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bohemian-nights · 1 year

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Arlī(Anew)-Chapter 5

Word Count: ~7,296 words

Rating: 18+

Warnings⚠️: Uncle/niece incest, brief smut, childbirth, miscarriage, stillbirth

Description: Children are a blessing from the Gods. They fill one’s halls with cherubic laughter. Gracing each chamber that they occupy with sweet little melodies. And yet Dragonstone’s halls remained empty.

AN: This story takes place from episode 5 onward. I’ve changed things up a bit but I’ve kept the timeline intact.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9

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120 AC-Dragonstone

Children are a blessing from the Gods. They fill one’s halls with cherubic laughter. Gracing each chamber that they occupy with sweet little melodies. Their little feet pattering about taking them to some curious mischief that remained thus far undiscovered. A whole new world waiting at their fingertips to be explored. And yet Dragonstone’s halls remained empty apart from the sounds of one small silver-haired girl.

Daenys Targaryen had been born in the middle of a late summer storm. It was an easy enough birth for all intents and purposes. Or at least that's what Maester Orlys had told her mother, but the kindly older man had never given birth himself. He did not know the battle women fought to bring their children into the world.

It had been a restless fortnight leading up to her daughter's birth. Most nights Naerys simply drifted in and out of consciousness rather than fully surrender to the land of dreams. She had been having contractions which had increased with each passing day. False labor the Maester had said. Getting her body ready for the birth of her child even if she herself was not fully prepared for all that lay ahead.

Naerys' water broke before the sun rose. The membranous fluid spread out from between her legs wetting the entire bed. Awakening her from her half-dreams. Naerys in her embarrassment tried not to alert her husband of the change in her condition. Nor the ruined state of their bed.

Daemon had become just as restless as his wife. Taking to staying up half the night or waking before dawn reading ancient texts of various natures in their solar by the hearth. Naerys joined him on occasion when the worst of her insomnia overtook her. Sitting in his lap while he rubbed her belly or stroked her coils. It was by that very same fire that Daemon was found the night before his daughter's birth. Rushing into their bed chambers when Naerys let out a pained scream.

Princess Rhaenys, her daughter Lady Laena, along with the little Lady Strongs, and half of house Velaryon had journeyed from Driftmark for the birth of the youngest Targaryen. Arriving just before the storm came in.

Laena had been more of an older sister than a cousin and the older princess had always been like a mother rather than an aunt. “The seven hells will freeze over before I miss the birth of my grand-niece.” Rhaenys had insisted that Naerys was carrying a daughter instead of the son and heir the young princess hoped to give her husband.

Laena had agreed with her mother. Citing the fact that Naerys belly was high, the same as her own when she carried her girls. “The next one will be a boy no doubt, but this one will be a girl dear cousin.”

The two women clothed still in their robes, for they too had been woken up by Naerys screams, shooed her husband away. Making him wait in the hall and later the library with Lord Corlys, Ser Vaemond, and his eldest son, Daeron. The Velaryon knight had insisted that he and his son accompany his brother’s family for the birth of their youngest great-niece. The only man allowed in the birthing chamber was Maester Orlys.

“To a healthy son and heir my prince.” Ser Vaemond had raised his glass of Golden Vintage with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. The umber man then proceeded to drink the early morning away. His son had to enlist the assistance of a servant, after trying and failing to enlist the service of his uncle, to help him drag his incapacitated father back to his chambers in the Windwyrm tower. The Sea Snakes brother was not seen again until the next evening, blaming a headache caused by “bad wine” for his absence.

Naerys' labor had been long. When she was allowed to push, Naerys felt like she was on the verge of death. Rhaenys and Laena would later say that it was completely natural laughing at her bewildered face. The pain had been unbearable. During a particularly gut-wrenching round of contractions, she had screamed for Daemon who was halfway across the castle. Her husband had heard her nonetheless, but Laena turned the man around at the door of their chambers with the help of her father.

“Best to leave the women to it. They know what they are doing Daemon.” Naerys spied her uncle placing a good-natured pat on the younger man’s arm which Daemon proceeded to shrug off. The man uttered a string of threats at the maester, midwives, and even Rhaenys herself before exiting the room.

Naerys was sure that her husband would have gone off for a ride with Caraxes had the storm ceased, but they did not. Her labors continued through the day without further interruptions. Laena and Rhaenys took turns wiping the sweat from her brow or lending a hand to squeeze. After a series of contractions and subsequent pushes that felt like she was being split into two out came Daenys.

“A girl princess.” Maester Orlys held up the babe for Naerys to see. A small healthy girl rather than the hopeful son and heir of Daemon Targaryen. Rhaenys had been the first one to hold her after one of the midwives had cleaned off the blood and vernix from the babe. A pink little pale thing with a set of lungs on her and a full head of silver curls. Her aunt had said that it was like turning back in time.

Daemon had burst through their chambers after the second round of their daughter’s cries. Naerys could not look at her husband as Rhaenys deposited their babe into his waiting hands. “You have a daughter cousin.” The queen that never was face was set to stone as she inspected her cousin. Looking for any signs that he might voice his disapproval at being handed a girl instead of a proper heir, but the man simply laughed.

“Are you sure you did not clone yourself little one?” He beamed at his wife as he kissed the top of their daughter's downy head. The babe had stopped crying after she had been handed off to her father. “Ao jurnegon raqagon aōha muñnykeā, issa byka zaldrīzes. Kirimvogon se Gods syt bona.” You look like your mother, my little dragon. Thank the Gods for that.

Naerys had never seen her uncle smile as much as he had that night. He would not put the babe down. Only when she began to fuss out of hunger did he hand her back to her mother. Stroking a large hand down her cheek while whispering words in Valyrian as she nursed from her mother's breasts.

The name Visenya had been discussed. Along with both of their mothers' names, but Daemon and Naerys agreed that neither Alyssa nor Shaera suited the little girl before them. Naerys had not planned for a girl. She had been sure that the babe she carried within her those nine moons was a son.

“There is no need to think of names kepus. We shall name our son Aenys.” Daemon had not questioned her insistence though Naerys wished he had when out popped their little dragon and they could not think of a suitable name for her.

The name Daenys was settled on after Laena’s suggestion. “She looks like a Daenys.” Laena declared with a soft smile while looking down at the babe as she bounced her in her arms. Daemon had procured a golden dragon egg from Silverwings newest clutch. Placing the egg in the newly christened girl’s cradle. The Rogue Prince stood watch over his wife and daughter's bedside. Placing kisses upon their heads or taking a rough pale to gently stroke their cheeks. Both mother and child slept fitfully through the night.

Despite her exhausted state, Naerys refused for a wet nurse to be called. Birth was only half of a new mother's battle. The princess was determined to nurse her own daughter. Waking up to feed Daenys whenever she cried for her.

Dreams floated through Naerys' mind whenever she managed to drift off. A tangled web of children and dragons though she could never quite make out the fine details. Naerys had decided on their meaning and had told her husband so the next morning. They were dreams of future babes to come. Their future heir. Their next child would be a son. She was sure of it.

Nothing on this earth comes for free. Not even Targaryen’s were exempt from that fact. They paid for their dragons with the price of blood. Blood that made them mad with the delusions of Gods. Gods with no real claim to this land or the subjects they ruled over. Foreigners In a foreign land. Conquerors of flesh, blood, bone, and ashes. A price too high for many.

There had been four pregnancies after Daenys birth. Three miscarriages and one stillborn. Naerys body rejected each one. Each paid with the price of blood. The first three had ended too soon to tell the sex of their babe. Usually ending no later than the second moon of her pregnancy. They were little imperfect creatures. Some with no eyes. Others missing an arm. There was never enough to burn. Never enough for a proper Targaryen funeral.

