaegar’s mother, flouting his marriage vows for years for her bed and no other, for Daemon had not visited any brothel during their affair. So in love with her that he kept her to himself, as no one in the Realm had ever seen Rhaegar’s mother in the flesh. They’ve whispered that she didn’t exist, but Rhaegar’s birth silenced them. Now they murmur behind their hands that she must’ve been an extremely beautiful woman the moment their eyes fell upon Rhaegar. 

According to Lady Laena, Daemon had presented Rhaegar to the King when he was but seven moons old. Viserys had been wroth when he heard of Rhaegar’s existence, but the King had always been quick to forgive his cumbersome brother. Viserys the Peaceful had been charmed by Rhaegar as soon as he was placed in his nuncle’s arms, declaring aloud that Rhaegar was the most beautiful boy he had ever seen, to the consternation of Queen Alicent. 

It was then that Daemon requested that Rhaegar be legitimised publicly as his trueborn son. The Hand at the time, Otto Hightower, had counselled vociferously against it, but Viserys waved him away, granting Daemon his wish. In a matter of seconds, bastard-born Rhaegar Rivers had turned into Rhaegar of House Targaryen. Bastard though he once was, the King had declared, fatherhood had clearly changed Daemon for the better. Daemon had never let Rhaegar out of his sight then, and that was true even now. 

The relationship between brothers seemed to only get better from there. Their brotherly bond only strengthened when Rhaegar’s sister, Galateia, was born just as he was turning two. Courtiers had whispered with barbed tongues that the married Prince Daemon had dared to father and publicly claim another bastard as his own by bringing the baseborn babe to court. Queen Alicent and Lord Otto had nearly begged the King to send Prince Daemon back to the Vale to fulfil his marital duties when he asked for his bastard daughter to be legitimised as well. Surprisingly, Princess Rhaenyra added her voice in support of her stepmother, but instead, she lobbied against Galateia’s legitimisation and for Rhaegar and Galateia to be sent away from the Red Keep to be fostered with her husband’s family at Driftmark. 

Daemon’s reaction had been explosive, Laena recounted, at the notion that he’d be parted from his children. It was the first time Daemon and Rhaenyra had nearly come to blows. The Crown Princess’ jealousy and resentment was clear for all to see, setting tongues wagging that something untoward had happened between uncle and niece. After all, Daemon had fallen for Rhaegar’s mother shortly after he was exiled for taking his niece to a brothel.

Viserys had been favouring Rhaenyra’s advised course of action, until golden-haired Galateia blinked up at the King with the same eyes the late Princess Alyssa had. The Targaryen King had softened at the sight, before having a proclamation of legitimisation drafted for Galateia as he did for Rhaegar two years prior. Rhaegar and Galateia were doted upon by their father and his loyal Gold Cloaks. They stayed at the Red Keep for another six moons before Daemon crossed the line once more and was banished from the King’s side.

Rhaegar had been nigh three years of age when his father took him and Galateia to the Stepstones with him. To this day, even his stepmother didn’t understand what madness pushed Daemon to take his infant children with him. Corlys had implored him to leave them at Driftmark to Rhaenys’ care. But Daemon had adamantly refused, stating instead: “My children are safest when nearest the sea.”

“An oddly Velaryon turn of phrase,” Laena had murmured as she brushed his hair gently, “but mayhaps your mother was from Spicetown.”

But the only person who knew about his mother was Daemon and he was notoriously tight-lipped about it. Rhaegar barely remembered her. Whenever he attempted to conjure an image of his mother, all his mind could supply him was a flowery, vanilla-ish scent he could not place, a tender smile, and eyes as blue as his own. Initially, he believed his mother was dead, but from the way Father spoke of her, it did not sound as if he was speaking of the dead. 

“I promise that we’ll speak of your mother when you turn five-and-ten,”

But that’s 10 years away! Rhaegar pouted, round cheeks flushed, waving his hand aimlessly in the water. 

The pout slowly turned into a smile as tendrils of water twirled around his fingers as he moved them. He used his forefinger and spun it in circles, immediately creating a little whirlpool. Rhaegar grinned at the sight. Feeling slightly mischievous, Rhaegar stood and began waving his arms in abrupt motions. The water followed his movements, turning whichever direction he desired. He then raised his arms above his head and a small wall of water formed. Rhaegar was beaming by now, standing on the tip of his toes to make it go higher. 

His arms shook. Rhaegar’s control was tenuous at best, likely due to his age and small frame. But he was sure it would get better once he was older. He was sure of it! Once that’s true, he can make his mark upon the world like the Sea Snake did! 

“Rhaegar!” 

Instantly, Rhaegar’s arms fell to his sides and the wall of water he’d conjured fell, sloshing over the sides and onto the marble. Rhaegar winced at the mess. He slowly looked up to meet his father’s tired, yet amused gaze, positively remorseful. Daemon crossed his arms, sighing. 

“Do you remember what I said?”

Rhaegar’s small shoulders slumped.

“Not to play with the water, not without you there,”

“And what did you do?”

“Played with the water without you?”

Daemon nodded, smirking. “And why did I make that rule in the first place?”

“Because if people see me, then I’m in danger,”

“That’s right. So why did you disobey me, Rhaegar?”

“It’s fun,” Rhaegar frowned, whining, “and the water makes me feel calm, kepa .”

Shaking his head, Rhaegar watched as his father approached to kneel in front of him. Daemon’s smirk formed into a small, genuine smile as he tenderly brushed an errant curl away from his son’s forehead. Rhaegar’s large pellucid blue eyes blinked owlishly at him, attempting to project an aura of innocence. Daemon chuckled. “Would you like to come with me to the shore?”

Rhaegar’s reply was instantaneous.

“Yes, Father! Please, may I?” 

“You may,” Daemon said, nodding. “I shall bring Galateia as well.” Rhaegar beamed and made to take his father’s outstretched hand, only to pause and turn to look at the mess he’d created. A frown tugged at his soft lips. 

“Rhaegar?”

“I should clean up first, kepa, ”

Rhaegar yelped in surprise as he was lifted from the ground, his head settling on his father’s shoulder. He shifted slightly to be able to meet his father’s pretty, violet eyes. “ Kepa?”

“It is for the servants to deal with, ñuha byka embar zaldrīzes. It is not a task meant for those of sacred blood.”

Father kept a hand on his curls the entire way to Galateia’s nursery, servants parting before them like the seas and bowing as they passed. The door creaked open to reveal a cherubic, chubby-cheeked little girl, playing with her toy dolls and cooing in happiness. Galateia, her molten gold hair shining brilliantly beneath the Pentoshi sun, looked up and grinned at the sight of her father and brother. Dropping her dolls, she waddled over as fast as her little legs could take her and slammed into Father’s legs. 

“ Kepa! Up, up, please!” Galateia pleaded, heterochromatic eyes rounding, her short arms shooting into the air.

Father laughed heartily and scooped his squealing hāedar into his arms. “ Ñuha gevie riña,” Daemon planted a loud smooch onto Galateia’s soft cheek. “Would you like to come play by the shore with your kepa and your lēkia ?”

“Kessa, kepa, kostilus!” 

“Whatever my children’s hearts desire,” Daemon murmured into his silver head, nuzzling him and Galateia as he was content to carry them towards the shores that marked part of the Bay of Pentos. Rhaegar felt his younger sister burrow deeper into their father’s chest, her little hands curled into fists as she clutched at his white shirt. As they passed the little nook in the library where Lady Laena loved to sit, it was then that the thought struck Rhaegar. Craning his neck to regard his father, Rhaegar asked:

“Will Baela and Rhaena not join us?”

The question made Daemon blink. The Rogue Prince paused momentarily in his tracks, brows lifting slightly, as if just remembering that he had other children aside from Rhaegar and Galateia. Baela and Rhaena were born two years ago, and unlike Rhaegar and Galateia, were granted dragon eggs by King Viserys. Thus far, only Baela had hatched a dragon, a beautiful pale green hatchling named Moondancer. Rhaena’s egg remained cold, and would unlikely hatch anytime soon. 

Rhaegar would think his father would pay Baela more attention as she was currently the only dragonrider amongst his children. At times, he would feel insecure at the fact that he had no dragon of his own, and that his father would think him lesser for it. Galateia cared more for the sea, though she was too young to pay any mind to thoughts of dragons when she thought of her dolls more. 

Rhaegar had brought the issue up with Daemon when he turned six, but the man had surprised him yet again. Daemon had proudly proclaimed that what was within his and Galateia’s blood were worth far more than all the dragons House Targaryen commanded. Once more, the matter of his blood came to the fore. Father obsessed over it as much as he did anything Valyrian. Rhaegar suspected it was something to do with his mother, but he wouldn’t know anytime soon. 

Father had not changed how much time he devoted to Rhaegar and his sister. Father broke his fast with them; took them on dragon rides on Caraxes; bought new dresses for Galateia and her dolls; engaged with him in swordplay; taught them both High Valyrian and their Valyrian heritage; took them to the markets and the shore daily. Rhaegar had assumed that Father’s routine would change with the arrival of Baela and Rhaena, but the six-year-old was hit with the stark realisation that nothing had changed.  

Galateia had been so jealous when the twins were born. His sister had always been a spoiled princess. She’d wept, stomped her foot and threw a tantrum that had sent the earth shaking for a brief moment, which caused the Pentoshi to panic at the thought of a larger earthquake that would soon follow. His sweet sister had believed that she would soon no longer be her father’s special girl. Daemon had quickly soothed her worries, asserting that no one could ever replace her, Rhaegar and their mother in his heart. 

As soon as Father said those words, Lady Laena began to appear apprehensive. Though his father’s new wife remained kind, she had grown distant after his twin sisters’ births, spending all her time with her children while Rhaegar and Galateia spent all their waking moments with Daemon. But it did not sit well in Rhaegar’s heart that Father seemed to ignore, even forget, that Baela and Rhaena existed. 

Galateia shot him a stink eye at his mention of their twin sisters, ever the hoarder of their father’s attention. 

“But this is something you always do with us , kepa! ”

“You’re absolutely correct, ñuha zaldrīzes dārilaros. ” He replied, rubbing his nose against Galateia’s, causing the girl to giggle. “Baela and Rhaena are Velaryons, and the Velaryons may claim they are of the sea, but,” Daemon leaned down to whisper conspiratorially to his children, “yn īlon gīmigon qilōni se drēje āeksia hen embar issi,” 

[but we know who the true masters of the sea are]

Rhaegar and Galateia squealed when their father dipped forward suddenly, peals of laughter falling from their lips, and soon, thoughts of Rhaena and Baela joining them fled Rhaegar’s mind the moment the sea came into view. Whenever he was near water, his mind calmed, but when he was near the sea, his heart soared. It was a small, private cove behind the manse, with turquoise waters and golden sands to match. There were no boats or sea vessels about the area, further emphasising its exclusive use for the guests of the Magister of Pentos. 

