ℒove always wakes the dragon (Aemond x OC)

The Small Council

Earlier on the day of her arrival, Daemon takes a stand at the small council meeting. It's set at first light, with no explanations given in advance as he wishes to keep his secret. His speech is brief — no names given, no dragon mentioned, his face draped with indifference. He thinks if he doesn't make a big deal out of it then no one will. Rhaenyra is just his wife today, leaning back on her chair, determined to look forgiving and unconcerned. Daemon asks himself if her acceptance has its limits — and there's one person who is allowed to test them.

When Daemon hears a displeased hum, he immediately knows what will follow.

"How kind of you to inform us all of the visitor who's been already welcomed on our behalf," Alicent's tone is unapologetic when she talks to him. She never misses a chance to let him know how undeserving he is of her kindness — always was and always will be.

"Are you suggesting I should've turned down my own daughter?" Daemon looks her in the eyes, and she doesn't avoid his gaze. When Otto was on the council, Daemon made sport of provoking him, their mutual hatred evident and unabated. Otto's wish to keep a tight rein on him only instigated the prince's temper, and Daemon made sure to have the last word. But when Alicent took her father's place, it turned out that she had a way with words.

"Seems to me that asking for suggestions is of little use when the matter in question has been handled," she says wryly.

"My apologies, I should clarify — I am not asking but merely informing," Daemon can't help but bite back.

"The members of this council are flattered by this lever of trust."

"Do you speak on behalf of the council now?"

"I will not be the first one here to make decisions for everyone," Alicent says with a flat tone, but her implication doesn't escape him.

"And the only one to have such power would be the Queen. You mean to undermine her authority?"

"Surely, it wasn't the Queen who found herself lost in the mountains twenty years ago, was it," Alicent snorts.

When he shoots a quick glance at his wife, he doesn't miss a ghost of a smirk on her lips.

They are on either side of Rhaenyra — Daemon is on the right as he is Prince Consort, and Alicent doesn't need any titles. He sometimes wonders if it's a coincidence that she is seated on the side where Rhaenyra's heart is, closer to her than anyone else. If maybe Alicent is the one who knows the Queen the best.

"Does it mean the girl is an eligible heir of yours?" Lord Caswell is the one to interrupt their bickering. He is the Hand of the Queen and yet he's second to the left, although he never questions the seating arrangement. Probably because the old man is too busy making sure they don't tear each other's throats.

"It wasn't brought up to discussions yet," Daemon admits. He doesn't tell them Rhaenyra was the one writing the letters, and she purposefully ignored the question of legacy.

"But isn't that the main reason she's coming? Forgive me my straightforwardness," Corlys Velaryon raises the question from the far side of the table.

"Frankly, it seemed to me that she showed no interest in... whatever you are interested in," Daemon chuckles half-heartedly — and he isn't lying. The first letter they got was cautious, testing the waters, almost bashful with its narrative but the length and the details suggested the genuine wish to make a connection. Yet all the others had a different tone — terse and fast-paced, and Daemon suddenly felt like her coming to visit him would be more of an inconvenience than a chance for reconciliation.

"She may show interest once she gets a taste of what she can have," Tyland Lannister remarks, keeping his voice as neutral as possible, a wary smile creeping on his face. He's always on alert, ready to show all his diplomacy or his natural cunning or whatever it is needed of him to be a good servant of the realm. He's like a deck of cards, and Daemon hates to guess which one he'll draw today.

"You have a habit of judging others by yourself," he glowers at the lord, and Tyland's wish to engage in the conversation disappears before the eyes.

"What of her mother?" Lyman Beesbury speaks up. He's the one who actually tries to find common ground even though their relationship with Daemon is hardly amicable.

"She has fallen ill. I have not received many details of her condition," when Daemon speaks of her, he gets a blurred vision of her kind eyes and her soft fingers that's almost painful to remember. But he has a wife now — and the other two are dead because of him. He doesn't want her to die but his reasoning is far from selfless: he only hopes he won't need to carry the blame for another death as he carries plenty already.

"We shall pray for her recovery then," maester Mellos mumbles. He looks bored out of his mind, and Daemon holds back a chuckle.

"I am relieved to know that maesters now rely on prayers —"

"You and her mother weren't bound by marriage, were you?" Alicent asks, ever so nonchalantly, her fingers fiddling with a cup of wine. When she looks at Daemon, her doe eyes are unemotional but he isn't a fool. He knows that she already has her guess, she just needs him to say it out loud.

His answer is nothing but forced. "No."

Just for a second he manages to catch a twinkle of satisfaction in her eyes, a rippling on the surface of her imperturbability. Alicent doesn't ask anything else and lets the issue hang in the air. It's left in plain sight, for everyone to know: he brought another bastard into the family.

"Now that we have someone to pray for, can we be finished?" she gets up from the table without waiting for an answer. "I promised to come see my daughter first thing in the morning, and I want to be on time."

"That's very dutiful of you," Daemon snorts — and this time, she gives him an obvious look of disdain.

"Some of us have children we actually took time raising," Alicent throws a glance at Rhaenyra before leaving, and the room feels oddly quiet.

"That will be all for today," the Queen commands with a tight-lipped smile.

The maester is the first one at the door and everyone else is quick to follow. Rhaenyra watches them go with a distant face while Daemon keeps his gaze on her. They sit in silence for a couple of minutes.

"That went better than expected, I think," she eventually utters.

"You had some very low expectations then," his lips turn into a crooked grin.

"Says the man who as of yesterday decided to leave it all up to fate."

"When it comes to my daughter that is," he remarks — and it still feels weird to say that out loud. It's a stranger he's never seen, a girl who may look nothing like him — or exactly like him, and he isn't sure which one of these options he prefers more. One thing he does know is that he really wants to meet her, and that wish only grows with each day.

Rhaenyra looks at him, aware of the meaning behind his frozen face expression — he is always like that when he's deep in his thoughts. And she's been thinking a lot lately, too. Rhaenyra squirms in her chair which catches his attention, and she opens her mouth to say something — but she doesn't get a chance to as the door slams open to reveal one of the guards.

He's panting, his face skewed. "Your grace, the tower watches send an urgent message — t-they say there's a dragon. An unknown dragon is approaching."

Their reactions are starkly different: Rhaenyra jumps up, eyes wide, mouth forming a surprised "o". But Daemon stops her with a gesture of his hand — and he is actually smiling when he says: "No need to panic, we are expecting a guest. I've already warned the dragonkeepers, they should be prepared."

His wife glances at him dumbfounded, not making the connection just yet. "A guest? I was not made aware you made friends with a dragon."

"The beast has a rider, my dear," he grins at her, almost apologetic for the fact that he has to explain it. "And she seems to like dramatic entrances."

Daemon then gives his wife a brief kiss on the temple and hurries to the door. On his way there he turns to add:

"I guess she takes that from her father."