𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐒𝐇
❝I would like to burn them to the ground and stand on their ashes.❞
in which the eldest child of viserys targaryen and aemma arryn is a little too violent, a little too wild, and a little too lost.
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON...
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THE TITLE IN FRONT OF HER NAME COILED ITSELF around her like a serpent. It dug deep into her veins and made a home alongside the fire that ran through her blood. A gentle thrum alongside rage and loneliness, a call to latch itself onto something palpable. Warm and inviting.
It created a home.
Rhaenerys grabbed Daemon's wrist. "You think I wish to be queen?" She leaned her head back to look up at him, to stare into the paleness of his eyes. An image of her stared back, the same unruly hair and mismatched eyes.
The wicked smile disappeared and left behind a straight line. His eyes narrowed and shadows began to dance in them. "Don't you?"
"No." The answer left her mouth quick and easy. A word she had practiced for too long, had allowed herself to say whenever something was asked of her.
Here was the truth: Rhaenerys Targaryen dreamt about becoming Queen of the Seven Kingdoms when her father was announced as the heir after her grandfather's death. She dreamt of her father laying his hand on her head and telling her that he was proud. It was she who was in the room whenever her father held his small court, she who was at his side.
Instead, Rhaenerys spent her time learning with Septa Morelle. She read books about the noble houses of Westeros and their triumphs; she exchanged letters of mathematics with her greatuncle Vaegon who was archmaester of the Citadel at Oldtown, all to understand the complexity of the gold in their treasury. She came to know the lords and ladies of the crownlands, the few of the Vale that visited her mother, and exchanged letters with the few from the Iron Islands and the North that were willing to speak to the princess.
She attended mass and publicly appeared as a pious woman of the Faith. Those dresses she wore when attending mass, with the high necks and the long sleeves, made her feel as if she were suffocating with every breath she took. Even the High Septon praised her.
Everything she did, everything she learned at the hands of maesters and septas and lordlings, was for her father to be proud of her finally.
Daemon's lips quirked as he lifted his hand to push a strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh, little bird, you are a liar." He chuckled and shook his head. "Not a very good one at that."
"Why would I wish to be queen?" She tried her hardest to glare at him, but the closeness made her lose her breath. "There is no freedom with a crown."
"What do you know of freedom?" His words were low, a whisper that should have been carried away by the wind.
"Less than you, of course," she spat between her teeth. The tightness in her chest felt heavy. It pushed down as if something lay atop it and wanted nothing more but to stop her from breathing. "I am not the one that leaves whenever something gets difficult, Uncle."