It became numbing after a while. An expected pain for Naerys. One which Daemon had tried to shield her from. “You need to rest sweetling.” They had stopped trying for a year. Her husband had forced it. Three pregnancies in less than three years put a strain on one’s body. Maester Orlys brewed her a steady supply of moon tea. Her uncle watched her downing every bitter cup after one of the maids reported seeing her chucking the contents into her chamber pot.

He refused to bed her otherwise. Naerys in her shame had tried to bed her uncle after a night of drinking. Surely he would forget about the encounter if he was drunk enough. He had not. Daemon would not touch her for a fortnight.

When her moon blood came and went he returned, but he refused to bed her properly. Tongue fingers and unmentionable objects were used to bring her to a peak, but her uncle would not put his cock in her. It had been torture for them both. Naerys folded within a week with the reassurance that they could try again for an heir. The man had surprising willpower when it came to denying her what she most wanted in the name of her health. At the start of the new year, the moon tea was disposed of.

The last one had stuck around until the sixth moon. Naerys could feel the babe kicking. Just as strong as Daenys had been. Daemon had taken their daughter’s small little hand in his own much larger one and pressed it to her belly. The girl had beamed up at her and giggled with glee when she felt where her sibling lay. Babbling on in Valyrian to her growing bump.

They had journeyed to the capital for Princess Helaena’s tenth name day. Rhaenyra and Laenor were once again the ones to greet them upon their arrival. However, this time they were joined by their two “sons” along with their newest edition, the little Joffrey Velaryon.

“She’s a pretty little thing aunt.” It was said with the same smile Rhaenyra always greeted Naerys with. A strained smile that now extended to her daughter. “She doesn’t look anything like you uncle.” Rhaenyra had tried to greet Daemon with “kepus” when they had landed outside the Dragon Pit, but the man snapped at her.

“I am your uncle Rhaenyra. You may call me nuncle if you wish, but not kepus.” The crown princess had not uttered the Valyrian word for uncle again. Instead, she had taken to openly glaring at Naerys whenever she referred to Daemon as such. The younger princess paid her no mind. She had staked her claim. There was little Rhaenyra could do about her place in Daemon’s life.

“You are my kepus husband just as I am your wife. I have given birth to your daughter and I carry your son, your heir within me, not some Hightower knight’s.” It was breathed out into her husband’s ear as she sank her soaked folds down onto his waiting cock with practiced ease. Her husband pounded up into wetness leading them both into a blissful haze.

Daemon had forbidden her from riding Silverwing by the fourth moon of her pregnancy at the advice of Maester Orlys. Dragon riding alone was too strenuous for her already delicate constitution and small stature. However, that did not stop other arduous activities.

“Ao kostagon nykeēdrosa kipagon aōha tolie zaldrīzes byka mēre.” You may still ride your other dragon little one. Her uncle never let her take full control during “her rides.” Always seating her atop him, bouncing her in his lap while she clung to him, burying her silver coils into his neck and mouthing at the pale pockmarked skin there. The amorous sounds of the lover's coupling echoing throughout their chambers.

The prince was possessive, but so was his dear little niece-wife in her own way. Naerys could not stand the way Rhaenyra looked at Daemon with want while she spoke the word kepus to him. Daemon was her husband. The father of her children. Not Rhaenyra’s. All it took was one mention of Ser Gwayne whispered into her husband’s ear while his blood ran hot in the mist of their rapture to set things right.

“She’s quite the Valyrian beauty like her mother.” A look of pride was evident in the Rogue Prince's brow as he affectionately petted his daughter's chubby face. It was laughable to question the legitimate status of their daughter, but it was an offense that Daemon would not let pass.

Though she had inherited most of her mother’s looks, there was plenty of Daemon in Daenys. Daenys had her father’s violet eyes rather than her mother’s dark amethyst ones. When she smiled it mirrored Daemon’s infectious grin. The expressions the little princess made with it echoed her father’s.

“As I’m sure this one will favor his sire.” Daemon’s free hand that was not holding onto their daughter reached out to caress his wife’s belly. Rhaenyra could not take her eyes off it. Her face was rapidly paling as if she had seen a ghost. Naerys was reminded of her cousin's reaction to the news of their first pregnancy.

The color completely drained from Rhaenyra’s face at breakfast the morning after Jace’s name day feast. The crown Princess had to be prompted by her father to congratulate her uncle and aunt. After which Rhaenyra went to bed early claiming exhaustion from the festivities of the previous day. She did not see them off when they finally departed for Dragonstone.

Naerys could not help but shift around uncomfortably which did not escape her uncle’s notice. Her husband’s face began to redden with anger and it looked as if he might snap once more at his older niece, but Laenor hastily ushered his own wife into their carriage that would take them back to the Red Keep.

Where Rhaenyra treated her daughter with cold indifference her sons could not help but adore their little cousin. Jace and Luke were of an age with the young Targaryen princess as well as their cousins the Lady Strong’s, Baela and Rhaena. The fivesome could be found getting into mischief around the castle, giving their nursemaids and parents much grief. Naerys was happy for her daughter's enjoyment. Though she was exhausted from chasing after her daughter while six moons pregnant.

Alicent had advised her son’s to be kind to their little cousin, but they were less than enthused with Daenys. A fact that seemed to annoy Daemon, particularly when it came to Aemond’s opinion of their daughter. “That boy my brother calls his son is jealous of our little dragon.” The man had sworn that he had seen Aemond eyeing their daughter's dragon hatchling with envy.

Naerys did not doubt her husband's beliefs, but Alicent’s oldest sons were boys on the verge of manhood and Daeron was at an age where he wished to be like his brothers. It was only natural that they would not coo over a girl babe. Daenys herself did not suffer from a lack of attention from her uncle’s youngest children. Their sister more than made up for it.

Helaena had taken to dressing up Daenys as if she were her little doll. Parading her around the Red Keep while introducing her to the passing lords and ladies of court as “my little sister.” The younger princess had not minded being babied and doted upon by her elder cousin until she placed a spider in her hands while they had gone to watch the boys in the training yard. “Spiders are excellent judges of character sister. This one’s name is Willard. Say hello Willard.”

Daenys violet eyes widened in confusion. Flickering between her cousin's wistful face and that of the spider in her hand before she descended into wails. The training yard plunged into chaos at the sounds of her distress. Helaena’s septa, who was tasked with the care of the two young princesses, was a skittish mousy woman who was half scared of her charge and the pests she kept as company. The woman did little but add to the confusion of the episode with her shrieks all the while Helaena had tried to calm her cousin. “He is a friend sister. He means no harm!”

Ultimately it was Aemond who had “rescued” the little princess from harm. Taking the spider and releasing it back into the “wild.” As a result, Daenys began to follow Aemond around the castle calling him “Ser Knight.” Glued to him as if she was his shadow. Even going as far as making crude favors for the boy which he accepted with a strained smile under the watchful glare of his uncle.

Aegon laughed at the pair when he saw Daenys muddy skirts trailing after his brother hand in hand with her septa(Naerys had sent for the woman after the spider fiasco) in the training yard or when the princess moved her seat so as to be closer to her cousin.

Dubbing Aemond Daenys nursemaid with a chortle during their visit to the Dragon Pitt one morning. An act such caused Alicent’s middle son to turn beat red while the oldest son was pummeled by pebbles from Daenys who did not take kindly to “her knight” being mocked. Sporting a bruised cheek Aegon had apologized to his brother and Aemond became more agreeable to his small cousin toddling after him.

Daenys seemed to enjoy her time in the company of her cousins. That is she enjoyed the company of her cousins apart from the youngest of the bunch. Little Joffrey was a sweet babe, but Daenys was used to being doted upon even though she insisted she was not a baby herself. Daenys could often be found with a small scowl that rivaled her father's jealous gaze whenever Naerys lavished affection over her baby cousin.

