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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐃𝐘 𝐎𝐅 Aera Targaryen, the Torn Princess, the Queen Who They Dreamt, begins not in the year 113 when she was born, but in the year 112, the year she was conceived by her father, Prince Daemon Targaryen.
That year, the summer in Westeros had been its most sweltering—perhaps the first foreboding sign of the fire that would rain over the city in years to come. Daemon had arrived in King's Landing to join the tourney for the new heir, which was intended for Prince Baelon but, as he teased with his niece, the Princess Rhaenyra, might also be for him, as he was then the heir to the Iron Throne being the King's only brother.
Only planning to get drunk and forget some of his troubles, he instead was bested at the tourney by a knight with a name he wouldn't think worth remembering until years from then, witnessed Rhaenyra give her favour to that knight, attended the funeral of prince Baelon and Queen Aemma, then was was caught saying, "Heir for a Day"—probably by one of the King's Hand's spies—and exiled back to Runestone to his lady wife, or who he affectionally called, his bronze bitch. To further rub salt on the wound, he was displaced as heir by Rhaenyra.
Suffice to say, Daemon Targaryen had lived through better months. He was five steps from storming out the hall when Viserys called out to him, forcing him to stop.
"There is one more thing you must do," Viserys said, sounding audibly pained.
Daemon turned his head slightly, his rage allowing him nothing more. "What more do you want from me, your Grace?"
"An heir."
Daemon spun around. "What?"
Viserys' next words came out through gritted teeth. "My council has told me the Realm needs more stability. It needs an heir to the Throne. Rhaenyra, though my child, is a girl, and a second heir after her is being proposed for further stability."
"And I suppose by council you're referring to Otto Hightower," Daemon darkly muttered.
Viserys ignored him. "As I will not name you, you must instead finally do your duty and produce a child with your lady wife, and your child will be next in succession after Rhaenyra. And all this will be done without quarrel by order of your King," Viserys quickly but firmly said upon seeing Daemon open his mouth.
Daemon, deeply offended that his brother had just put his daughter and a non-existent child over his own brother in succession to the throne, impulsively took a step towards him, only to be stopped by the Kingsguard moving in unison and reaching for the hilts of their swords. Daemon looked at them all in frustration, his patience now worn down to something as thin and fragile as silk.
"Your Grace," Daemon managed, before turning and walking out. This time, Viserys did not call to him. This time, Daemon let himself succumb to his rage as he flew on Caraxes back to Runestone, just as his his Grace commanded. Daemon loved his brother, but he wanted to spite him even more. If he were to have a child, it would be his, not Viserys'. It would be his heir. Daemon had never considered having an heir before, especially not with his bronze bitch, but the thought of seeing his own flesh and blood sit the Iron Throne had a certain appeal to him that made his dragon blood scream. And thus, as he flew before the moon, silhouette cast against the silver circle for all to see, Daemon Targaryen dreamt of jus that: of an heir with hair as white as snow sitting above everyone else on the Iron Throne.
When he and Caraxes arrived at Runestone, Daemon was drunk on wine and hurt and ambition and rage and lust. He was too riddled with his dream to question why lady Rhea Royce was standing there, as if waiting for him.
As usual, she looked displeased to see him. He thanked the gods it was night. She always looked better in the dark. Yet something happened in that dark that Daemon would never be able to fully understand or remember, not that he would ever try hard to remember.
It certainly wasn't lust for Rhea that brought on memories of his hands around her throat, her legs around his waist as he thrusted hard and fast in her, first outside against a rock, then a second time in her bed against her satin sheets. Rather, it was lust for that dream, of having a child to call his own, someone who could sit on the throne and his lap, someone who would need and love him in a way that his brother never did for him, that allowed him to finish in her.
He was hardly surprised when three weeks from then, Rhea threw up her food at the table, splatters of sick landing on the plate Daemon was still eating from. It was confirmed six weeks later, when her armour had to be refitted. Lady Rhea, known to ride horses and wield weapons, was forbidden from continuing during her pregnancy by the maesters (though rumours suggest it was Daemon himself who suggested it with Dark Sistre kissing the tip of the maester's throat.)
As painful as it was to be confined in Runestone, he had no trust in his lady wife to keep his heir safe, so he remained, always in the same room as her. He had every meal tasted by someone prior to check for poison, demanded that the temperatures of her bath be kept to a safe level, forced her into dresses that were loose around her stomach to not confine his heir even more (her stomach was hostile enough, he argued as he loosened a dress by ripping it). It's said that for the nine months of her pregnancy, Daemon Targaryen, a known visiter of the brothels in King's Landing, took no woman to bed for that would require his attention away from his heir, and Daemon had finally found something more important than a whore.
But most importantly, he stayed to protect his heir from her. He kept Rhea from touching her stomach, and forbade her from talking to the child. It was him who knelt beside the tub to wash her swollen stomach, him who kept a hand on her stomach at night to keep her on her left side, and it was him who spoke to her stomach in High Valyrian and told his heir stories of Valyria and heroes and the love that Daemon held for them.
Months of being by each other's side did little to alleviate the animosity between husband and wife, and if anything, only worsened the tensions. But after a particularly violent argument that, to this day, can still be heard echoing through the walls of Runestone, a maester tentatively stepped in and advised Daemon that anger and stress in the mother would transfer to the babe and could harm them. Though he did not ease on being close to her, Daemon did allow her more silence by biting his tongue and clenching his jaw for the remainder of the pregnancy. He suffered her taunts and jabs in silence, his only solace the sight of her growing belly.
The maesters told him of another suspicion they had concerning the babe, but Daemon confirmed it for himself eighteen weeks later when he knelt before Rhea's womb—something he only ever thought of as a part of him and not her—put his hands on her belly and felt kicks on two different areas of her stomach.