The blood in Rhaegar’s veins thrummed with want, answering the siren’s call of the oceans. And when his father set him down on the sandy ground, Rhaegar dashed forward, Galateia alongside him, breathless with anticipation, sighing when they were knee deep in the waters.

He and Galateia shared a look, before leaping into the waters. While any well-meaning father would tear their hair out at seeing their children disappear beneath the waves, Daemon Targaryen merely sat atop a boulder, unlatching a wineskin filled with Arbor Red and swigging mouthfuls of it intermittently. The Rogue Prince watched his children surface, manipulating small waves to splash one another, all while giggling and enjoying being out beneath the warm, Pentoshi sun. 

Rhaegar dove beneath the waters once more, breathing easily underwater. Galateia joined him, grinning. They plummeted deeper, eyes in awe as all manner of sea creatures stopped to stare at them, blinking with their black, beady eyes, as if understanding who exactly they were. But there was one particular creature Rhaegar and Galateia was waiting for and he knew instantly that he was here when all the fishes scattered into different directions. A dark shadow grew larger still, before finally coming into view.

The great sea dragon of the deep, Cetus, blinked slowly at them. Rhaegar swore Cetus’ head was larger than even Balerion’s. He would hazard that Cetus was older than the Black Dread himself, older even than Old Valyria, with sickly yellow eyes that were as large as a manse, and jagged teeth as tall and wide as Father. His scales were a beautiful aquamarine shade, while his underbelly was pristine white. Cetus’ fins and two claws were gold in colour, glistering even in the darkness of the sea. Although Cetus appeared both magnificent and terrifying in equal measure, the sea dragon had always been friendly to Rhaegar and his sister. It did help that Rhaegar and Galateia could communicate with Cetus, as well as any other sea creature, but holding a conversation with a salmon was incomparable to speaking to an alleged mythical being such as Cetus. Cetus was an intelligent creature with agency, just like Caraxes. 

He was unlike his long-dead kin Nagga, whose arrogance and hubris made her such a nuisance that humans were forced to intervene. Cetus generally kept away from humans, navigating the unimaginable, uncharted depths of the sea, though emerging once every so often to hunt. 

Cetus had grown far larger than Nagga had been, greeting the two siblings with a series of growls and trilling screeches. Rhaegar used short bursts of his nascent power to boost himself forward, placing a hand on the sea dragon’s snout. Cetus closed his gargantuan yellow eyes, a deep rumble which sent vibrations around them. A sense of tranquillity further enveloped Rhaegar as soon as his hand touched Cetus’ muzzle. He gave another affectionate pat before floating up to sit on the majestic serpent’s head. Galateia swam to him and Rhaegar grabbed his little sister, settling her in front of him as they both leaned forward, grasping onto the spikes on Cetus’ head. 

“ Go, Cetus! ” Rhaegar commanded. 

Cetus gave an acquiescing groan and shot forward gracefully. Rhaegar and Galateia screamed in delight as they kept a firm grip on Cetus as the sea dragon weaved gracefully against the current, dancing amidst schools of silvery fish, and swimming close to coral reefs for the children to view and enjoy. Even if most of the fishes, eels and jellyfish scrambled to hide at the mere sight of Cetus, the children sat in awe, the sea dragon slowing his frightening speed to allow them to savour the sight. The sea dragon then changed course and brought them to tour a shipwreck, keeping guard as Rhaegar and Galateia pilfered a few treasures from the centuries-old wreckage.

Fearing that they had spent too long beneath the waves, Rhaegar urged Cetus towards the surface. The sea dragon acquiesced, and showing off his innate, playful nature, Cetus surged and leaped into the air. His scales glittered brilliantly in the sun as his great mass broke through the surface, Rhaegar and Galateia’s joyful screeches carrying across the waters to their father, who awaited them by the shore. Cetus dove into the ocean once more before drawing himself to the surface at Rhaegar’s instruction. The sun was low in the sky, showing just how long he and Galateia frolicked in the ocean. His stomach had started to rumble in protest, begging for supper. 

The lower half of Cetus’ head remained submerged in the water, with parts of his snout exposed to the air. His enormous, yellow eyes were trained at Rhaegar’s father, who at this point, had stood up from his spot atop the boulder, waiting for them to return. Daemon’s figure grew larger as they neared the shore. Cetus had to stop at some point as the waters grew shallower. Rhaegar thanked the great sea dragon, while Galateia leaned down to plant a kiss at the crown of Cetus’ head. The two siblings slid off of their perch atop his behemoth-sized head, landing on their feet before trudging up the shore towards their father. 

Rhaegar turned around to wave farewell to Cetus. Daemon gave a reverent nod to the sea dragon, kin to Nagga, who responded with a great huff, causing a large spout of water to burst into the air. Rhaegar and Galateia laughed as water showered upon them, while their father wiped at his face as he grumbled in annoyance. Rhaegar grinned at the flicker of amusement he spied in Cetus’ eyes. The sea dragon withdrew, sinking back into the depths of the ocean until he was called again.

“As ornery as ever,” Daemon quipped, squeezing water from his drenched locks. The sea dragon had made himself known to Daemon not long after they first arrived in Pentos, mainly drawn due to Rhaegar and Galateia’s presence.

“Cetus is just playing, kepa ,” Rhaegar replied, using his gifts to dry his clothes and hair, before helping his father. Galateia had done so to herself without any instruction, now latching onto their father’s leg. Father ruffled his hair as a show of gratitude, then leaned down to pick Galateia up and settle her on his hip. His sister, evidently drowsy from all the activity, burrowed deeper against their father, her heterochromatic eyes slipping shut.

“Cetus listens to you,” their father said instead, taking him by the hand to lead them back into the manse. 

“That’s because we are friends,”

Daemon shook his head, smirking. “He has always been drawn to you, even as a babe.”

Rhaegar paused, eyes as blue as the cove they played in widened in realisation. “You’re saying he’s my bonded? Like you and Caraxes!” He was nearly leaping into the air in his joy at the prospect.

“Cetus is a dragon, same as Caraxes, though one’s domain is in the sky, while the other lies in the sea.” Daemon gave him another one of his proud smiles. “I don’t see why my son would not be able to claim him. After all, you call and he listens, does he not?”

Rhaegar mused over his father’s words. “He’s never not come whenever I want to see him.”

“There it is, then,” Daemon’s voice bore a thread of satisfaction. Rhaegar felt his hand clasp his shoulder as they entered the manse. “Cetus could eat Balerion whole. He has no rival in the sea nor the sky. A worthy mount for my son.”

“Cetus is brother to Nagga,” Rhaegar supplied. Daemon stilled, surprised. “He told me he’s seen Old Valyria being built. Seen one of the first of his flying brethren in the sky.”

“Brother to Nagga…” Daemon repeated in a hushed, awed tone, “older than even the Age of Heroes.” Then he frowned. “Are sea dragons so easily felled by humans?”

Rhaegar shook his head, silver curls bouncing and drawing the light. 

“Cetus said Nagga was careless and prideful to a fault. But the Grey King was no ordinary opponent, Cetus said he was sired by a god and a mortal woman.”

That caused Daemon to stop in his tracks. “Which god, Rhaegar?”

“A sky god named Zeus. But the Grey King was not favoured by his sire, so he turned to a sea god called Poseidon for help.” Rhaegar hummed, before tugging at his father’s hand, causing him to look down to regard him. “ Kepa, are Zeus and Poseidon lost gods? Their names are not written in any of the books you’ve shown me.”

“Gods can have more than one name, ñuha tresy ,” Daemon answered, after recovering from his shock. “And they are not lost,” his father then shot him a secretive smile, one Rhaegar could not hope to parse in his confusion, “for they walk among us.”

But before Rhaegar could question any further, the bell that rang for supper echoed throughout the manse and Rhaegar was reminded of his hunger. Galateia awoke to the sounds, rubbing her eyes with round, chubby fists. 

“I want cream cakes,” were her first words upon waking.

Father threw his head back as he laughed and Rhaegar sighed, smiling. Daemon pecked his golden-haired sister’s forehead, who was still grumpy from being awoken so abruptly.

“Anything for you, tala, ” 

Daemon Targaryen sat on the same boulder he sat on earlier in the afternoon. This time, he was alone, his beloved children fast asleep in their beds. Supper had ended some while ago, and instead of ending the day in peace, Laena had badgered him over his treatment of Baela and Rhaena, arguing over how their two-year-old twins were already asking after him and how much he was favouring Rhaegar and Galateia over them. 

Daemon scoffed as he took a sip of his Arbor gold. Laena was a capable woman with the blood of Old Valyria, who rode the largest dragon in the world with unparalleled skill. She would be able to raise the twins into able dragonriders like herself, and should Rhaena desire it, write to Rhaenyra to be given permission to claim a dragon from the Dragonmont. After all, Rhaenyra and Laena were friends, were they not? Hence, Baela and Rhaena were in good hands.  

But his Rhaegar and Galateia? They were not ordinary children. No woman in Planetos could raise them properly, make them realise the sheer power they held at their fingertips, understand how to nurture them, nor would they know what treasures they had in their hands. What’s more, Daemon didn’t trust any woman to raise his eldest two. Any woman he married would always prioritise her own children over safeguarding Rhaegar and Galateia from the leeches that prey on his family. Laena herself was more preoccupied with Baela and Rhaena, and though she was kind to his older children, they were not her foremost concern. His wife advocating for him to spend less time with Rhaegar and Galateia merely cemented his belief that no woman could be trusted to act as a mother figure to his children. And that left only him to be their sole parental figure. 

He swore to his love that he would protect them with his life and would kill for them if need be. And he knew how cruel and cutthroat this world is. That was why he kept the truth of Rhaegar and Galateia’s mother a closely guarded secret from his nearest and dearest. Revealing it to Viserys would be disastrous, surrounded by Hightower dogs as he was. Laena was kind, with a spine of steel, but her father, the Sea Snake, deterred Daemon from revealing it to his wife, knowing the heedless depths of Corlys’ ambition. 

He thought he’d be able to reveal it to Rhaenyra. But his trust in his fiery niece completely shattered the moment she advocated for having his babes taken from him. The betrayal still stung, even now, and his rage was a quiet simmer simply hungering for retribution. It was a painful reminder that even amongst his closest family, he was always alone. He’d been exiled more times than he could count, but he supposed he should be thankful that he had been exiled for taking Rhaenyra to a brothel, for he wouldn’t have had the chance to meet the love of his life then.