“You will have to share me with your siblings one day my love.” Daenys was far used to being the only child around and as a result, was used to being admired above all else. The young princess had become spoiled. All she had to do was bat her silver eyelashes and mother and sire, Daemon especially, were all too keen to meet her requests.

She would not sleep in her room and would often make her way to her parent's door sometime during the night. Slipping herself into their bed under the guise that there were monsters under her own bed or that her chambers were too dark. She was attached to her parents at the hip and was far used to having both at her beck and call.

“Nyke jāhor daor.” I will not. It was said with a little frown and surprising conviction for a girl of only three name days old. Daemon had roared at their daughter's declaration. Calling her his little dragon while saying how she was like her mother. Naerys was less than amused.

“Aōha byka zaldrīzes gets ziry hen ao kepus daor issa.” Your little dragon gets that from you uncle not me. Daenys may have her mother’s looks, but she was truthfully her father’s daughter in temperament. Daemon had not gotten better at sharing his things. Lest of all his prized “possessions.” His daughter had inherited his possessive nature over her mother. Naerys' husband had not been able to deny it.

“Should she not be Lady Targaryen rather than Princess father?” It was the last day Rhaenyra and Helaena sat on each side of their father at the feast. Alicent was regulated to sitting after her daughter a slight to some, but Naerys saw that the Hightower woman almost looked happy to be sat away from her husband or further away from Rhaenyra. Perhaps it was both.

Rhaenyra made the appearance of being cordial to her babe cousin. She had realized that Daemon would not take kindly to his daughter being given the cold shoulder, but one did not have to look hard to see how she truly felt.

It was in the tight-lipped grins that never reached her lilac eyes or how she stared blankly at the small girl when she felt that no one was looking. Naerys tried to keep her daughter away from the crown princess, but the girl adored her cousins, even the bastards among them, and Rhaenyra was never far from her boys

The ailing king replied to his daughter’s inquiry as if she was oblivious. “She will be Lady of Dragonstone after my brother has gone to his grave Rhaenyra. As you will be queen after I have gone to mine. Gods willing it will not be anytime soon.” Rhaenyra fumed, but the matter would have been put to bed had not Ser Otto Hightower spoken.

“Should not one of your own sons inherit Dragonstone after Prince Daemon your grace?” The former hand of the king had been permitted to journey to the capital from Oldtown for his granddaughter's name day. The man had mostly kept to himself, but he was a practical man. Waiting to strike when the opportunity arose.

“If the babe is another girl or Gods forbid another-” Ser Otto had not been able to speak another word before Daemon flew from his seat across the table. Ordering for Dark Sister to be brought from their chambers. The dragon had awoken and the rest of the Great Hall had gone silent.

Everyone knew of the miscarriages. Maesters from the citadel as well as court had been called for. Dragonstone had become a revolving door of maesters, midwives, and healers brought back from as far away as Essos. Rumors flew from Dragonstone to Oldtown. No one said anything to Naerys face, nor Daemon’s lest they risk meeting the wrong end of Dark Sister or Caraxes, but she knew what a look of pity was when she saw it.

It was the king's words that put the ordeal to rest. “Choose your words carefully Ser.” It was said with gritted teeth. Viserys stood up clutching his dinner knife in his good hand while pointing it at his bewildered good father. “You will not speak ill of my niece nor my brother's children.”

The king sounded as exasperated as he looked when he turned towards his brother. “Sit down Daemon, Ser Otto knows his place. Let us enjoy the rest of this feast in peace.” Ser Otto did not breathe another word, nor did his gaze ever venture towards Daemon who appeared ready to strike at any moment, for the remainder of the feast, leaving early so that he was not caught unaware.

Naerys' labors began later that night. This time the princess awoke from her short slumber to blood pooling out from between her legs. Grand Maester Mellos as well Archmaester Orwyle were called for. Daemon flew to Dragonstone for Maester Orlys not fully trusting the maesters at court, but it was too soon. They all knew it. The babe was not supposed to arrive for another three moons. The birth was a blur. Over before Naerys could wrap her head around it. There was no joy to follow.

Their babe had been a girl. Smaller than Daenys had been, but just as beautiful. She would never open her eyes or wail out at being thrust into the world as her elder sister had. They named her Alyssa.

Naerys cradled her in her arms. She would not let the silent sisters take her. Stroking her pale cheeks as she sang lullabies to her babe. It was only after being administered dreamwine as Daemon held her were the sisters able to take Alyssa’s body away. There had been enough to burn this time. Naerys buried her head into Daenys neck when Daemon gave the command to lit the funeral pyre afire.

Daemon placed a cup of moon tea in front of her two moons later. Naerys wanted to try again. She was healed. They needed an heir. Her husband refused to bed her until she agreed to his demands. There could be no more children. He had meant it.

“Gaomagon ao daor jaelagon syt nyke naejot bare ao iā tresy? Iksin nyke daor sȳz enough syt ao valzȳrys?” Do you not wish for me to bear you a son? Am I not good enough for you husband? Naerys spat at him as she threw the cup at him. Daemon had not even flinched as some of the hot liquid splashed on his impassive face.

“Gaomagon ao daor jaelagon naejot glaesagon naejot ūndegon īlva tala riñar ābrazȳrys?” Do you not wish to live to see our daughter's children? Daemon held her in his arms as the weight of Naerys' despair came crashing upon her.

Naerys felt as if she was a helpless child as her husband wiped away her tears, rocking her back and forth as he did with Daenys when their daughter was in a foul mood. There had been so much loss in the past three years and yet she was willing to risk more. She had to.

Daemon called for her aunt and cousin to visit. “You could die, Naerys.” They had gone down to the beach. Resting on top of a piece of driftwood. Watching Laena chasing after her daughters and Daenys. The tide had waned. “Think of your daughter. Would you leave her alone in this world?”

“She would not be alone.” Daemon loved their daughter more than life itself. He would move the heavens and earth for her. Their little dragon would never be alone. The ache would dull and Naerys would become a distant memory, but Daenys would have her father. Daemon could always take another to wife. He had done so once. He could do so again, though Naerys hoped that his eyes would not land upon the one woman he had wanted all those years ago.

“She would not have you.” Naerys yielded once more. For six months at least. Another bargain Daemon accepted. The prince still needed an heir. She had seen the way her husband looked when they journeyed to the capital. Seen the way his eyes lit up with longing as he spared with one of the strong boys or Alicent’s sons. All men wished to have heirs. Her husband was no different though he claimed otherwise.

Daemon had taken to treating Naerys as his heir. He would perch her on his lap on Dragonstone’s throne during petition meetings. Explaining to her why he had made each decision. Depositing her on a nearby bench in their training yard as he spared with his men.

He had tried to give the girl a practice sword, but she threw it away with interest in favor of her dolls. Daenys had become his little shadow. Following his every move. The two were rarely seen without the other. Their daughter relished in the attention she received, but she was not a proper heir. A son was needed.

This would be her last pregnancy. Maester Orlys had warned her. Her body would give out if she were to have another one though it would likely never quicken on its own again. Daemon had taken to treating her as if she were glass. Their daughter had followed his lead. It could be suffocating at times. One or the other would constantly fuss about her. Though it was much more amusing to see the little Daenys order her mother about than her stern father. Naerys accepted it as the price she would pay for her babe.

“Lord Strong and Ser Harwin are dead.” Ser Vaemond wasted no time with formalities. Though he did lend a strained smile. He had arrived on Dragonstone at twilight one evening in the ninth of Naerys final pregnancy. Apart from the servants and Maester Orlys the castle was empty. Daemon and Daenys were out riding upon Caraxes around the island. They were due to arrive back any moment.

The two had been hesitant to leave her, but Naerys had convinced them otherwise. She had been experiencing false labors, but she was not due for a. Her maids rarely left her side in the absence of her husband. Even if her labors were to begin in earnest, the two would be called back to Dragonstone with enough time to spare.

