green lies, black hearts

XIII

a/n - sorry for taking so long to update, y'all :,( I keep forgetting skksksksksk, anyway, thank you for all the love and I hope you enjoy!

~+~

Daemon

Daemon Targaryen still remembered the sight of orange sails with red suns pierced by golden spears. He still could taste salt on his tongue whenever he took a deep breath on the back of Caraxes who rained dragon fire on the Triarchy's fleet. He remembered cleaving the grey-scale infected Craghas Drahar—a Myrish prince turned crabfeeder—in two to secure the Stepstones. And yet, the Martells still persisted in their support of the Triarchy. They still sent their ships to fucking Racallio Ryndoon's aid. And now, after years since the last skirmish Daemon had actually taken part in, the Rogue Prince was forced to sit across from the very Dornish prince who had once made his life a living hell.

The Martells knew what they were doing against dragons, and it had made the campaign all the more difficult for Daemon and Laenor at the time—and once Rhaenys when the Triarchy attempted to aim a little further north. Meleys made quick work of that fleet.

Qoren Martell still knew what he was doing, even when he wasn't coordinating attacks with his fleet; he sat lazily in his chair, a small smirk peeking out from beneath his neatly trimmed, black beard. His dark eyes were like dragon glass, sharp and reflective, and Daemon could see the smugness just bubbling beneath the surface. Dressed in a dark red robe with a blood-orange tunic beneath and long, silky hair pulled back from his dark features, he looked the very picture of Dornish royalty.

Daemon thought that maybe that was the issue grating on his nerves.

A much easier thought to come to terms with rather than giving even a lick of legitimacy to Rhaenyra's plan.

He loved his wife. More than his own life. But this? Daemon wanted to scoff—and perhaps he did with the way Rhaenyra shot him a scolding look—at this foolish idea.

"I trust your travels were without issue?" Rhaenyra asked cordially; ever the diplomat she was.

Qoren lifted a cup, earning a generous pour of wine from a servant. "The waters were fine enough. Unfortunately, the gullet found us with a storm, so we docked near Duskendale instead of sailing down to your port here," he said.

The shared meal had been a stiff affair. Daemon knew he should have told Rhaenyra to handle this on her own. He knew it.

"Has the Princess Aliandra been able to explore at all?"

"Ah, no," Qoren chuckled. "The girl is just like...her mother and can be quite spirited. She says it smells like shit here." He took a sip of his wine.

Daemon's lips twitched. "Your daughter is quite young, is she not?"

Dark, nearly black eyes met Daemon's purples. Qoren cleared his throat. "She will be six-and-ten come the new year. So...yes, still young." He pursed his full lips, cocking his head. "Why do you ask? Intending to marry my daughter to one of your sons? I don't believe she would appreciate being betrothed to a child who still babbles for his mother."

"And would she appreciate her father marrying a girl so near her own age?" Daemon couldn't help but ask, meeting Qoren's challenge head-on. Bitterness laced each word, just like the venom that lied in wait on his tongue. Venom that tasted like the sea's brine from all those years in the Stepstones.

Qoren's mouth twitched. "And here I was thinking this was not a settled issue?"

"It isn't," Rhaenyra quickly said, her hand reaching over to Daemon's.