Daemon’s mind drifted to the exact moment he first saw her. He had flown Caraxes away from King’s Landing, ending up at the bank of a river not too far from Maidenpool. The irony, Daemon thought, a nostalgic smile playing at his lips.

He had been so filled with rage, grief and despair as he slid down from Caraxes’ back, the wailing screech of his dragon echoing his turbulent emotions. At that moment, he had nowhere to go. His only option would be to return to Runestone as his brother commanded him to and lay with his Bronze Bitch. Daemon thought he’d sooner order Caraxes to burn him alive as he made his way down to the riverbank to be alone and scream his frustrations out.

But he soon found he wasn’t alone. Daemon was quick to hide behind a rocky outcrop when he heard splashing as he neared the river. Curiosity and wariness filled him, and with a hand on Dark Sister’s hilt, Daemon peered out from behind the rock wall to see who it was that dared disturb a Prince’s peace. A flash of gold bright enough to blind him caused him to squint, only to realise that he was staring at thick streams of hair, a shade of liquid gold that would make any Lannister cunt green with envy. 

It was evident that there was no threat, his hand slipping from Dark Sister. T’was simply a woman bathing in the river by her lonesome, and a beautiful woman at that. The lady slowly rose from where she had previously been submerged, baring her nude body to him for the first time. 

Daemon’s eyes had eagerly trailed past the woman’s hair, his cock hardening as he feasted on her voluptuous figure, rivulets of water travelling past her collarbone, caressing the space between her ample breasts to finally dip past her golden cunt. It was when the woman tilted her head up to lock eyes with him, that his breath caught in his throat. 

Daemon had previously proclaimed Rhaenyra to be the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. But the woman who stood before him far surpassed his niece in appearance. She looked at him with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, akin to a river in spring. Her lashes were as golden as her hair, her cheekbones high and proud, and her lips were full and inviting. She froze when she saw him and Daemon refused to have such a delightful maiden escape his grasp. 

“My lady–”

He had barely said the words before it happened, something he never thought possible. The woman shifted, her form metamorphosing into water, collapsing into the river in a burst of sea foam. Daemon did not know how long he had stood there, staring blankly at where the woman once stood, his jaw hanging open in shock. He had then collapsed onto his knees on the grass, attempting to understand the fact that the beautiful woman he saw was no woman at all. He was not inebriated, the events which had followed his exile from King’s Landing had sobered him quickly.

Nay, this woman was something more, something not of the mortal realm. 

Daemon should have left it alone. He should have climbed on Caraxes and flown to Runestone, and caused as much havoc as possible for his Bronze Bitch, before returning to King’s Landing in time for Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor Velaryon. But he was the blood of the dragon. He knew what he wanted, and he had not slaked his desire for the sea nymph. 

It was this desire which drove him to heights he never thought he’d go to to win the favour of a lady. For the next few weeks, he stayed at a nearby inn, commandeering their largest room. After breaking his fast, he would go to the same spot he’d encountered her, offering gifts and prayers to the Fourteen. His offerings ranged from lilacs, moonblooms and dusky roses, to pearls he’d pilfered from the shores of Tarth, to seashells he had gathered near Massey’s Hook. Every single gift, he would pierce his thumb and cover it with twelve drops of his own blood, before whispering a prayer to the Fourteen. Each time he returned to check upon the gift he left by the riverbank, it would have disappeared by then, but his sea nymph never showed.

He persisted, and his efforts bore fruit, when he found his sea nymph waiting for him on the fourteenth day.

She was sitting with her legs tucked to her side, her skin fair with a beautiful, olive sheen, her long golden hair running like bolts of silk down her back. The woman turned, and those blue, blue eyes gazed into him, and he was bewitched once more. 

“I’ve heard your prayers, Daemon Targaryen,” his love had said to him, her voice akin to chiming bells, “and I know what you desire.” A small smirk played on her rosy lips. “Tell me why I should grant your prayer.”

“Mayhaps I could ask for your name first, my lady?” The words flowed past him like a rushing wave. 

“Through the ages and mortal realms aplenty, I’ve held many names. They’ve called me Salacia, Rán, Tefnut, Chalchiuhtlicue, Mazu, Lady of the Waves, Caraxes,” Daemon’s eyes widened, breaths stuttering as he instantly fell to his knees, “but I prefer to be called Amphitrite.”

To be in the presence of one of the Fourteen, the very deity who his dragon was named after, was the greatest honour Daemon could ever have attained. In fact, Daemon would dare call it Fate. He was unashamed to say that he trembled before her, for who would not before a god? Even after the revelation, his desire for Amphitrite–by the Gods, she was Caraxes herself – never abated. Instead, Daemon tried even harder to win her affections.

At first, the goddess seemed entertained, even amused, at his attempts. He continued plying her with gifts, even learning how to braid a flower crown– of all things– for his goddess. Daemon learned throughout his courtship with Amphitrite that the expensive gifts he’d showered his niece with would hardly impress her. Instead, the goddess seemed more taken with thoughtful offerings he’d shown effort in creating, with the additional perk of it being covered with his own blood, of course. 

Aside from spoiling Amphitrite with gifts, the sea goddess told him tales of other gods, of twelve main gods known as the Olympians. Daemon had felt a sliver of fear when she mentioned that one of these gods was her husband, though she had assured him that both herself and Poseidon had taken many lovers outside of their union, and that it was a marriage of convenience more than anything else. She had then told him of the truth regarding his Valyrian ancestors, and how the first Valyrian was not a shepherd, as the tales say, but a slave. It was the irony of all ironies. 

In order to escape from his masters, the man had pleaded and burnt all he had at the altar he built for the Olympians. The gods sympathised with his plight, and gifted him the first dragon eggs Planetos had ever seen, borne from the fires of the Fourteen Flames. 

“You said there were twelve Olympian gods,” Daemon said, bewildered, “then how is it that the Valyrian Freehold worshipped fourteen?”

“As Poseidon’s consort and Queen of the Seas, I was part of the proceedings,” Amphitrite answered, gently caressing the tender scales of a sea snake that had coiled itself around her arm. “Janus, the god of new beginnings, was naturally involved as well since the Valyrians intended to bring a new world order. You might know him by Shrykos.”

It was during the nascent stages of the Valyrian Empire, Amphitrite said, that the origin story of the Valyrians shifted from a slave to that of a humble shepherd. After all, an empire begun by a slave could not be seen enslaving others, now could they? Once the change took root, it was then that his Valyrian ancestors began expanding eastwards.

“And the Doom?” 

Amphitrite’s eyes turned dark, Daemon stepping back slightly as the winds turned harsh and the waters beneath her feet began to boil. “The Valyrians were at their best, and their worst when my brethren and I dealt their end. They spat upon our gifts, indulged in the slave trade they originally desired to escape from, claiming to have done it in our name.” The goddess spat in disgust. “What was worse, they turned dragon against dragon, commanding our blessings to tear each other apart in their petty internal strife. T’was the ultimate insult, and after the Doom, most of my kin turned away from Planetos, vowing to never intercede in mortal matters ever again.”

“I’m mortal,” Daemon said, after a lull, cocking his head to the side, “what has changed?”

Amphitrite stayed silent, before replying with a firm:

“You.” 

The sky was a hazy, copper-maroon panorama when they kissed for the first time. The amusement in her eyes had shifted into confusion, before morphing into reluctant fondness. The moment the emotions in her gaze bloomed into love was when he had gone hunting for rare pearls, this time of the black variety. The endeavour had humbled him. The Rogue Prince would, at times, stand waist-deep in water near the Straits of Tarth. Caraxes had trilled in concern, scrambling to the edge of the coast when he disappeared beneath the waves, his serpentine neck whipping about in panic until he inevitably resurfaced. Daemon learned to hold his breath long enough to dive in the coast and fish out black lip oysters on the rare chance they produced the pearls he desired. Daemon swore his love helped him in the endeavour, as he found what he needed within a sennight. 

He had then strode into a jeweller’s workshop in Maidenpool, paying the man three dragons to teach him how to create a string of black pearls to grace his goddess’ elegant neck. Once completed, Daemon proudly presented his work to Amphitrite. The golden-haired deity had grasped the necklace in her hands, before she beamed, the seas calm and tranquil. Amphitrite had reached for his face and without a second thought, he tasted the lips of a goddess, and with it, peace like he had never known subsumed him. 

It did not take long after they kissed for Amphitrite to invite him to her bed. They made love by the riverbank, a thrilling chorus of moans, gasps and grunts as Daemon Targaryen drove himself into his sea goddess with an ardent fervour he had never shown any of his bedmates. He spent himself inside her multiple times throughout their first night together, and when it was over, Amphitrite had kissed him long on the forehead, blessing him with eternal safe passage from all manner of danger in the sea. 

Their passionate trysts continued, though he was forced to leave Maidenpool when its lord invited him for a welcome feast, his anonymity broken through both his carelessness and Caraxes’ presence. Rumours had abounded, flooding from Maidenpool all the way to King’s Landing, that The Rogue Prince had taken a lover due to the inordinate amount of time he spent in a jeweller’s shop. By the end of the feast, he was handed a letter bearing the King’s seal. Daemon knew what to expect the minute he tore it open. Viserys’ orders laced with the Hightower stench to cease his dithering and return to his Bronze Bitch once and for all, else be stripped of his princely status. Daemon had scoffed, rolling his eyes before tossing the letter into the fireplace. 

Viserys, his beloved brother, was a weak, overly trusting fool. But the benefit of having such a man as both his brother and his King meant Viserys was always quick to forgive–something which no doubt pleases and frustrates both his allies and enemies alike. 

It was then that Daemon ruminated over actually returning to Runestone. After all, his Bronze Bitch’s keep was nestled along the coastline and wherever the sea lies, his love will be there. Decision made, he eagerly mounted Caraxes and flew to Runestone. Naturally, he and his wife kept their mutually agreed upon distance, though the exchange of barbed words were plenty and often. Daemon did not change the habits he began in Maidenpool, venturing to the coast to meet Amphitrite daily, bearing trinkets and ending their day with enthusiastic bouts of love-making. Rhea had even grown suspicious, noting the sand in his hair and clothes, and the lingering floral scent that hung about him. 

He knew his Bronze Bitch could care less who he slept around with, though she had hissed at him to be discreet. Unfortunately, Daemon failed in this instance, when Amphitrite arose from the sea in a translucent, chiffon dress wrapped around her figure, the summer heat nipping at their necks. She said nothing, instead grabbing his hand and placing it against her abdomen. Daemon distinctly remembered how breathless he became the instant he felt the slight curve to her belly. 