“Rhaenyra has fled to my brother’s keep. Apparently, she and the queen had a disagreement.” They were always at odds. The two could not see eye to eye even if their lives depended upon it. “She’s brought those boys she calls sons with her.”

“They are her sons' uncle.” It did not matter who sired her cousin's sons. Rhaenyra gave life to her boys just as Naerys had given Daenys hers. No man, father or not, could change that. Children were children to a mother.

“You should see it. She’s more bereft than Laena.” Poor Laena. She had brought her daughters to Driftmark for peace and yet there would be none. Her husband, the father of her children, had died while she still stood to give birth to his last child. A child who would never meet their father. Naerys was not sad to learn of Ser Harwin’s demise, and even less sorry to hear of Lord Strongs, but she was sad for her cousin and her children.

“She has her rights.” Naerys sighed, placing a hand on her belly. The babe had made its presence known with a swift kick. Ser Harwin was the father of her sons as well. Her lover and a confidant of sorts. Rhaenyra should be able to grieve the loss of Ser Harwin as well as Laena. Truthfully Rhaenyra might have cared for the strong knight towards the end more than his wife had.

“To think that she is to be our queen after her idiot of a father departs this earth.” Ser Vaemond sneered with every word he spoke. Naerys bristled. She knew where this conversation was going. “You should be queen.” Vaemond had been her father's fiercest supporter. Aenys Targaryen was Baelon's eldest son. From an ill-fated union with her Velaryon grandmother, but a union that put him second in the line of succession after his own uncle's death.

When Naerys father died he had tried to push her mother on the issue, but she was too young and her mother far too fearful. She had fled from court taking Naerys back to Driftmark with her when her father had died. Shaera Velaryon had not trusted the council her good grandsire kept. “I should have never let your mother take you away from court.”

“I am no queen uncle, we both know that.” Naerys was a babe, younger than Daenys, when the great council had been called. Her claim had easily been pushed aside with a laugh in favor of her half-uncle. No one wanted a queen upon the Iron Throne, especially not one that still needed a nursemaid. Naerys had come to realize it was for the best. The Iron Throne was a curse she had been lucky to escape. “Why are you here?” The hour was growing late and Naerys was growing weary of where the conversation was heading.

“I remember when you were your daughter's age.” The umber man went to touch her belly. The babe let out another kick. This one was less active than his sister, but his kicks were just as strong. Naerys wanted to flick her uncle's hand away so that she may soothe the restless babe within but she dropped her own hand to the side. “Daenys is just as beautiful as her mother.”

“She’s four.” A betrothal was out of the question. Her uncle knew that. Even if Naerys agreed to it Ser Vaemond Velaryon could not have possibly come all this way for a union between one of her uncle’s grandsons and their daughter that would not be consummated for at least ten years. It was not up to her to decide her daughter’s fate anyway. The Velaryon knight wanted something else.

“Ser Otto Hightower has been reinstated as hand.” It was said innocently enough. Though one could never tell with the commander of the Velaryon fleet if it was a threat or a warning until his temper made itself known. Her uncle continued to stroke her belly.

“Otto Hightower is not a man to be trusted.” Another kick sharper than the rest. Naerys moved her hand to grip the painted table. Biting down on her lip to ease the discomfort. Her uncle had made a servant show him to Dragonstone’s map chambers when he arrived. The man wanted a stage for his theatrics.

“He is keen on seeing the rightful heirs sit atop both the Driftwood and Iron thrones.” Ser Vaemond finally removed his hand back to his person. Turning his violet gaze to the map in front of them. “Perhaps Dragonstone’s as well.” A warning and an offer. The first of many messengers to come.

Naerys knew the wants of a second son well. She had married one and grown up partly in the care of another. Otto Hightower, Vaemond Velaryon, and Daemon Targaryen were not really much different from one another. They all wanted to set themselves apart from their elder brothers. To carve out their own legacy so that their names may live on in the history maester’s diligently recorded.

The hand’s legacy was to be the Iron Throne. Or at least that is what he hoped for when he married his daughter to the king. In Ser Otto’s eyes, Rhaenyra was only supposed to be a placeholder until Viserys' son could be born from this union. The birth of Aegon should have changed the line of succession, but the king would not push aside his son for his beloved firstborn.

Rhaenyra remaining heir did not stop Ser Otto from wanting to seize the Iron Throne for his grandson. A want his daughter no doubt shared with him. It was Aegon’s birthright. Son’s come before their sisters no matter their birth order. Why would the king remarry if not to secure a son after him? Why break over a century of tradition for one woman? Why pass over scores of Targaryen women, Rhaena the Black Bride, Rhaenys, and Naerys herself only for the throne to land in the hands of an entitled woman? Viserys spat in the face of them all to ease his guilty conscience.

Naerys doubled over in pain, not from a kick, but from an unmistakable contraction. Leaning on the painted table she felt a steady stream of fluid trickle down her legs. The princess lifted up her skirts to reveal a dark puddle on the chamber’s stone floor. Just as the last one ended another wave of contractions arrived. Her labors had begun for the final time.

Birth was never easy. The birthing bed always posed a risk, but it was a woman’s war. A mother's burden. Death hung in the air ready to take both mother and child at the drop of a feather, but the reward, in the end, was worth it. To hear the cries of a squirming healthy babe made the pain bearable. Naerys had only been rewarded with that sound once. She was desperate to hear it once more.

A messenger from Driftmark had come while Naerys struggled to bring her babe into the world. Laena had gone into labor as well, but she and the babe had perished. Vaemond had tried to shush the man away but Naerys had heard. Her cousin had always been harder than her. Vivacious and full of life yet she had succumbed to her labors. What hope was there for her?

“Will she live?” Naerys did not know when Daemon had arrived back, but her husband stood pale and grave-faced at the door to their chambers with Maester Orlys. Speaking in hushed voices so as not to disturb her. The maester and the midwives had given up on telling her to push. It was a fool's errand at this point.

Naerys had neither the strength nor the energy left in her body to do so. She was exhausted. Each round of throbbing spasms that wrecked her body began to meld into one another. She could barely move. She could not tell her head from her hand. Feeling herself slowly drifting towards something unseen.

“No my prince, but the babe might.” Their heir might live. If he were to cut her open they might have a son, but there would be a price that would be paid. Naerys had been too young when her late aunt had died trying, but she remembered seeing the bloodied sheets.

“And if we do not?” Daemon’s violet eyes cast his gaze toward her. Naerys eyes felt another round of contractions radiating throughout her body. She could only whimper out in pain. Curling further into herself. The ache within her was overwhelming.

“She will live my prince.” The maester wavered at his next words. His dark eyes traveled past Daemon’s to land upon her belly. “But the babe will die.” They could not save both her and the babe. A choice was to be made. A sacrifice she was more than willing to make. For Daemon she would pay that price to bring their son into the world.

“Do what needs to be done.” Daemon’s voice was just as solemn as his face. Naerys had not thought of death truly until that moment. She was no stranger to death. Even when she was a girl death followed her around as if she was an old friend. Taking both her parents with him before she had known what life was.

Naerys had not known her father, but she remembered glimpses of her mother's face. Her laugh. Her smile. Soft brown hands that would lovingly braid her hair. “My daughter needs her mother and I need my wife.” She thought she had hallucinated what she heard until Daemon moved towards where she lay a writhing sweaty heap on their bed.

“Byka mēre.” Little one. Daemon placed his hand in hers lightly squeezing it. Naerys tried to return the grip but she failed. “Ao jāhor jorrāelagon naejot indigon skori pōnta ivestragon ao naejot” You will need to push when they tell you to. He kissed her forehead brushing away the sweaty coils that fell from her braid. Her uncle's face has been overtaken by grief.

Naerys in her hazy state spied a midwife handing a large set of clamps to the maester. They reminded her of giant spoons. “Kostilus issa dōna riña. Indigon syt issa.” Please my sweet girl. Push for me. His voice was strained. Daemon brought his forehead to her own as another midwife spread her legs apart.

