Archive of Our Own

Daemon had just arrived in Pentos when he heard. 

Unrest in the Sunset Kingdoms. Sickness, rebellion. Thousands dead.  

It was a matter of a day to find the captain from whom the tales had originated. He’d been the first to come back from Westeros after the ports were opened, which explained the lack of news in the past several moons almost more than his absence from the Free Cities had, and the information he relayed was worrying to say the least. 

A plague had swept through Westeros for the better part of a year, killing hundreds before the capital could react and thousands by the time it was over. King Viserys had been among dozens of victims in the Red Keep, and with no other heirs, his daughter Rhaenyra, by that time not yet six and saved by virtue of the adults around her rushing to put her on dragonback so she could gain the famous immunity to sickness of all dragonriders as soon as the first dead was confirmed in the city, had ascended the Iron Throne.  

King Viserys hadn’t been the only casualty of House Targaryen in the time since Daemon had been away, however. His cousin Princess Rhaenys and her son Laenor were both dead, drowned at sea as the Velaryons fled King’s Landing before Viserys closed the ports. 

To add to the tragedy that surrounded Daemon’s family, once the sickness had ran its course, Corlys Velaryon had risen up in rebellion, declaring for his daughter Laena’s right to the Iron Throne. Not many had flocked to that banner, not when Rhaenyra had the full force of the Vale and the North standing behind her, but with the Stormlands standing behind Laena for the same reason the Vale supported Rhaenyra... 

A brief civil war had broken out in Westeros. Thousands more dead. Entire male lines dead or sentenced to the Wall, most prominent those of Houses Velaryon and Baratheon, their women and children hostages of the Crown – their girls betrothed to loyalists, their boys waiting to be of sufficient age to be sent North to freeze for the rest of their lives. Dozens of seats of power given to different, sometimes new, noble Houses, the Velaryons and Baratheons saved that fate only by virtue of blood ties to House Targaryen, and many more left in the hands of women or children. 

Later, Daemon would learn that his unwanted wife had been among the dead, killed as a commander of the Vale forces. It was the one thing they’d been able to agree on, their fondness for Daemon’s niece, and probably the one thing she’d ever done that he agreed with, dying for his niece. 

Queen Rhaenyra was barely seven namedays old and the realm stood on shaky ground. 

Daemon heard this, made his choice and began to plan. 

~~~~~o~~~~~ 

He had always been known as a reckless, temperamental man. He was no fool – he knew his reputation had been well earned. But in this he couldn’t afford to rush, not when so much was at stake. 

The legacy of House Targaryen was more important than his pride. 

So he bid his time. He gathered the men who still wanted to follow him, Westerosi and Essosi both, and set them to various tasks to bring them along. They needed a ship, supplies, information. He couldn’t run off by himself and have them follow, not now of all times. To ensure the better chances of success, he needed them with him when he got to the Red Keep. 

It took a sennight to be confident he was ready, and it would take considerably longer to get from Pentos to King’s Landing. The night before they were due to set sail, he heard – Rhaenyra’s Hand was Otto fucking Hightower, the gods-be-damned snake that had poisoned his brother against him. 

Daemon gritted his teeth and stormed off to cool down before he struck the man who’d brought him that piece of news. He truly couldn’t afford to alienate those loyal to him. 

He reminded himself once more what was riding on him being better than he’d been, went on a flight with Caraxes, and returned more determined than ever to secure the legacy of House Targaryen. 

He could not afford to fail. 

~~~~~o~~~~~

Daemon had never been happier than he was that morning when he saw King’s Landing for the first time in almost three years. Or more tense, for that matter. 

Today was the most important day of his life thus far. He couldn’t afford a single mistake. 

When their ship reached shore, he sent a man ahead to scout for potential trouble and made his way behind, on foot and with his distinctive silver hair covered by a hood, followed by a score of men while the remaining three stayed behind to ensure the ship’s crew would remain quiet about Daemon’s arrival long enough for his party to reach the Red Keep. 

Not even Mysaria found him on his way through the city, even though she usually heard all and a group as large as his (even though they broke into smaller units on their way to the keep) should’ve attracted her attention. 

On the way, he recalled the promise he’d made Viserys after the last time he’d been around for the loss of a babe. 

To ensure the legacy of their House. Protect their family. Aemma, Rhaenyra. His niece had been only three, a toddler, too young to be left without the protection of an adult Targaryen. Not that any age was acceptable to be left alone, but Rhaenyra had been only three when he promised Viserys he would protect her with his life – that precious child, the only child of their House, for all that Corlys blustered that his whelps were every bit as Targaryen as their mother.  

She was seven now. Fatherless. The last Targaryen in Westeros for far too long. A Queen in her own right. She had already faced so much, and her age could still be counted in single digits.  

Daemon stepped up to one of the guards standing at the gates of the Red Keep. He knew this man – Aerion Waters was a dragonseed, a silver-haired bastard from Dragonstone, and he’d been loyal to House Targaryen all his life. More than that, he’d been loyal to Viserys, as Waters had stood behind Viserys’ claim when King Jaehaerys called the Great Council and Daemon gathered an army for his brother. He was glad to see him still alive and now loyal to Rhaenyra. 