The child, his firstborn– a son, she had told him–will bear the blood of Caraxes, a demigod. A rush of gratitude, excitement and pride filled him, eagerly anticipating the birth of his son. Every time Amphitrite awaited him, seated atop a boulder overlooking the Narrow Sea, her belly would swell larger than it had before. And when he felt the first flutters of movement against his palm, Daemon could not say he had ever felt such happiness. It felt even more real to him then as the soft ripples turned into hard kicks. Amphitrite shared in his joy, stating that it would be her first child in aeons. 

Daemon was not present when his son was born, for his love had birthed him below the waves where mortals such as he couldn’t reach. His disappointment for not being present dissipated at the sight of his firstborn, with his riot of silver curls and the blue eyes of his mother. Nestled in Amphitrite’s arms and lovingly wrapped in sea silk trimmed with pearls, Daemon fell in love for the second time in his life.

The name Baelon came to mind, after his father. But it had been tainted, for an heir who had not lived past a day. No, his son, a demigod, deserved a new name of his own. 

“Rhaegar,” Daemon said proudly, rocking his babe in his arms. 

“Rhaegar?” Amphitrite echoed, tilting her head as she mulled over it. “I was considering Palaemon.”

“Too close to my late uncle Aemon’s name,” Daemon replied, shaking his head, as he stroked his son’s downy curls. “I’d rather he have a name no Targaryen has ever had before.” The babe giggled when he felt his father tap him on the nose. “See? Our son likes it well.”

Amphitrite gave a huff of laughter. The goddess leaned over to caress their sweet son’s round face, her expression tender. 

“Rhaegar.” 

It was agreed that Rhaegar would be kept with his mother for five moons, for Amphitrite to nurse him from her breasts. Apparently, demigods needed to be nurtured by their godly parent for the first five moons of their lives. It was necessary so that Rhaegar would be acclimated with Amphitrite’s domain. The goddess was loathe to part from her son, but she understood the way of demigods–even amongst her kin, demigods were almost always meant for great things in the realm of Men. And her son Rhaegar would be no different. 

Daemon visited his son daily for the next five moons, marvelling at his existence, memorising every breath, every coo and every cry. He knew that he’d burn the world for his son, kill whoever dared to threaten this child of the Gods. He vowed to shield him from all who meant him ill, this he swore before his love. Hercules, Perseus, Theseus, Jason, Hippolyta…his son will surpass them all, for within Rhaegar’s veins ran the blood of the dragon and a sea goddess of old, a potent combination. 

To the mortification of Rhea and her Royce relations, Daemon brought Rhaegar back to Runestone as the babe neared the sixth moon mark. There was no denying who sired Rhaegar, his beautiful boy with his hair of pure silver and blue eyes that took on a purple sheen beneath the glare of the sun. Rhea launched a malicious tirade against him, one that he responded in kind. She had then exiled Daemon and Rhaegar from Runestone indefinitely, leading Daemon to strap Rhaegar upon his chest, and thus at seven moons old, Rhaegar flew on dragonback for the first time. It was time to return to King’s Landing anyway, for Rhaenyra’s impending wedding to Laenor.

Upon his return, the tepid welcome he received turned into an icy one when he marched into the throne room with Rhaegar in tow. The Rogue Prince cared not for the whispers of sheep, his eyes mainly focused on the King, for it was only Viserys’ opinion that mattered. He had expected the public castigation Viserys dealt him, for siring a bastard and acknowledging him as trueborn when he took Rhaegar on Caraxes, and the humiliation he caused Rhea. Daemon had rolled his eyes, sneering at Otto Hightower’s smug visage and his whore daughter. 

Rhaenyra seemed to have swallowed something foul, her eyes never straying from the pudgy bundle in Daemon’s arms. Rhaegar was close to tears then, the King’s loud voice scaring him. Viserys’ shouting died when he witnessed Daemon soothing a whining Rhaegar, patting the babe gently on the back before crooning the same Valyrian lullaby Princess Alyssa used to sing them. The sheer love pouring from Daemon’s eyes caused Viserys’ heart to soften, and he urged his brother to lay the babe in his arms. 

Daemon approached the Iron Throne, his babe snuffling and cooing as he ascended the steps. 

“Your Grace,” Daemon said, his voice echoing around the packed throne room. He shifted his precious son in his arms in order to hand him over to his brother. “May I present to you my son, Rhaegar.”

“Rhaegar…” Viserys whispered, reaching over to pull away the cloth obscuring the babe’s face. “Oh, Daemon,” his brother said, his smile widening when Rhaegar reached up to curl a fist around the King’s forefinger. “He is the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.”

Queen Alicent cleared her throat, lips pulled downward at the King’s words. Rhaenyra pursed her lips, staring at Rhaegar with eyes filled with both longing and resentment. 

Daemon grinned. “Aye, he is, isn’t he?” His grin broadened when his son reached up to yank the Conqueror’s crown from Viserys’ balding head with a strength that surprised all present. The courtiers all gasped, scandalised, but Viserys merely chortled in response as baby Rhaegar began to gnaw at the large ruby in the centre. 

“As daring as his father,” Viserys proclaimed, gently extricating his crown from the baby’s grasp, though with surprising difficulty. The King had to use nearly all his strength to take his crown back from the babe’s grip. T’was a prophetic sign, to Daemon, that his son was meant to bear a crown upon his brow. “And frightfully strong! He shall be one of the strongest warriors the Realm had ever seen, mark my words, brother.” 

Daemon bore a pleased countenance. It was imperative to soften Viserys’ already soft heart if one wanted something. T’was always the way even when they were children. 

“Such strength, Your Grace, needs to be borne under the Targaryen name,” 

A hush fell in the throne room. 

Otto Hightower’s slimy voice broke through the silence. 

“Surely you are not asking the King to legitimise your bastard?”

Daemon bared his teeth. If only they knew whose blood Rhaegar descended from. His son was worth more than every single person in the room. “He is my son, Otto.” Daemon spat with vitriol. “And he has the blood of the dragon, and much more.”

“Enough.” The King ordered firmly, a hand in the air to stop Otto from retorting. His brother then sighed, eyes distant as he contemplated. To Otto’s mortification and Daemon’s pleasure, the King nodded. 

“I shall have the proclamation of his legitimisation drafted.” Viserys’ voice then rose in pitch, his words reverberating in the air as he addressed all gathered. All the courtiers broke into whispers, their voices ranging from aghast to contemplative, likely measuring how such a change would benefit their Houses. “Let it be known that Rhaegar Rivers, son of Prince Daemon Targaryen, shall hereby be known and recognised by all as Rhaegar of House Targaryen!”

Daemon smiled, sending a triumphant smirk Otto and Alicent’s way as he bowed to his brother. Rhaenyra twisted the rings on her fingers in frantic movements, her gaze never leaving the silver-haired babe nestled in the King’s arms. 

“I thank you, brother,”

The remaining moons leading up to Rhaenyra’s impending nuptials were quite blissful for Daemon as a new father. Daemon had deeply enjoyed the outraged expression on Alicent’s face when Rhaegar was placed in the royal nursery alongside Aegon. Aegon being mere moons older than Rhaegar, who spent a large amount of his time sleeping, or when awake, screaming for food or playtime with his father. Despite not being the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks any longer, Daemon regularly displayed Rhaegar before them as he made his rounds, basking in the adulation he received for his beautiful, demigod son. 

Inevitably, Rhaenyra cornered him in the royal nursery. Daemon had been in the midst of crooning a lullaby to put Rhaegar to sleep when his niece strode in. Her appearance amused him. She had been increasingly antsy as of late, and now she appeared agitated. Daemon had stood, leaning down to gently place Rhaegar in his cradle, tucking him in and ensuring he was warm, before planting a kiss on the babe’s cheek.

“You spend much of your time with him, kepus.”

“Rhaenyra,” Daemon greeted, his usual arrogant smile on his lips. Although he was mindful to keep his voice low so as to not wake Rhaegar. “Of course I do. You will do the same once you have little ones of your own to tend to.”

“You know as well as I that my chances of conceiving with Laenor are slim to none. His tastes are well-known.”

“True.” Daemon acknowledged, attention momentarily diverted as he stroked a finger down his son’s pudgy hand. “But ‘tis not impossible. You and Ser Laenor must simply needs be more…creative in the bedchamber.”

“Or,” Rhaenyra interjected, sidling up to him, and pressing her hand against the folds of his doublet, “you can take me away to Dragonstone and marry me in the ways of our ancestors. Then you can have the pure Valyrian children you so desire.”

Daemon’s violet eyes flitted from Rhaegar’s cradle back to his niece. “I already have one.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curled in displeasure. “His mother is Valyrian then?”

“With the bluest eyes you’ll ever see,” he confirmed fondly, eyes distant as Amphitrite’s face came to the forefront of his mind. He could not wait to see her once night fell. Regrettably, he would not be able to take Rhaegar with him to see his mother this time, for the babe had been quite restless all morning. 

“So the rumours are true then. Maidenpool, Runestone…” Rhaenyra trailed off, playing with the rings on her fingers. “Are you still seeing her?”

Daemon cocked a brow at her tone. “I have not set her aside,”

“Will you?” Rhaenyra stared at him, her purplish-blue eyes burning with hope. “Will you set her aside if I tell you our son will inherit the Iron Throne after me if you’d only wed me now?”

His answer was instantaneous. “No.” And he had plans. Rhaegar will be King of the Seven Kingdoms–it was clearly his destiny. No Hightower-Targaryen half-breed, nor any child he foisted on Rhaenyra would ever amount to what coursed through Rhaegar’s veins. Rhaegar will take House Targaryen to new heights, being the first demigod King the Realm had ever seen. Lastly, to set aside Amphitrite would be folly, he knew his goddess was the jealous, possessive type. Daemon loved her far too much to do such a thing, and no woman could amount to her, this he knew.

Rhaenyra flinched as if struck. Then indignant rage seeped from her eyes. She took a deep breath to regain her composure, appearing to gird herself to attempt to change her kepus’ mind once more. 

“My father has legitimised Rhaegar, but in the eyes of the Realm he will always be a bastard. I know you want a pure Valyrian son with your blood to ascend to the Iron Throne. This I can give you, nuncle–”

“My son,” Daemon hissed in warning, fire spewing from his glare alone, “is no bastard and you’d best keep that word out of your lips when you speak of him.” Without saying another word, Daemon stalked off in a rage, his mood black. It was not nighttime yet, but he ignored this. He assigned two of his most trusted men to guard the nursery his son resided in, before going into Maegor’s tunnels to reach Blackwater Bay.