The princess winced as she felt the cold metal of the clamps being pushed into her before coming to a stop at her babes head. She had to push. Just a little one, but she had to try. Her husband squeezed her hand once more. With the remaining strength left in her body, she made a feeble attempt at a push. After the first round, the pressure became too much to bear. Naerys felt herself fading into the abyss.

When she came to, she heard the babbling of Daenys and her septa in their solar. A reminder that the Stranger had seen fit to spare her. The linens had been freshly changed. The smell of death was gone from the room though an air of dolefulness lingered on.

Naerys placed a hand on her slowly deflating belly and turned her head to gaze upon the near empty crib that was placed near their chambers warming fire. Only a dark dragon egg their daughter had picked out lay in it. Heat for a dragon. A dragon that would remain unclaimed if it ever hatched

“Skorkydoso gaomagon ao feel byka mēre” How do you feel little one? Daemon’s melancholic voice broke her from her thoughts. Her uncle's eyes were bloodshot and his complexion resembled that of a ghost, but he gave her a small smile. Relief. He felt relief with every breath that his young wife still took.

Naerys felt sore and listless beyond belief. She knew that her breasts would begin to leak soon and she would more than likely be forced to drink some milk of the poppy for the dull aches she felt, but the physical reminders of birth did little to compare to the mental torment she felt inside.

“What was it?” She barely recognized the sound of her own voice. The croak it made did not belong to her. It could not have. It belonged to some other woman. Not her. Some broken little lifeless thing. Not a daughter of House Targaryen.

Daemon looked hesitant to answer. Shifting on the balls of his feet as he held his head down. He sighed before grabbing her hand. Bringing her willowy arm up to his thin mouth. Placing a kiss on the back of the smooth skin there. She knew what the answer would be, but she needed to hear it from his lips.

“Nykeā valonqar. Ziry gōntan daor botagon syt bōsa.” A boy. He did not suffer for long. Their child was gone. Their heir was gone before he could live. There would never be more children. No more babes to fill their halls. At least not from Naerys. She was not strong enough to birth a healthy son for her husband. She had never been.

“Nyke emagon qringōntan ao istin tolī.” I have failed you once more. Naerys let out a pained sob turning her head into her pillow. There was not much the Targaryen man could do but comfort his weeping wife. Joining her on their bed. Gathering her in his arms as he let her cry into his chest for their lost children. “Nyke emagon qringōntan ao se nyke kostagon daor tepagon ao tolī.” I have failed you and I can not give you more.

“Ao could dōrī qringaomagon issa dōna riña” You could never fail me sweet girl. Daemon rocked her as if she was a babe. Wiping away her tears and placing half-hazard kisses across her streaked cheeks. “Ao emagon given issa tolī than nyke gūrogon. Ao issi alive, bona iksos skoros matters.” You have given me more than I deserve. You are alive, that is what matters. Naerys was reminded of Daemon’s pleadings a year back. If only she had listened to him then. She could not turn back now.

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@misssilencewritewell @parizparis @thanyatargaryen @i-love-morally-gray-characters @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @bubblebuttwade @m-indkiller @pearlstiare @beggarsnotchoosey @green-lxght

#daemon targaryen x targaryen!oc #daemon targaryen x targaryen!reader #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x black!oc #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targeryan #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fic #hotd fanfiction #daemon targaryen fanfic #this chapter is a doozy #bnhotdfic

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rosanna-writer · 4 months

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we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (17/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~6k

It's brief (one sentence each), but please note this chapter contains mentions of suicide and animal slaughter.

The last line of dialogue is lifted directly from A Court of Mist and Fury.

Read on AO3 or you can find the seventeenth chapter below the readmore.

The townhouse was empty when I got back. At the realization I was alone, I reached for my thigh instinctively, where my hunting knife would be if I still carried one. Perhaps I should have still carried one.

My heart leapt to my throat at the sight of a note sitting out for me, even though I recognized Rhys's handwriting now. I forced myself to breathe before my mind spiraled down a path of panic about kidnappers and attackers.

I was safe. No one could winnow in besides Rhys and Mor. No one would touch me here. I was safe.

Even so, my fingers shook as I picked up the note to read. It was still slow going, but at least this time, I recognized every word, though not always on the first try.

Feyre darling,

I'm at the library and will be back this evening.

The contraceptive tea is still where you left it, but if it gives you peace of mind, you should know that the tonic I was taking Under the Mountain won't wear off for another week.

With all my love,

Rhys

I stood there for a long moment and waited for the sensation of the bottom dropping out of my stomach to pass. Rhys could have told me all of this before he left or said it through the bond—but he'd written a note instead, even though he knew reading still wasn't easy for me.

Once my head cleared of panic, I understood. His side of the bond had been quiet, and I'd assumed there just hadn't been anything to say or any strong emotions he was feeling. But his shields were up and reinforced. Either Amarantha had forced him to take the tonic or he'd been doing it without her knowledge, and…that was something he was only telling me because it might give me some measure of reassurance. And even then, he'd only managed it because he'd insulated himself from my reaction first.

Rhys knew I wouldn't be upset and that none of this was his fault—or at least, I hoped he did—but apparently that didn't stop him from feeling ashamed anyway.

Something about the note made my fingers twitch for a pen. There wasn't one, probably because he didn't want a reply, and I assumed the paper wasn't enchanted to send one anyway. But still, I had the urge to flip the paper over and sketch something beautiful, as if that could beat back the ugliness that had necessitated the contraceptive tonic in the first place.

Even though I knew where the pens were, I didn't go find one. I wasn't entirely sure I could make something beautiful anymore.

I tugged a blanket off the sofa and pulled it around my shoulders instead. The townhouse was warm, but I'd never once felt too hot Under the Mountain. The extra layers and soft blanket against the exposed skin of my arms seemed to ground me, to remind me that I was in the Night Court and not there.

I hadn't meant to fall asleep, but I'd spent half the night on the bathroom floor, shaking like a leaf while Rhys held me. Even though it was barely mid-afternoon, once my heart stopped racing, I drifted off and didn't wake until Rhys winnowed in as the sun began to set. And somehow, even though I was worried and groggy, I found myself appreciating the way his blue-black hair shone in the golden hour light.

Cauldron, the mating bond was relentless.

Rhys didn't move from the the spot where he'd winnowed, right in the center of the living room. He was watching me carefully, and as I sat up, I glanced over him and was relieved he looked fine. Even if he wasn't getting closer to me.

After a moment, he said, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," I said.

I wasn't quite sure what he wanted, so I moved to one side of the sofa and extended my arm in a wordless invitation to share the blanket. To my immense relief, he hid his wings and joined me, snaking an arm around my waist as I tucked my legs under me and curled up against him. We loosed a breath at the same time.

A talon rapped politely against my shields, and I dropped them for him. The beast he usually kept hidden, all wings and feathers and talons and elongated canines, entered the antechamber of my mind. Then it turned around once and lay down, like a dog that had come in from the cold to curl up in front of the hearth. I closed my eyes and let my head fall against his chest.

His breath tickled my ear, making me shiver as he scented me, even with the glamour still in place."You smell like safety," he murmured, "and your mind is a more peaceful place than mine has been lately."

If I hadn't felt the change in both of us just now, I would have pointed out that was a patently ridiculous thing to say when I was a human who could barely manage to sleep through the night, let alone protect myself. But maybe…I was safe to admit the worst to.

And maybe even if I had the heightened senses of a faerie, I couldn't distinguish safety from danger anyway, smell or otherwise. Tamlin had certainly exploited that.

I couldn't hold back a small noise of protest as Rhys pulled away for a moment, nearly taking the entire blanket with him, then relaxed again when I felt his fingers in my hair. My braid had come loose in my sleep. Once he'd slipped the tie off the end, Rhys started gingerly untangling the strands.