“Prince Daemon!” the man exclaimed before he’d even finished lowering his hood. 

“Waters,” he greeted. Another guard, upon recognizing him, slipped through the half-opened gate, presumably to announce his return. Behind him, his men gathered in silence, and Waters looked at them suspiciously. “I am not looking for trouble.” 

“That would be a first,” the dragonseed muttered. Then, he sighed. “I’m afraid I must ask you to remain here until you are allowed entry. Royal decree.” 

Daemon resisted the urge to ask who’d issued that decree, with the monarch on the Iron Throne a girl of seven who likely remembered little of him. 

The wait was long enough that the three who’d stayed behind caught up, but still the allowance came too fast for Otto to have given the order – it was, however, still far too long a wait for Daemon, impatient as he was to fulfill his mission. Ser Harrold Westerling came to fetch him, along with ten household guard, and the experienced Kingsguard (although he supposed the man was a Queensguard now) eyed Daemon’s companions suspiciously (there was a lot of that going around, he thought approvingly) before ordering them to surrender all weapons. Having expected that, no one complained as they handed off swords and daggers and various other items and allowed the guard to search them thoroughly. 

Daemon really had to commend his men on their loyalty to him, on what they were willing to endure to see his goals fulfilled. 

Once they were done, Ser Harrold led them through the Keep in complete silence, down nearly deserted hallways and across whispering courtiers and servants. 

The sickness really had taken a toll on House Targaryen’s seat of power. 

They stopped when they were ten paces from the closed doors to the Throne Room, and Ser Harrold turned to look at Daemon. 

“Only four men with you. The rest must wait without.” 

Again, Daemon resisted the urge to ask who’d given the command. 

His brother would be proud to see him exercising such restraint. 

Instead he nodded, selected his men and watched as the rest stepped back. The guards standing next to the doors opened them at Ser Harrold’s nod, not without giving Daemon suspicious looks he did his best to ignore and justify. 

They had recently fought a war against an ambitious relative seeking the throne. Daemon had a reputation he could not, would not deny. He refused to hold their suspicions against them when there might come a time when they helped protect his niece. 

The first thing he noticed when he stepped into the Throne Room was how empty it was, of anyone but the small crowd at the back and the many guards lining the walls and standing before the throne. So this wasn’t to be a spectacle, but still security measures had been taken. 

The second thing he noticed was a line of dark household guard and the shining white of the Queensguard, five men tasked with the life of the most important person in the realm. 

Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander since the time of his grandfather King Jaehaerys. Ser Lorent Marbrand. Ser Steffon Darklyn. Two others, twins, who Daemon did not recognize. Ser Harrold Westerling, leading his party in. One spot yet to fill. 

Behind them, a small figure sitting straight-backed on the Iron Throne, dwarfed by her seat but somehow looking at home upon it. 

She’d been four the last time he saw her. Four, and gap-toothed, and crying as she begged him not to go. 

She was seven now. Seven, and serious, and staring quietly down at him with just the barest hint of recognition on her purple gaze. 

Next he looked at her advisors. Her mother, Queen Regent Aemma Arryn, standing halfway down the steps on the girl’s right-hand side, following his approach with a blankness that told him she was holding back plenty of emotion. Her Hand, Lord Otto Hightower, halfway between Aemma and the rest of the Small Council, frowning. The Council, most of which he didn’t recognize from his brother’s, staring. 

Ser Harrold halted them with a gesture fifteen paces from the line of household guard and continued on and through them to stand next to his brothers on the lower step. 

He stopped, and quiet fell in the cavernous room. 

Rhaenyra was tragic and magnificent in her severe Valyrian-style girl’s dress and small crown, a sheathed Blackfyre resting across her lap, when she finally spoke, her voice clear and strong and high. Seven and every inch a Queen. 

“They say you want my throne. Is that true, uncle?” 

Daemon fell to his knees. Behind him, his men knelt as well, Westerosi and Essosi both. They’d known what he was here to do from the start and had chosen to follow him anyway. 

“My only aim is to serve you, Your Grace.” 

“Yet you bring a score of armed men with you,” Otto spoke up. 

“We left our weapons at the entrance of the Keep, as the Queen commanded,” Daemon retorted, barely refraining from snapping at the cunt for interfering in the first encounter he’d had with a member of his family in far too long. To lower the temptation, he looked to his niece instead. “We come before you to pledge ourselves to your reign.” 

Aemma spoke next, eyes flickering to the Summer Islander to Daemon’s left shoulder. “You mean to say your foreigners wish to pledge themselves to the Iron Throne.” 

“Not the Iron Throne but the one upon it, the one true queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen.” 

Otto spoke again, his words nearly bringing Daemon’s blood to a boil. “How can anyone trust a rogue?” 

“You can trust my word that my only intention is to serve because I have only a score and four men, and if you cunts have done your jobs at all well after Corlys’ rebellion then she should have every man left in the realm, let alone in the city. If my intentions towards Her Grace were less than true, I should be dead before I got anywhere near her. 

“But if you won’t believe these words, believe this oath: Your Grace, I hear there is a vacancy in your Queensguard. Do me the honor of appointing me to it, and I shall shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be.” 