The wedding came, and the Velaryons’ arrival had further increased tensions in the Red Keep. Daemon couldn’t stand Corlys’ constant grandstanding, the Velaryons garbed from head to toe in dark suits and dresses draped in cloth of gold. The Rogue Prince decided he’d stir some trouble in what would undoubtedly be a boring fete, and brought his son along, to the dismay of Rhaenyra, the Queen and the Hand. The babe was nearing a year in age, his limbs lined in fat and his blue eyes large upon his round face. Rhaegar was clad in a small, red and black jerkin sewn to emulate dragon scales. He was glad his babe was not afraid of loud noises, instead cooing and pointing at the hundreds of candles lighting up the room.

Rhaegar was a very serene, quiet babe, he found. Amphitrite had informed him that their son represented the sea in repose. Of tranquil waters and placid winds. Well, it would certainly explain his boy’s calm temperament.

“One day, this will all be yours, my boy,” Daemon whispered into his child’s ears.

Rhaegar stared at him with the sea in his eyes, before burrowing into his father’s chest. 

Rhaenys had merely cocked a brow at him when she noticed the babe in his arms. Rhaenyra gnashed on her food, glaring incessantly at her uncle and his baby. Daemon had not partaken in the dancing, though it was then that he spoke to Laena for the first time. He knew she was attracted to him, using Rhaegar as an excuse to approach him. Their interaction was cut short, however, due to the murder of Joffrey Lonmouth, with Daemon fleeing the dining hall with a shrieking Rhaegar in tow, punching and shoving nuisances out of his way. 

The announcement of Rhaenyra’s pregnancy so soon after her disastrous wedding raised a few eyebrows, no less Daemon’s. But any taint of scandal which followed the Crown Princess was quickly forgotten by Daemon once Amphitrite delivered him news that he was to be a father once more. He had held the face of his golden-haired love in his hands, whispering “kirimvose” repeatedly in a manic cadence overflowing with devotion. Daemon Targaryen was to sire another demigod child, this time a sweet daughter, he was told. 

“I shall be the one to name the child this time,” Amphitrite smirked, tilting her chin up as Daemon began lavishing kisses down the slender slope of her neck. She sucked in a sharp breath when Daemon undid the front laces of her gown to expose her breasts. The goddess tugged at Daemon’s silvery strands as he kissed and tweaked her nipples, his passionate attentions causing them to harden into sharp points. 

“You already have one in mind, ñuha jaesa?” Daemon breathed out, his hands moving to tug the skirts of her dress up to bunch at the waist, hurrying to undo the laces of his breeches.  [my goddess] 

Amphitrite moaned out “Galateia,” just as Daemon sheathed himself inside her. 

“Galateia?” He repeated, testing the name on his lips. Daemon gasped when he felt Amphitrite’s walls squeeze tighter around his cock, spurring him to roll his hips, burrowing himself deeper in his love. “Galateia,” he murmured into her ear, drowning amidst Amphitrite’s moans and the sound of skin slapping on skin. Daemon pulled back in order to gaze upon Amphitrite’s moonlit face, the punishing pace he’d set never abating as his hand rested on the swell of her belly.

“Galateia.”

Galateia of House Targaryen was born on a stormy night. The skies had darkened quickly and lightning illuminated the sky in an ominous display. The seas had raged and smashed boulders into pieces and eroded cliffs. Sailors along the coast of the Seven Kingdoms proclaimed it to be the worst storm in history, and the smallfolk screamed that the Stranger had come calling. Countless ships were lost, unmoored and sinking beneath the waves as his love raged and raged to birth their daughter in a grotto behind the Red Keep. 

Daemon was present this time as Amphitrite laboured for hours well into the night. Upon being summoned, the goddess’s handmaidens arose from the sea, and it was the first time Daemon had ever seen a mermaid. Their scales were all of a different colour, their long hair ranging from red to black to yellow and silver. Their shiny fins shifted into legs as they neared the shore, approaching their goddess with deference before launching into action upon hearing her scream in pain. The mermaids paid him no mind, instead shooing him away to the side as they worked to soothe their lady. 

It was nearing the hour of the nightingale when his daughter came into the world. And it was at this time that the storm was at its fiercest, coinciding with the shrill shrieks emanating from Galateia, the blood-soaked babe wriggling furiously in the arms of one of Amphitrite’s handmaidens. The handmaidens had parted as Daemon drew closer, eager to see and hold his child. Once thoroughly cleaned of blood, Daemon held his newborn daughter in his arms for the first time. The babe was still wailing, her cries as loud and incandescent as the seas beating against the rocks. 

Daemon kissed his child’s soft head, smiling at the golden tufts of hair sprouting from her scalp. He didn’t pay any mind as the handmaidens bowed at both the goddess and him–though he believed they were bowing to Galateia instead–before slipping back into the sea to leave them alone. He brought his fussy babe to her mother, carefully depositing her in Amphitrite’s arms. Daemon settled carefully next to his goddess, eyes never leaving his precious daughter, grinning when her little fist curled around his forefinger.

Amphitrite moved to prop herself up against him, the pain and discomfort she’d experienced in childbed dissipating as soon as Galateia entered the world–such is the unparalleled constitution of a goddess. Their daughter ceased to wail when Amphitrite began humming a lullaby in the ancient tongue of the Gods–Greek, she called it–and the storms that raged outside desisted in tandem with Galateia’s calmed temper. Galateia opened her eyes and Daemon’s breath caught in his throat.

“What is it?” Amphitrite stopped humming, rocking the child instead.

Daemon felt his eyes sting as tears rose unbidden, one he stubbornly blinked away. “She has my mother’s eyes.”

“What was her name, your mother?” 

“Alyssa,” Daemon cleared his throat. Amphitrite stilled, reaching a hand to envelop his own. 

“Do you wish to name her Alyssa instead, ἀγαπητέ (a-g-a-p-e-t-e; beloved)?” 

Daemon mulled over it, appreciating as Amphitrite rubbed soothing circles into his palm. Eventually, he came to a decision. His daughter may have her grandmother’s eyes, but similarly to her brother, she would have her own name, one a demigod like her would need as she made her mark upon the world. He shook his head.

“Galateia suits her best,” Amphitrite’s beautiful smile caused Daemon himself to smile. 

The two lovers shared a kiss, their daughter safely cocooned between them.

As with Rhaegar, Galateia was brought to the Red Keep when she reached her fifth moon. Once more, the Red Keep was in uproar at the news that Prince Daemon had sired and publicly acknowledged another bastard child. At this point, Jacaerys had been born, and the court was afire at the babe’s brown curls, brown eyes and pug nose, so similar to Rhaenyra’s sworn shield, Ser Harwin Strong. Targaryens were dragons and fire was in their blood, but even Daemon thought that his niece was playing with fire too closely for his liking. However, he wasn’t too bothered by it in the end, for it made it all the clearer that Rhaegar’s destiny was to ascend the Iron Throne as the Realm’s first demigod-king.

“Another one, Daemon?” Viserys said tiredly as they gathered in the King’s solar, shaking his head as his gaze fell upon the squeaky bundle in Daemon’s arms. Galateia’s molten gold hair shone in the light of the early morning sun, the babe refusing to let go of her father’s thumb. “Might I remind you the good Lady Rhea could provide you with trueborn children if you’d only put in the effort?”

Daemon sneered. “The world shall end in flames before I put my cock anywhere near her.”

“By the Seven,” Alicent whispered, clutching at the Seven-Pointed Star pinned to her collarbone. Rhaenyra twisted the rings on her fingers, a resentful glare directed at Daemon, before it fell on the adorable, golden-haired babe. Ser Laenor looked miserable just by being there. 

“One baseborn child could be overlooked,” Daemon’s hackles raised at Otto’s words, “but yet another is in clear contempt of the laws of the Seven.”

“Rhaegar is a Targaryen,” Daemon emphasised, spewing hate with every word, before turning to his brother, nearing him to place his sweet babe in the King’s arms. “And so is my daughter Galateia,”

“You cannot seriously be asking the King to legitimise another one of your bastards?” Alicent cried, scandalised. “How many more will you sire with your paramour only to ask the King to continuously decree them as trueborn?” 

“The Queen raises a valid point, Father,” Alicent’s brows rose in surprise at Rhaenyra’s unexpected support. 

Daemon’s hand curled into a fist beneath the table. 

“I believe it is high time that Prince Daemon returns to the Vale, to his lawful wife, ” Otto stressed, “and he may bring his children with him. Surely, the Prince could make arrangements that they be raised to be good, law-abiding citizens away from Runestone.”

“You presume much, Otto,” 

“Nay,” Rhaenyra interjected, “I propose an alternative. My uncle should remain in King’s Landing, but his children should be sent to Driftmark as wards of the Velaryons. I’m sure Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys would be more than happy to oblige?”

Laenor startled once he realised the question was directed at him. “Oh, aye. I’m sure. Laena would gladly welcome children in High Tide.”

Rhaenyra sat back, pleased. “It is far better for my uncle’s children to be raised and educated under a noble house, particularly under my husband’s family, in contrast to dumping them on a random family to look after.”

Alicent and Otto shared uncertain looks, clearly displeased that Daemon would remain under Rhaenyra’s proposal. 

Something within Daemon shattered at Rhaenyra’s words. He never thought his niece would be capable, but it seemed he would forever be disappointed by his own family. Daemon instantly rose to his feet, vision black with fury.

“You would take my children from me?”

Rhaenyra pursed her lips. “They will be fostered at Driftmark. ‘Tis not so far from King’s Landing you won’t be able to visit them on dragonback.”

Fucking bitch , he had hissed in his mind, something he never thought he would call his niece, someone he’d loved and spoiled since her birth. 

“No. Absolutely fucking not! Rhaegar and Galateia will stay with me, their father, where they belong.” 

Rhaenyra stood, her own beautiful features incandescent with rage. “Their existence threatens the dignity of House Targaryen! No matter the public decree, the whole court will always see them as bastards.”

Daemon laughed aloud then, so loudly everyone in the room became uncomfortable. It was hypocrisy at its finest. His niece wanted to speak about bastards, when she had one of her own, and one as common-featured as the Andals? His children were of the purest blood, their existence was sacred , borne from one of the Fourteen themselves! Who was she to talk of bastards when Jacaerys’ real sire was lower than dirt? House Strong was an ancient house, but none had paid attention to them until their ascension to Harrenhal, which was still quite recent. Their only claim to notoriety was one of infamy in Ser Lucamore Strong, and with the way Harwin was going, House Strong’s reputation for honour and duty–if it ever had existed–will never recover. 