Perhaps it was reckless to dive straight into it, but we needed to talk, so I said, "Was this morning—"

"This morning was everything," he said, answering the question before I could finish asking, "but I didn't anticipate how it would feel to go straight from that to an in-depth discussion with the healer regarding how weak my wings were. I needed time. The library helped."

"And now?" I would have turned my head to look at him if that wouldn't have pulled roughly on my hair.

"I'll be fine." It wasn't harsh or unkind, but there was a distinct note of finality there. A bit more softly, he added, "And for you, was—"

"I want more mornings like that." It was all that needed to be said.

He let the lock of my hair fall from his hand, and I turned my head to kiss his cheek before he carded his fingers back through my hair again. This close, I caught sight of a bite mark I'd left, peeking out from under his collar. A mark like that, shaped like my mouth and visible to anyone who got close…it filled me with a sense of feral pride. Rhys looked good wearing it.

The beast that had been resting inside my mind stirred. And preened.

"There's no need to wait until morning if you want more," Rhys said, suddenly all dark promise.

But as much I ached to go down that road, there were questions I wouldn't get to if we did. "What did the healer say?" I asked, a little too quickly, even as I pressed myself closer.

Rhys explained—apparently, the process wouldn't be too different from when his wings had been injured during the War. The best method would be to winnow up high and drop back down slowly to the ground and do the same with repeated takeoffs, all while carrying increasingly heavy weights. Progress might be slow, but steady if he kept at it.

An idea stuck me. "How heavy of a weight would you use?"

"It depends," Rhys said slowly, suspicion creeping into his voice. He pulled away to study my face, and I clamped my hand back down on the blanket to keep it around my shoulders.

"I don't weigh very much. Might be more fun than using a sack of potatoes or whatever you were thinking of instead," I said, smiling.

He didn't smile back. "You could get hurt if I'm not careful."

"Hell will freeze over long before I ever get hurt while you're around."

I raised my brows, daring him to argue—I was right, and we both knew it. He shook his head and sighed. "You don't have to be so eager to test that theory."

"It's a certainty, not a theory," I said, pulling him close again. I took advantage of his wings being hidden, resting my chest against his broad, muscled back and my chin on his shoulder.

The wings, the flying…I knew what it meant to him. And maybe selfishly, I wanted him to hold me tight against him while we were high above the ground, just for the joy of being in the air. Cassian and Azriel might have flown me to the House of Wind, but that would never be the same.

Rhys told me about the sleeping draught next; the healer had said to halve the dose for a human if I took it, too. Apparently it was strong enough that we'd sleep through damn near anything—even each other's nightmares. It took some prodding, but we agreed to take it together or not at all, lest someone be left to face bad dreams and vomiting alone.

Over the next few days, things began to feel…a bit more settled. As much as I hated how fuzzy my head felt on mornings after taking the sleeping draught, I couldn't deny that the rest helped. And though I wasn't quite ready to see them yet, Azriel reported that my family was still safe and cared for. I went to dinner with Mor and managed to ignore the obvious stares in my direction and awed whispers behind my back. Even reading lessons had become less of a slog, full of chitchat about books as Evelyn found ones that would be an appropriate challenge—she'd even collected a few picture-filled volumes on art that I spent an afternoon flipping through.

Sex helped, too. There were far worse things I could have thrown myself into with singleminded focus than making Rhys climax, and I think he needed to hear someone tell him his pleasure mattered and insist he sit back and enjoy it. He responded in kind of course, and somehow his hands and mouth quieted the restlessness that plagued me, enough to stop feeling on the lookout for another threat, at least for a while.

We were coping. And it was strange, but not unpleasant, to find myself slipping into a life I'd ached for but hadn't really known I'd wanted until a few weeks ago.

Illyria, however, was becoming a problem. And so was the Hewn City. I hardly saw much of Cassian; Azriel took over training me so his brother could stay in Windhaven. Mor was more than capable of overseeing the Court of Nightmares herself, but it wasn't enough to completely stave off the question of why the High Lord hadn't shown his face since returning home.

And it all came to a head during the next meeting of the Inner Circle.

The six of us had gathered in a meeting room in the House of Wind. I'd trained with the Illyrians beforehand—Cassian had wanted to see my progress—and though I was still flushed and sweaty from exertion, the leathers and sword strapped to Rhys's back were the only signs he'd been sparring. Perfect and polished as always. If he weren't mine, I would have hated him for it.

But there was work to be done, so I forced myself not to stare. Cassian spoke first, and the picture he painted was bleak—not only rampant disregard of laws Rhys had put into place centuries ago, but rogue war-bands. The groups that had been loyal to Amarantha had splintered, and the situation was delicate and unpredictable.

"I won't have any opportunists in Hybern or the Continent catching us flat-footed," Rhys said, slipping into that clipped tone he only used when he was working. "Take whatever measures are necessary to bring the army back in line. You have my full support, whatever it takes."

To his credit, Cassian didn't hesitate as he said, "Does full support mean I can call you in to make an appearance if needed?" Not a challenge, but it put an unpleasant truth out in the open.

I knew what he meant, and though Azriel's grimace only lasted a moment, that was enough to tell me that he did, too. Rhys's wings were still an issue. If he arrived in Illyria unable to fly properly and word got out, he might only make more of a mess. It didn't matter why his wings were so weak—the Illyrians would see it as shameful regardless.

"It's vital to the security of the Night Court. When I said whatever it takes, I meant it," Rhys said, his voice going colder. Darkness made the faelights flicker for a moment.

The tension that had been simmering between them was back. There was a forced lightness to Mor's voice as she said, "You should make an appearance in the Hewn City first, anyway. They're under control, but it would do some good to flex your muscles before they start getting ideas."

It made sense—I'd heard Mor's updates to Rhys, her concern about Keir becoming too bold without Amarantha making him cower—and releasing the damper on Rhys's power to make a point was simple enough. Or it would be, if that didn't mean sending him straight to the place that Amarantha had modeled her court after. If it were me, I wouldn't be ready yet.

The least I could do was make sure he wouldn't be facing it alone.

"I'll go with you," I said, the words out of my mouth before I'd thought them through. "It might be easier on you with me there."

I hadn't been to the Hewn City, but I knew enough to understand what sort of role I'd have to play there. If it helped Rhys, I'd do it without hesitation. It might even feel good, just to have something to do that made me feel useful. Even though it was underground, I'd manage.

"No," Rhys said, and the word came out as something that wasn't quite an order but sounded uncomfortably close.

He'd never spoken to me like that before. I hated it.

His regret crossed the bond immediately, but that didn't matter. I knew it wasn't the same, not even close, but the harshness in his voice reminded me just a bit of how Tamlin had sounded when I'd overheard him speaking with Lucien, an inkling of how much was really being hidden to manipulate me in Spring. And that was enough to set my temper ablaze.

"What's in the Hewn City that you don't want me to see?" I snapped. Aloud, so everyone could hear.

Rhys's voice was softer, almost pained, when he spoke again. I half-expected darkness to ripple off him, but he kept the leash on his power. "There's nothing in the Hewn City that you didn't already see Under the Mountain."

"Then why not bring me?" I said, just as a horrible thought dawned on me. He'd been so angry that I'd gone Under the Mountain. Before I knew what I was doing, the words were tumbling out. "Is this about keeping me in Velaris, like you did to the rest of the Inner Circle?"

Rhys flinched. And the air in the room seemed to go very, very still.

"For what it's worth, I'm not proud of that," he said, not looking at any of us, "but I can't bring myself to regret it, either. You're alive."

Cassian ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I know it wasn't an easy call to make. You chose the least shit option out of a bunch of shit choices."

"That still doesn't mean we had to like it," Azriel muttered darkly, tucking his wings in tight.

"No, we didn't," Mor agreed, shooting a warning look at Azriel before turning to Rhys, "and it's hard not to be resentful. We were trapped. But…we all know it's not your fault for having to make that decision, and I hope you know that, too."

Rhys closed his eyes, and I watched his shoulders rise and fall as he took in a breath and let it out. He started to say something, but Amren cut him off. "And Velaris is by far the most pleasant of all the places I've been confined. Let's move on," she said briskly.

I didn't want to think about what other places she could possibly have been imprisoned. Or how many there had been. But somehow, Amren of all people had cut through the tension in the room. Mor caught my eye, hiding a smile behind the back of her hand.

"I'd put that on tourism brochures if Velaris had any," Rhys said drily, then turned his attention back to me. "After sending Mor in my stead for so long, I'll get the point across most clearly if I go alone, Feyre. It isn't dangerous. But with the attention the Cursebreaker will draw…you'll be most effective as an ace up our sleeve for now. Is that alright with you?"

I considered that. It seemed like an honest question, not just something intended to mollify me enough to move on. And the word effective clanged in my head like a bell. It took a certain measure of confidence in someone to make a calculation like that. I felt…a little less useless.

"That's fine," I said, giving a gentle tug on the bond to indicate all was well. Rhys answered with a feather-light brush of his fingers against mine under the table.

The rest of the meeting was long, if uneventful. I followed more of it than before—while he'd been catching up on the state of the Night Court, Rhys had answered every single one of my questions about it. There were decisions to be made about resuming trade agreements that had been in place before Amarantha and intelligence to be gathered about the extent of the damage in other courts. Our agenda that day was full.

I wasn't used to sitting still for so long, and it seemed like an eternity had passed by the time Cassian finally flew me down to the street. He took off for Illyria just as Rhys winnowed next to me, shifting out of his leathers and into his usual black jacket and pants.

"Take a walk with me?" he said, offering his arm. I hesitated, not quite sure if he merely did just want to walk with me, or if this was about what had happened earlier. Catching the look on my face, he added,"It's a beautiful day, and it would be a shame to let that go to waste."

That, at least, was the truth. Though it was the middle of summer, the Night Court was too far north to get uncomfortably hot. I suspected that wasn't everything—it might also have been one of those days he needed to feel the breeze on his face, but there was no use in pointing that out.

Instead, I just nodded my agreement and took his arm. My hand felt snug and comfortable in the crook of his elbow, but I was shameless about twisting it to the side so I could feel the hard muscle of his bicep through his shirt. Rhys smirked, curling a wing around me in a gesture I was beginning to suspect looked equally as possessive as my fingers around his arm.

"You know the city best. Lead the way," I said.

We walked in companionable silence towards the Sidra. If we'd wanted to, we probably could have stayed quiet the entire evening without it feeling awkward or uncomfortable. But…I wanted to clear the air anyway. After a little while, I added, "I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier."

"They were valid questions that you had every right to ask," he said evenly. I couldn't quite read his face—Rhys seemed unbothered, but I didn't know how to tell if he was pretending or not.

"I could have phrased them better."

Rhys shrugged. "It's better than if you hadn't said anything at all. You should question me, call me out. And if being comfortable doing that means you're a bit harsh about it on occasion….well, it's not as if I haven't survived worse."

He pulled gently on the bond again, and I took that to mean there truly had been no harm done. It made me feel oddly reassured, as if I'd pushed on something that looked delicate and found it to be much sturdier than I'd thought.

We followed a path along the Sidra, and on a day like this, we were far from the only ones out and about. It seemed silly not to have realized it, considering he'd been High Lord for centuries, but everyone in Velaris seemed to know Rhys. People smiled warmly and nodded at him, a few even greeting him by name and taking his hand to welcome him back. Even after fifty years away, he knew them too, sounding earnest when he asked about how their families were faring.

It still came as a shock that they knew who I was, too.

The first time a faerie, one with horns and horizontal pupils like a goat's, called me Cursebreaker and thanked me for challenging Amarantha, I'd nearly blurted out then and there that anyone with a mate would have done the same thing. Instead, I stammered my way through my reply about how it was good to see Rhys home, which wasn't even a lie.

The people of Velaris were respectful, genuinely warm but never attempting to drag him into a long conversation. For me, the attention was still strange. Rhys must have been handling it since birth, but I'd spent so much of my life alone in the woods, doing my best to blend in with the trees as I hunted.

We were arm in arm, but still in my fighting leathers at his side….I don't think I seemed much like an emissary. And certainly not like a lady, either.

If anything, I looked like Rhys's knight.

But it was…nice, to just walk and be together like this. Velaris was beautiful, rows and rows of pretty, well-kept townhouses in bright colors and the flowers along the river in full bloom for the summer. Peaceful and untouched—and protected with the utmost ruthlessness.

I was so caught up in drinking it in—and in truth, watching Rhys drink it in—that it was a while before I realized we were still walking away from the townhouse. Not that I minded, but I still asked, "Are we going anywhere in particular?"

"Yes. I have something to show you," he said, violet eyes bright.

"What is it?"

"My favorite view in the city."

I'd half-expected him to answer that it was a surprise or with some other teasing, flirting response. But maybe by then he knew it was important to me that my questions didn't go unanswered.

When the sun had nearly set, we stopped at one of the benches that lined the path, facing the river. It didn't seem different from any of the other places we'd passed, save a row of low buildings right on the riverbank across from us. Rhys sat, letting his wings hang over the back of the bench, and I followed suit.

We were in public, so I left a careful few inches of distance between us. I ached to be closer, but I wasn't sure it would be welcome out here. "Can I—"

"I was just going to tell you that you were too far away."

I couldn't press myself to his side fast enough. As Rhys wrapped an arm around my waist, the bond seemed to uncoil in my chest, and I was struck again by that sense of rightness, the feeling that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I doubted I'd ever get used to it—not just the mating bond and all the instincts and urges that accompanied it, but being wanted like this.

But that was too much to talk about on what was proving to be something close to a normal evening. I just said, "Why is it your favorite?"

"You'll see in a few minutes, once night falls properly," he said softly, "but it's not just that. Before Amarantha, nearly everyone in Velaris came to watch the boat races down the Sidra on midsummer. It's been a tradition since my ancestors founded the city, and this is where the races always finished."

"Did you…row?" I wasn't entirely sure if faerie boat races were anything like human ones, though I was fairly certain the line of buildings across from us were boathouses.

"Cauldron, no. Training in Illyria was exhausting enough. This is where I came to drink and cheer on my sister."

I had no idea what to say to the mix of quiet sorrow and warm nostalgia in his voice. Telling him I was sorry seemed insufficient. But…I could practically feel the weight of whatever was on his mind pressing down on us both.

"I'll trade you a thought for a thought," I said after a long moment. "Tell me one thing on your mind, and I'll do the same for you."

I half-expected Rhys to balk, or at least, to be irritated with my prying. Perhaps I'd pushed too hard. But he played along.

"The boathouse on the end was green last time I saw it. But at some point in the last fifty years, it was repainted blue, and now I'm thinking about how strange it is to notice all the ways Velaris is different now. Everything is different now, really."

As I watched the last rays of the setting sun dance on the water, I felt Rhys's gaze slide towards me. I took a moment to consider my words. "I'm thinking about how every summer I used to hunt and hunt while the game was plentiful. If I didn't do enough then, we'd starve during the winter. And now it's summer again, and I feel like I need to find a way to hoard days like this because nothing ever stays easy."

"For what it's worth, I'm not stupid enough to think I can pacify you with pretty lies about how you have nothing to worry about ever again."

I snorted. "Have I mentioned how much I love your pragmatism?" It was true, though. His willingness to make difficult choices, no matter how unpleasant, was one reason I'd choose Rhys to be my partner in everything.

Rhys leaned in close, his nose brushing my temple. "Was that an attempt at pouring honey in my ear, Feyre darling?" he purred.