Rhaenyra’s face had turned as red as the crabs of House Celtigar. Even Otto had to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from laughing at the Princess’ lies and hypocrisy, Alicent keeping her gaze on her lap. Laenor had paled, utterly wracked with nerves as Daemon did not cease to guffaw in his face.

By this juncture, the King had remained silent. His gaze had never left the babe in his arms, even as his kin bickered amongst one another. Viserys’ sharp gasp was what stopped Daemon’s laughter and Rhaenyra from retaliating in her anger. 

“My King?” Alicent asked, immediately standing and rushing over to him. “Do you feel unwell? Shall I fetch the Maester?”

“She has Mother’s eyes,” was all Viserys said. 

Daemon relaxed, walking past his niece to stand beside his brother. 

“Aye, that she does,” he replied quietly, reaching down to stroke his daughter’s plump cheek. “I had thought of naming her Alyssa, but my daughter needs a new name.”

“‘Twas her mother that named her then?” At Daemon’s affirmative hum, Viserys smiled. “Galateia. A beautiful name for such a beautiful girl. And her hair…may I attempt to hazard a guess that her mother is from the Westerlands?”

Daemon grinned, shaking his head. “You may try, brother, but you’d be wrong,”

“No?” Viserys’ eyes widened. “Her hair is more gold than a Lannister’s.”

“Mayhaps you may guess again next time, brother, when my children’s fates are not so in question.”

Viserys sighed and Galateia squealed, her fat limbs wriggling in an attempt to return to her father. The King laughed. “Alright, alright, you may go. My, you’re as spirited as your father was when he was younger.” Daemon readily accepted his daughter back into his arms, laying her soft head against his shoulder. “And with Mother’s eyes…” 

It was with that nostalgic, fond tone that Daemon knew he had won, to the dismay of others present in the room.

“Father–”

“Your Grace–”

“Otto, have a decree of legitimisation be drafted for Galateia as it was for Rhaegar,” Viserys ordered firmly, his tone brooking no arguments, “my niece shall ever be close to my person.”

Daemon shot Otto a smug grin, to which the Hightower curled a lip in defeat. 

“As you command, Your Grace.” 

Rhaenyra stormed off, her heeled feet clacking against the flagstones.

Although his relationship with Rhaenyra had grown strained after Galateia’s legitimisation, Daemon could hardly care less. The anger and hurt he felt over her betrayal still burned bright, and he avoided being in her presence if he could. Instead, his time at the Red Keep was spent looking after his children, even bringing them to the sea for their mother to hold them. Amphitrite would sing to them and regale both Daemon and the children with more tales of the Fourteen, tales Daemon gobbled up greedily as he had never heard of them before. It was a routine he developed over the next two years, and would have continued if Otto hadn’t gotten his slimy mitts into his brother’s head, and exiled him once more to the Vale for some unfounded reason.

Brimming with hate, betrayal and bitterness, Daemon took his children with him on Caraxes, flying off to Driftmark instead of Runestone to join Corlys’ fight against the Triarchy. Looking back, there were moments Daemon regretted involving himself in the Stepstones debacle. Violence sung just as much as fire did in his blood, but the Stepstones must have been the seventh circle of hell. He’d almost regretted not leaving his babes at Driftmark as Corlys had advised, but he couldn’t risk their true origins from being exposed should either Rhaegar or Galateia accidentally exhibited their powers. Daemon wouldn’t be able to protect them with him being miles away in the Stepstones.

The Stepstones conflict seemed to drag on for eternity and though his spirits were much brightened at news of Rhea’s death, it did not change the fact that they were no closer to their goals as they were years prior. Weary and desperate, Daemon went to Amphitrite for advice on how to deal with the Crabfeeder once and for all. And just as Athena advised Odysseus, deceit would spell the end of the treacherous Craghas Drahar and his ilk. Amphitrite was quite incensed he had brought their children with him, but ultimately understood why he did so. 

“Have the Sea Snake and his men wait behind the rocks, hidden in plain sight. His son and his pale dragon must hide themselves in the skies, though not too far that he cannot be called. Your own red beast you must send away for this venture. Then, wave thine white flag and allow thine foes to trickle out of their caves. You shall know when to strike.”

Daemon burned a generous pile of offerings to her before doing as his goddess advised. He laid out the plan to Corlys–the errant prat Vaemond decried it as insanity–who begrudgingly agreed to follow Daemon’s idea, seeing as nothing else had worked in the past two years. Furthermore, Viserys finally sending aid was the last straw for Daemon, leading him to bash the messenger’s head in with his helmet. Daemon returned to his tent to see to his children prior to the final push. Galateia was a year old, whilst Rhaegar had turned three, a temperate yet garrulous little boy. 

“Kepa! Kepa! Cawaxes?”

“Daor, ñuha embar zaldrīzes,” Daemon shook his head. He stood still as a squire ensured that the tasset was buckled on. Daemon batted him away impatiently when the squire made to put on a pair of bracers, deciding to put it on himself. He dismissed the trembling squire, some insignificant fourth son of House Caron, who couldn’t leave the tent fast enough. “We’re not going flying today, son. Kepa has to burn away all our enemies.”

Rhaegar’s round, sapphire eyes sparkled. The little boy was hopping in place, his sister babbling away as she played with her stuffed dragon. “Like Aegon the Dwagon!”

Daemon grinned, leaning down to ruffle his son’s silver head. “That’s right, Rhaegar.” Then a solemn expression overtook his features and he knelt before his firstborn. “You are to stay here whilst I’m gone. Stay with your sister, I’m leaving her to you. Should anything happen, son, you take Galateia and run to the sea. Do you understand?”

Rhaegar turned to stare at his baby sister, before looking at his father and nodding gravely.

“Kessa, kepa,”

Daemon held his son’s face in his hands, tracing the slope of his nose, one much like his own. Rhaegar had most of his features, though he could see Amphitrite in the softness of his jaw and the shape of his eyes. His heart was brimming with love as he stared at his son, as well as a devotion that far superseded the one he had for Viserys. He would kill even his own family members to protect Rhaegar and Galateia if they ever posed a threat to his progeny. 

The Rogue Prince kissed his son on the forehead, whispering prayers to the Fourteen in his mind as he pulled away. Galateia’s soft coos and cries of “Pa!” drew him to turn his attention to his sweet princess. If Rhaegar was his twin in appearance, then Galateia was a facsimile of his love. He lifted Galateia into arms, swinging her around and causing loud giggles to fall from her lips. “Ñuha dōna embar rūklon,” he tapped her on the nose and he huffed in amusement as his babe scrunched her button nose in irritation. “Be good for your brother, yes? Kepa has to go now.”

“Pa go?” At Daemon’s nod, Galateia’s small fingers gripped his hair, causing him to wince. “Pa no go!”

“I have to, my sweet girl,” Daemon said softly, unlatching his daughter’s fingers from his locks as gently as he could. “Be a good girl for Rhaegar, hm? Kepa will be back soon.” He reluctantly placed his sniffling daughter down next to her brother, who was attuned to Galateia’s volatile moods, quickly wrapping his small arms around his sister to soothe her.

Galateia’s sniffles grew louder the further Daemon walked away. He harshly shoved an errand boy to the side, his daughter’s cries ringing in his ear. Daemon turned to look towards the sea. As he’d expected, what was once calm waters lapping at the coast, waves were now crashing against the rocks. 

He felt rather than saw Corlys fall into step beside him. 

“A storm is brewing,” the Sea Snake observed, squinting, “‘tis an ill omen. Are you sure it is wise to hold the attack this day, Prince Daemon?”

“‘Tis merely the Gods coming to watch us this day, Lord Corlys,” Daemon replied, pulling his helmet on. 

“The attack shall commence,”

As his love had advised, the attack was a triumphant success for his forces. There were brushes with death, but Daemon swore his goddess was looking after him that day. A hail of arrows would come flying his way, only for an errant gale from the brewing storm to blast it away. Everything went as planned, ending with Daemon chasing the parasite known as the Crabfeeder into his cave and hacking him to pieces. Drenched in blood and guts, he emerged the victor and wondered then, as he gazed down at Drahar’s corpse, whether Amphitrite would appreciate human offerings. It would be a practical use for the Crabfeeder’s men, both survivors and dead alike, and do away with the cost of keeping and maintaining the prisoners.

And thus, with his mind made up, that was what he did. Corlys, though no worshipper of the Seven, was utterly appalled at Daemon’s decision to erect a massive altar to Caraxes. Daemon’s declaration that they would be taking no prisoners reverberated throughout the camp; Corlys’ men and surviving sons of Westerosi houses were deeply uncomfortable as The Rogue Prince had the remnants of the Triarchy forces dragged and tied to the hastily erected pyre. Lumped together with the rotting carcasses of their comrades, the prisoners struggled in a futile effort to break free. 

A High Valyrian priest chanted prayers to the sea goddess, undaunted as Daemon directed Caraxes, who reared his serpentine neck and blew a small gust of flame at the base. Daemon joined the priest in prayer, eyes gleaming with utmost love and devotion as his lips moved. Soon, the night came alive with the tortured screams of the Triarchy dogs, as their flesh was steadily eaten by roaring fires so bright most present thought dawn had broken. 

Sated though Amphitrite was–it had been centuries since any of the Fourteen received human offerings–word had spread of Daemon’s actions in the Stepstones, resulting in severe castigations from the Faith. Viserys had no choice but to keep Daemon away permanently with tempers running high in the capital. As for Daemon? After his stint in the Stepstones, he was not keen on returning to King’s Landing. His experience has shown him that he could not return to the capital until his children were old enough to defend themselves. For who knew what treachery Otto would whisper to his brother’s ear? And there was no one left to trust in the capital–Daemon had only his dragon, his sword and his beloved children left to him, his greatest treasures.

Thus, he returned to Driftmark with his children to recover his strength, as well as give his babes some form of normalcy. He left the Stepstones to Corlys and whoever he had in mind who was insane enough to take up leadership over those barren heap of rocks. Daemon’s stay, in his mind, was temporary, for he intended to leave for Pentos and raise his children away from the lunacy of King’s Landing. He had sent a letter to his friend, Reggio Haratis, offering his dragon as a deterrent for his political enemies in return for settlement in the city. 

It had been a moon since his return from the Stepstones and he knew it would not be long before the Prince of Pentos replied with a letter eagerly accepting his offer. Night had fallen, and Daemon, as he had routinely done since Rhaegar’s birth, was preparing to meet his love by the beach below High Tide when he was stopped by his cousin Rhaenys.  

“Rhaenys,” Daemon acknowledged, as his cousin walked into view, clad in a red, velvet dressing gown with dragons stitched at the hem. Daemon himself was garbed in a simple, white shirt and black breeches, Dark Sister strapped around his waist. He sat by his daughter’s cradle, having watched her fall asleep as he sung to her. Rhaegar, on the other hand, had fallen asleep much earlier after a bout of swordplay with his father, lying spreadeagled on Daemon’s bed as if he owned it.

“I never thought I would see the day Daemon Targaryen turned into a doting father,” Rhaenys murmured quietly, scanning the scene before her. She leaned against the door frame, crossing her arms. “Rhaegar and Galateia are beautiful children, whoever you had them with must have been most pleasing to the eye, indeed,”

Daemon eyed his cousin warily. Rhaenys did not do nor say things without aim. 

“You did not come here, at this hour, to speak of my children,”

Rhaenys cocked her head, indicating that she wished their conversation to be done elsewhere. Daemon puffed a breath, annoyed at this hindrance in his nightly plans, before following his cousin out of the room. He found himself in Rhaenys’ solar, accepting the goblet of Arbor gold proffered to him. Daemon walked over and settled himself into an armchair by the fireplace, the warmth emanating from the flames tickling his skin pleasantly. 

Sipping at his liquor, he eyed his cousin, the chair opposite his own creaking as Rhaenys settled herself into it.

Impatience quickly reared its head when Rhaenys continued to stare into the fire, saying nothing.

“Well? Out with it.” 

Rhaenys took in a deep breath, though the words she said next was not what he’d expected: 

“Laena is taken with you,” 

Daemon’s brows arched slightly. He knew the girl held a candle for him, and still does, judging by the moon-eyed gaze she directed his way the moment he landed Caraxes near High Tide. But Daemon had paid it no mind, for he had Amphitrite and based on Corlys’ mumblings, Laena was betrothed to the Sealord of Braavos’ son. He said as much of the latter to Rhaenys, who scoffed with derision.

“The man is a drunkard and a spendthrift. My spies have reported that the swine has nearly bled his father’s coffers dry. Corlys is unable to break the betrothal outright without destroying trade relations with Braavos, not with my husband proposing the betrothal in the first place. The conflict in the Stepstones allowed us to postpone the wedding for nigh a decade, but with it over, it isn’t possible to delay it any further,” Rhaenys’ fingers clenched around the armrest. “I refuse to hand over my daughter, rider of Vhagar, to one such as he.”

Daemon hummed. “What a conundrum you’re in, cousin. Tell me, why are you speaking of all this to me?”

“Corlys and I cannot do anything against Laena’s betrothed. Our hands are tied…” Rhaenys trails off, then looks at him for the first time since entering her solar. Daemon begins to realise, and dreads. “...but yours aren’t.”

“You want me to kill the Sealord’s son?” 

“You desire a wife with Valyrian blood, don’t you?” Rhaenys said quickly, likely recognising the reluctance in his voice. “Laena has the blood of Old Valyria and she fancies you anyway. Corlys will be more than happy to assent to a match and–”

Daemon set aside his goblet and instantly shot to his feet.

“I have no interest in marrying your daughter, Rhaenys.”

Rhaenys regarded him carefully. “Are you wed already, Daemon? To your children’s mother?”

Gritting his teeth, Daemon turned away from her. 

“Nay,”

“Why?” Rhaenys prodded, curious. “It is clear you love her so, then why did you not marry her?”

“I can’t, for she is wed already,” was all he offered. Daemon could not really profess that Amphitrite was in fact, a sea goddess, which he would never say nor would his cousin believe. However, it was the truth, that Amphitrite had been wed for aeons to another. Scandalous though it was, it was far better to say the latter than reveal who Rhaegar and Galateia’s mother truly was. 

“Oh Daemon,” Rhaenys breathed out, scandalised, “and she conceived twice! How is it her husband has not discovered this and petitioned the King for justice?”

Daemon giggled. A god petitioning a mortal king for justice? It was laughable, truly.

“Daemon!” 

“He cares not. The man has his own affairs and she has her own. That is all I will say on the matter.”

Rhaenys shook her head in disbelief, though she appeared to relent. 

“I do not ask much of you, Daemon,” Rhaenys said after a lull, the fireplace crackling, casting an ethereal glow upon her pale face, “but I can think of no other who would excel at the task. Corlys and I can open talks with Houses Redwyne, Manderly, or Mooton, but no lordling would even risk journeying to Braavos to do what I ask of you. You are free, Daemon, a dragonrider, free to act as you please. And what is more, you are kin. I would trust none other for this.”

“Does your daughter know of what you plan?”

“Nay, but I dare say she’ll not protest much of it,”

Daemon breathed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He slowly turned around to face his cousin.

“I can never love her in the way she wants me to, I hope you understand that.”

“I know,” Rhaenys whispered, nodding, “but I’d rather Laena be married to who she loves, despite her affections remaining unrequited, than be wed to a boor, miserable and alone.”

“I can make no promises, Rhaenys,”

“Think about it,” his cousin said. “You are a good father, Daemon, but your children need a mother.”

Daemon sneered, storming off and slamming the door behind him. 

Predictably, Amphitrite was incensed at Rhaenys’ proposal when Daemon brought it up to her that very same night. The waves battered against the rocks, the skies darkening within seconds, dense clouds scudding the skyline. Daemon nearly regretted broaching the matter to her, but he knew if he had kept it a secret, it might destroy whatever they had together. However, it didn’t stop him from feeling afraid as the waters began to boil, wind blasting his ears as they gained strength. Yet amidst all of it, his love looked magnificent in her jealous rage.

“I’ll send the thieving whore to Hades!” She shouted, her golden curls frazzled in her anger. “Let the waves devour High Tide and sweep Driftmark ‘neath the waves!”

“Ñuha jorrāelagon–”

“And you! You dare consider her proposal! Dare to spurn me, a daughter of the great Oceanus and Queen of the Sea? I have given you two children, loved you more than I’ve ever loved mine own husband, and this is how you repay me? Do you love her? Is that why?”

“Nay, I do not love her! You have my heart and none can ever replace you!”

“ Explain. ” The sea goddess growled, sea water steaming beneath her dainty feet. Her voice thrummed with power, sending the ground under his feet trembling and his heart clenching.

He cursed in his head. Rhaenys knew exactly how to appeal to his sympathies, for he prized nothing more than the preservation of the dragons in Targaryen hands. The Velaryons having dragons was an oversight he still couldn’t believe the Old King allowed, but allowing a foreign power like Braavos to get their hands on Vhagar, of all dragons, would be an absolute disaster. The hoary old lady could still lay eggs, after all. 

“I do not love Laena,” Daemon reiterated firmly. “But the girl is a dragonrider, and my House can ill afford for a trumped-up Braavosi family to lay their hands on the largest dragon in the world. ‘Tis why the dragonriding Targaryen women marry into the family and that is the only reason why I am not rejecting Rhaenys’ proposal outright.”

Amphitrite glared, her sapphire-blue eyes glowing an eerie white.

“Simply sending her soul to my good-brother Hades would solve this particular issue,”

“Then Rhaenys will suspect I had something to do with it, Amphitrite,” Daemon muttered, sighing in exhaustion. He then slowly got to his knees, head lowered. “If you do not desire it, then simply say the word, my love, and I will do as you say and refuse my cousin.”

He startled when Amphitrite’s soft hand lifted his chin. Daemon was decidedly nervous–and for good reason. The mother of his children wore a calm mask, her exquisite features betraying no emotion, but he knew that his love was still angry judging by the tempestuous winds and churning, black waters. With bated breath, Daemon waited for the end–was it his end? He knew not, but surely no mortal could face the wrath of a god unscathed. Daemon merely had to look at his ancestral homeland for proof.

But then abruptly, all was quiet. Sunlight steadily broke through the clouds, the seas were tranquil and the earth was still. 

Daemon hastily placed his hands on his love’s smooth thighs, taken by surprise once more when the sea goddess made to straddle him. A small smile teased Amphitrite’s lips as she placed a hand against his chest, before giving a small shove. Daemon allowed himself to be pushed to the ground, sinking his fingers into the pliant flesh of her thighs the moment he felt her loosen the ties on his breeches. 

“Amphitrite…” he breathed out, grunting as his love began pumping him steadily, hardening in her hand. Internally, Daemon was confused, not expecting Amphitrite to react this way. All his misgivings died just as his sea goddess seated himself fully inside her, a satisfied moan leaving his lips. He relished the sensation of her extraordinarily tight walls enveloping him, attempting to thrust upwards to find further relief, only to be thwarted when Amphitrite’s thighs tightened around him in warning. 

Daemon groaned when she started to move, riding him at a frantic pace that sent him reeling. The sharp, uneven rocks digging into his back was uncomfortable, to be sure, but easily drowned out by the feeling of her warmth sinking down onto him repeatedly. 

“Ñuha prūmia…” he sighed, their breaths mingling as Amphitrite leaned down to press her lips to his. It was a short-lived kiss, however, with the sea goddess breaking away only to nuzzle into his neck, whispering into his ear words that made his blood run cold.

“I suppose it matters not if you, or any other man, wed her,” she hissed, purposefully clenching her cunt around his cock. Daemon choked, a stunned, broken moan escaping him, his digging into the soft flesh of her waist. “She won’t live past her seven-and-twentieth year.”

“‘Tis her fate, after all. So wed her if you wish, Daemon Targaryen, give her children to spoil for the pitiful years remaining to her.”

The Queen of the Sea then smirked at the expression on his face, torn between apprehension and rapturous pleasure. Daemon felt hollow. Did his goddess not desire him anymore? What spurred this ready acceptance and permission to wed Laena when mere moments before, she had seemed ready to strike both him and High Tide down? 

Air left his lungs when Amphitrite’s hand shot out to wrap around his neck, her godly strength as unyielding as Valyrian steel.

“But your heart belongs to me, does it not? For no mere mortal could ever compare to me.”

Despite the death grip his love had on him, all Daemon felt was relief and incomparable happiness. She had not stopped riding him, and he grew ever closer to completion the second Amphitrite showed such possessiveness and care over him. He felt her loosen her grip when he tried to speak, a genuine smile plastered on his handsome face.

“Mirre yn ao, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he whispered through his bruised throat, raising his hand to gently cup her cheek. 

[None but you, my love.]

“Mirre yn ao.”

Daemon arose the next morning, aching for Amphitrite’s presence and simultaneously dreading the prospect of having to marry Laena. But needs must to prevent Vhagar and any potential eggs she laid to fall in foreign hands. Mayhaps it did not hurt to have a female touch when it came to his children, but the mere thought of that sparked an anger in him that bordered on murderous. His children were demigods and as Amphitrite insisted in her glorious fury, no mortal woman could hold a candle to her. In the realm of Men, Rhaegar and Galateia belonged to him and him alone.