"With you? I don't need to bother."

He nipped at my earlobe, drawing a surprised laugh from me. "Cruel, beautiful thing."

The first few stars appeared in the sky, and suddenly I understood why this was Rhys's favorite view in city. Lines of lights flickered on outside the boathouses, so many that that the buildings themselves seemed to be fashioned out of stars. The sky and the city were reflected on the surface of the Sidra, and in the distance, the colorful buildings of the Rainbow glowed warm, bright, and inviting.

City of Starlight, indeed.

But the sight of it was more than just beautiful. Something about the stars and the city lights on the water brought a buried memory rushing back. I almost couldn't believe I'd forgotten.

"Rhys," I hissed, sitting up straight. My hand curled tightly around his arm.

"Feyre?" he said, suddenly all concern. "Are you—"

"I've seen this view before. In a dream. This exact view. The boathouse on the end was blue, just like it is now."

I wrenched my gaze away from the boathouses to find Rhys staring at me with naked shock. "You were dreaming of Velaris?"

"It happened the day I'd first killed a rabbit. I was eleven. We'd been starving, and the Mother knows where else we would have gotten dinner from if I hadn't done it. But I— I'd never killed something before, and even though it was an animal, I lost a piece of myself that day. I'd cried and cried, and whenever I closed my eyes, all I could see was the blood from its throat leaking onto my hands. It took a long time to fall asleep that night, but when I finally did…this is the view I saw in my dreams. And I felt at peace with what I'd done."

Rhys's eyes didn't leave my face, but something in his expression shifted. I could see the wheels turning in his head. "If you were eleven," he said slowly, "then I wouldn't have known about you yet. I didn't start having dreams of you until three years ago. And if you saw the boathouse as blue…then we can be certain I didn't send that image of Velaris down the bond, even unwittingly."

"Then where did it come from?"

"You have a connection to the Night Court's magic, and it's clearly protective of you. A dream like that, on what must have been the worst day of your life….perhaps Velaris kept you from breaking, too."

If Rhys hadn't needed to protect this city and the people it, he would have killed himself Under the Mountain, probably long before I was born. He'd never said as much, but I knew. And perhaps that was the real magic of Velaris—not the wards shielding it, but the magic of art and dreams and peace. If that had sustained my mate for decade after lonely, hopeless decade, then…perhaps after one of my darkest days, Velaris had reached for me as I slept.

After all, it was called the Court of Dreams for a reason.

We watched the lights on the water for a long time, together but both lost in thought. But eventually, my inability to sit still reared its head, and we found ourselves walking through the city again, talking quietly about the places we passed.

Rhys was trying to be subtle about it, but I could tell he was attempting to nudge me towards the Rainbow. I understood; he knew what painting meant to me, and he'd had probably looked forward to showing me the artists' quarter. Last time I'd been in a gallery, though, I'd been falling for Tamlin's manipulations, and now that I knew that…I wasn't sure how I'd react next time I entered one. If I panicked or ran like a coward, I didn't want Rhys to see.

I certainly wasn't brave enough to admit that, either. Instead, I murmured something about it being time to start heading back, and when the worry didn't quite leave Rhys's face, I changed the subject. "Why is your house on the other side of the river anyway?"

But it must have been the wrong thing to say because Rhys suddenly went still. "You don't feel at home here," he said, so softly I almost didn't hear it. Even if I hadn't caught the words, the hurt in his voice would have been unmistakable.

That was ridiculous—I'd never felt such a sense of belonging in my life. "Of course I feel at home here."

"You called the townhouse mine just now. Not ours."

"It's where I live, and I'm comfortable there, but…it's still yours. I don't feel unwelcome, but there's no point in pretending you wouldn't be upset if I just started redecorating or painting all over the walls." That first morning after we'd gotten back, he'd said it was mine too, but in truth, I'd assumed that was just an empty platitude.

Rhys took a step towards me, and the intensity of the way he was looking at me was so strong I wasn't sure I was breathing. "Everything that's mine is shared with you. Because you're my"—a tug on the bond to avoid saying the word aloud where there was a chance of being overheard—"and because I love you. Even if that weren't true, the first dream I had of you was your hand painting flowers on a table. It meant more than I can say, and as far as I'm concerned, you should paint any surface in this world you wish."

"I love you, too." The only words I could manage in the face of…everything.

Then before I knew it, Rhys was kissing me in the middle of the sidewalk. For a moment, all the thoughts flew from my mind, and I looped an arm around his waist to press him against me. But before he had a chance to sweep his tongue into my mouth in front of any passersby, I stepped back to catch my breath.

"What you said before, about the townhouse being mine, too…I thought you were just being nice to spare my feelings," I said.

Rhys huffed a bitter laugh. "I've been accused of a great many things over the centuries, but mincing words to be nice isn't one of them."

I'd take it over being lied to day in and day out, I supposed.

He slid his hands into his pockets and tipped his head to the side. The wind ruffled his hair, and for a moment, that instinctive irrational jealousy struck again—I didn't even want the wind touching his hair instead of me. It nearly distracted me enough to miss the too-casual way he was studying me.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You're planning something, aren't you?"

He flashed me another one of those feline smiles—the smirking, put-together High Lord was back. "I was just thinking that if I'm not mistaken, there's a set of half-opened paints in storage. Amren attempted to learn one summer, got bored, and gave up. No one will take an open can as a donation, and she's certainly not going to use them. It would be a shame to let them go to waste."

My mate knew me too well. Even though I could tell what he was doing, it was working—I'd struggle to accept a gift, but I hated waste. Just the thought of an empty canvas made my chest tighten uncomfortably, but if it meant something to Rhys, I could manage a simple, repetitive design of flowers on the edge of a table. I'd done far more dangerous, difficult things for him.

"What's your favorite flower?" I said with a sigh.

"Snowdrops," he said without having to think about it. "There isn't much else about winter in Illyria that's pretty, and the blue ones only grow in the Night Court. They're the same color as your eyes."

Elain had planted snowdrop bulbs one fall, and when I'm asked her about it, she'd said that in the language of flowers, they meant hope. I'd thought it seemed pointless then. Now, I wasn't quite sure.

Rhys said something about being back with the paints, kissed my cheek, and winnowed away. As I stood there for a moment alone, I realized…he'd called my eyes pretty. I willed myself to stop blushing so furiously by the time he got back.

Not long after that, we made it back home, and I sat on kitchen floor, mixing Amren's half-used paint while Rhys watched. He hadn't told me where he'd gone to get them, but he'd come back smelling faintly of pine.

It took a few tries to mix the blue to match the shade in the image Rhys sent down the bond, a blue flower pushing its way through a heavy snowbank, on a mountain that must have been somewhere in Illyria. And perhaps finding the right color would have gone faster if he hadn't been leaning in to kiss me so often.

When I began to form the first petal on the edge of the table, the feeling of a wound healing over was so acute that I nearly dropped the paintbrush.

I was safe in the Night Court. I was painting. A mate I loved was sitting beside me. We were clawing back, slowly but surely, the sense of security that had been ripped away when Rhys had been trapped Under the Mountain and I'd been dragged across the Wall.

I painted a few more petals and managed to finish the first flower before the tears pricking at my eyes made me stop. Rhys kissed them away gently. And that was all I needed to dip the brush back into the paint and keep going.

There was a line of flowers extending along one side of the table when something made Rhys stand up. The movement was too fast for me to follow—one moment, he'd been sitting, then the next he was halfway across the room. I turned to see what it was and found that Mor had just winnowed into the kitchen.

I'd never seen her look so grave.

"It's too late to save anyone now," she said, "but there was an attack on a temple in Cesere. Almost every priestess slain, the trove looted."

#feysand #feyre archeron #we said hello and your eyes look like coming home #this chapter was a doozy but the magic of canned soup got me through it

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