Rhaenys was pleased to bits at his acquiescence to her scheme and soon thereafter, a letter arrived from the Prince of Pentos formally inviting him to stay in one of his manses in the city. The plan was set, and with accommodations for himself and his children secured, it was time for him to deal with a certain swine of Braavos. Rhaenys had spoken and revealed all to Laena, who promptly barged into his rooms unannounced prior to his departure.

By the sparkle in Laena Velaryon’s purple eyes, Daemon gathered that Rhaenys had not been entirely honest concerning his motivations of going along with her plans. If the lovelorn sheen in her gaze was any indication, Daemon suspected it would be up to him to destroy whatever fantasies Lady Laena had that this was a love match. Leave it to his cousin to make him do the dirty work she wasn’t willing to do.

“Lady Laena,” Daemon acknowledged stoically. “Slightly past your bedtime, is it not?”

“I am three-and-twenty, my Prince,” the Sea Snake’s daughter threw back, chin tilted. Daemon suppressed a wince when she uttered her age, sorely reminded that Laena would be dead in four years–a surreal situation to be, indeed, “a woman grown.”

“So it is, then,” 

When Daemon offered nothing more, Laena appeared confused, the first crack in her happy facade. However, she quickly moved past it. 

“I came to show my gratitude. You could have let me and my House sink into disrepute through this undesirable match, but you didn’t. So, thank you.”

Daemon huffed. “Don’t thank me yet, my lady,”

Laena blinked, evidently caught off guard. 

“The late Sealord’s son is no dragonrider, nor is he half the warrior you are, Prince Daemon. I highly doubt there’d be anything to be concern–”

“What do you expect out of our union, Lady Laena?” Daemon queried softly, lifting his gaze to hers. 

“Prince Daemon? I–”

“I am well aware how you feel about me, my lady, your eyes give you away,” a red flush bloomed on Laena’s dark skin, though she did not once avert her eyes. Her boldness, Daemon could appreciate. “Your mother would not have told you the truth, but I will tell you what to expect once we’re wed.”

“We will be residing in Pentos. I will grant you the protection of my title and the Targaryen name, along with the assets at my disposal, and whatever children we may have will be accorded the same. However,” he asserted firmly, a forefinger raised, “my children take precedence above all else.”

“Of course our children will be the priority–”

Daemon shook his head, a sardonic smirk on his lips. “That is not what I meant,”

Laena fell silent, the sound of waves crashing gently against the castle walls resounding in the room. Daemon waited patiently until it clicked for her, and it did so the second he saw her light, purple eyes blazing. 

“You mean Rhaegar and Galateia,”

Daemon hummed in affirmation. “I will not lie to you, Lady Laena. I do not love you, nor will I ever. My heart belongs to my children’s mother and that will not change. But what I can be is your friend and companion, nothing more.”

The sparkle that had been present in Laena’s eyes was now muted, the previous excitement she held evaporating into smoke. The tension in her shoulders betrayed the indignation she felt.

“And what of the children I shall give you?”

“They will be cared for,” 

“But not to the extent as you do your two eldest?” Laena interrogated, her brows drawn.

“Do you accept, my lady?” Daemon said instead, ignoring her question.

Silence pervaded between them once more. He knew she would accept; it was either him or the wine-guzzling gambler. 

“I accept.”

And now here he was. Two years had passed since he killed the Braavosi drunkard and wed Laena, Rhaenys and Corlys were incensed at the realisation that Daemon always intended to relocate to Pentos, bringing Laena with him. Viserys and his Small Council predictably disapproved of their union, but any sanctions they placed on him were moot with him being so far away.

Laena had twin daughters not long after their marriage and it seemed their discussion at High Tide had escaped her mind. It was part of their agreement that Daemon’s children took precedence over Baela and Rhaena. The twins had the protection of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon; Rhaegar and Galateia may bear the Targaryen name, but Daemon was their sole protector when they were still so small. Even once they had reached their majority, Daemon still had to shield them from the leeches who’d prey on his demigod children.

Daemon took another swig of his Arbor gold in exasperation. He looked up when he heard the waters begin to bubble, an excited grin on his face as a soft, golden glow followed. Daemon set aside his wine and leapt off the boulder, just in time to see a figure form, gradually gaining the features he had loved for the past six years. Seafoam slid past her shoulders as Amphitrite tread onto the shore, her bare feet treading on the sand, though they remained clean as she walked. She was dressed in one of the translucent layered tunics she favoured, pearl drop earrings hanging from her ears.  A section of her molten gold hair was braided intricately around her scalp, while a rainfall of thick locks fell down her back. Eyes bluer than the sky regarded him with affection and longing, one he paid back in kind. 

Without wasting further time, Daemon strode forward. Within moments, they embraced, the lovers wreathed in a veil of moonlight as they shared an ardent, passionate kiss. 

“Amphitrite,” he sighed, suddenly breathless at the sight of her, “ñuha prūmia…”

His love smiled, cupping his face gently. 

“Forgive me, it has been a sennight since we have seen one another,” 

A sliver of jealousy took root within him. “Did your lord husband summon you?”

The sea goddess smirked, yet shook her head. 

“Nay, he’s much taken with a mortal, one of my niece Athena’s priestesses, I believe,” she shrugged, before a frown tugged at her lips. “I trust your wife, ” she spat, “has not kept you busy?”

Daemon was quick to reassure her, stroking her silky hair and pressing a long kiss to her furrowed brow. 

“Nay, I have not shared her bed since she conceived the twins,” 

Amphitrite pursed her lips, fingernails jabbing into his arms. Thankfully, the goddess seemed to accept it and changed topics, much to Daemon’s relief.

“The children, how are they?”

“They are well, healthy and hale,” Daemon answered, caressing an area of exposed skin on her shoulder. “Rhaegar is coming into his powers. I caught him summoning a wall of water this morning, thank the Gods no one saw him but me.”

Amphitrite hummed. “His powers are maturing, and it seems our boy is bursting with energy just like his father,” she murmured, rubbing at his chest. “And what of Galateia? What of our beautiful sea flower?”

“The dragon blood in her is strong. She is a fiery one, knows what she wants. Quick to anger, however, prone to send the earth shaking when she loses her temper.”

“Remember the day she was born, Daemon?”

“How could I ever forget?” Daemon whispered, kissing below her ear. “The worst storm in Westerosi history, they say,”

“When Rhaegar was born, he was so quiet, hardly made a sound and was so still I thought he had not survived,” Daemon nosed the crook of her neck, breathing in her honey-like scent. He could not imagine his son not living, not existing. But Rhaegar was half-divine, the greatest amongst Targaryens–a future King in the making. “But he was simply a calm child, with a measured temperament. That day, the skies were clear and the waters tranquil.”

They lay still, embracing each other for a moment longer, until the sea goddess broke the silence.

“I still have not told you why I was gone,” she grinned, pulling away from him. Curious, Daemon watched as a sword materialised before him. Instantly, he recognised that it was a Valyrian steel blade, a rarity since the Doom. The art of creating a new blade from the prized material was lost, but here it was, its silver pommel proffered his way. 

“‘Tis for Rhaegar,” Amphitrite explained, sapphire eyes twinkling, “have him name it once he is strong enough to wield it.”

“I cannot think of a gift more fitting for our boy,” Daemon breathed, admiring the sword. Dark Sister was a slender blade, clearly meant for a woman’s hand, but this gift was a true longsword, crafted for a man to wield. In his hands, he held another ancestral blade for House Targaryen to pass down to their descendants, possibly one Rhaegar would pass down to his own son when the time came.

“A demigod child requires two blades,” the Queen of the Sea said, drawing his attention once more. Amphitrite raised her arm and Daemon staggered in surprise as a gleaming, golden sword flew into her hand, as if summoned from the depths of the sea. “ That,” she gestured to the Valyrian steel blade in his hand, “is for mortals. But this,” she swung the sword expertly–betraying her prowess and experience–causing it to shimmer and sing, “is for monsters.”

That sparked his interest. Daemon quickly strapped his son’s Valyrian steel sword to his sword belt, closing in on the golden sword in Amphitrite’s grip. Once in his hands, Daemon noted its excellent craftsmanship, eyes roving over the gold studs embedded into its cross-guard and the fine, leather-wrapped hilt. However, the sword was what truly drew his attention. The double-edged blade was curved upwards, hewn into the shape of a leaf.

“Monsters?” Daemon repeated, holding the blade like it was a rare gem. 

“As gods and demigods alike tread the realms of Men, so would the monsters of old reside behind false guises,” 

“I doubt Rhaegar would seek to hunt down these monsters once he is older,”

“I’ve weaved accounts of demigods who came before, did I not?” Amphitrite shot him a sly smirk. “If he does not seek them out, they’ll seek him out. ‘Tis the same with Galateia,”

Daemon frowned. His daughter had a warrior’s mettle, he knew, but it did not make him like the prospect of his babes facing such mythical beasts alone. 

“Then Galateia would need a weapon of her own,”

“Hephaestus is in the midst of forging another,” Amphitrite explained, her gaze falling upon the golden blade. “Such a weapon was not made to harm mortals. Should one attempt to skewer a mortal with it, it will simply pass through harmlessly.”

“And it can never be lost,” she continued, “for it will always return to its owner. But to disguise its presence amongst mortals…” Amphitrite demonstrated by plucking the blade from Daemon’s hold, and to his awe, it shifted into an unassuming steel bracelet. She placed it in his open palm, and he closed his fingers around it tightly, the bracelet’s shape imprinting into his flesh. 

Such gifts struck him deeply, and yet, he felt insufficient before his goddess.

“Ever since I had the fortune of being in your presence, all you have done is give…things beyond measure, ones not even my House possesses. I can’t help but feel as though I have fallen short in doing the same for you.”

“Daemon Targaryen, if I had thought you lacking, I would not have accepted your offerings that first time,”

“Isse lanta jēdri, kesan sagon dāez hen ñuha gaomilaksir.” With deft movements, he yanked a dagger from his belt, and sliced his palm. “Dōrī kessa nyke dīnagon arlī, bisa nyke kivigon gō ao, O Caraxes.”

[In two years, I will be free of my duty. Never will I marry again, this I swear before you, O Caraxes.]

The Queen of the Sea inhaled deeply the scent of his blood. Daemon hissed when the cut on his palm glowed orange, a burning sensation followed. As soon as the glow died away, all that was left was a faint, white scar–a reminder of his blood oath.

“ Nyke mazōregon aōha udir, se gūrogon ao hae iksā,”

[I accept your word, and take you as you are.]

Once again, the sea goddess and her mortal lover were locked in an embrace, pressed desperately against one another as if they wished to merge as one.