He could practically taste the surprise in the room at his words. It was one thing to pledge his service knowing that he stood as heir to his niece. It was entirely another to request one of the few oaths that would stop him from ever claiming any inheritance or anyone from supporting him should he try, and to call that an honor? 

The Daemon Targaryen everyone thought they knew would never have considered making such an oath. That Daemon Targaryen had not spent three years in exile and lost most of his family during it. That Daemon Targaryen had still been a boy, regardless of his age. 

Daemon was determined to be a man now. If he must swear an oath of celibacy and renounce all inheritances to do so, if he must limit House Targaryen to a single girl to protect her, to fulfill his last oath to his dead brother, then sworn the oath would be. She was the legacy of their House, not the Throne, not the Realm, but this small girl with entirely too much on her shoulders. 

“And your men?” Rhaenyra asked. 

“They wish to pledge themselves to the City Watch or the Targaryen household guard, as it please you.” 

His niece studied him in silence. Her advisors kept their attention half on her, half on him, though Otto seemed to be trying extremely hard not to glare down at Daemon. It delighted him, to see him so visibly holding himself back – what little he had heard about Otto as Rhaenyra’s Hand had hinted that he had plenty of influence, as the main adult male in the young Queen’s life, and it was odd to see him quiet rather than try to argue against Daemon’s request. Had this been three years prior, with Viserys as King, the Reachman would not have shown so much restraint. 

It was evident, to Daemon, that his niece had already established her power over her advisors, the men who nominally did most of the ruling while she was still a child. He wondered at the cause, and determined to find out should he be allowed into her confidence. 

“Why?” Rhaenyra asked. “Why do that?” 

“Your Grace–” 

“Quiet,” she said without looking at the man who’d spoken, one who Daemon didn’t recognize. The man obeyed. “I asked a question.” 

“I swore to your father that I would protect you with my life should anything happen to him,” Daemon replied honestly. “I was not here when you needed me most, but I am back now, and if the only way I will be trusted around you is to swear the oath of the Queensguard then I will be happy to do so.” 

“And you?” 

“We are loyal to Prince Daemon,” one of them said when his niece looked at him. “If his loyalties lie with Your Grace, then ours do as well. We are yours to command.” 

She went quiet again. 

“What do you think?” she asked eventually, glancing at each of her advisors in turn. 

“You do need a seventh in your Queensguard,” Aemma said. “And I know Daemon – he will protect you with his life.” 

“I don’t trust him,” Otto admitted bluntly when prompted by their Queen looking at him. “But... he is right that the Queensguard oath would prevent him from inheriting anything. He is reckless and temperamental and not someone I would recommend around your person, but it is best to keep him close and in a position where he can gain nothing from betraying you.” 

Following Otto’s reluctant approval, which sounded much like pulling teeth, the floodgates opened and the rest of the Small Council showed their support for the idea – even Ser Ryam, who had never really liked Daemon, announced he would be willing to have Daemon serve as a White Sword. Rhaenyra heard them all in silence, keeping her eyes on Daemon’s kneeling form, before she asked their recommendations about his men, to which they were split between suggesting the City Watch and the household guard. 

“Bring the others in,” she ordered once they had all said their piece. 

When questioned individually, Daemon’s men, one and all, answered that they would serve Rhaenyra with their lives in any position she saw fit to place them in. The young Queen then looked at the Lords Commander of the Household Guard and the City Watch for their input, which was in both cases that they would like to see their capabilities before accepting any man. 

Then, Rhaenyra called for her mother, Otto and Ser Ryam to come closer to her, and a whispered conversation ensued. Eventually she declared she’d made her decision (which by force must mean that the three were in agreement about supporting what she wanted, or that she liked what they proposed) and sent everyone back to their places. 

“Uncle,” she announced. “Swear the oath, upon the Gods of Westeros and our own.” 

Daemon, who had seen the oath sworn over a dozen times in his life, first to his grandfather and then his brother, nodded his head and raised it high to look upon his niece, his Queen that he would have defended with his life even without these words he had wanted to say since he learnt what she’d been enduring while he was away. 

Part of him preened, that she wanted him to swear by the Fourteen, called them her gods too. Even though he hadn’t been around, even though she’d lost her Targaryen parent long enough ago that the snakes around her might’ve turned her to the Seven of the Andals, she still clung to their family’s gods.  

He straightened his back as much as he could while still kneeling and spoke the words that would forever bind him to his niece. 

"I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength,” he began, looking into her purple eyes and wishing her to know he was more honest than he’d ever been in his entire life, “and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New and the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria." 

And because, for all that Rhaenyra had been guiding this event, she was still only seven and legally unable to accept an oath of fealty, the Queen Regent stepped up to do it in her daughter’s name. 

"And we hear and shall not forget, nor fail to reward, that which is freely given. Arise Prince Daemon Targaryen, Knight of the Queensguard." 

Daemon rose, the seventh of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen’s royal guard, and stood still as his new brothers came forward to clasp his shoulders and welcome him among their number. 

He had once thought he would never, ever consider anyone but another Targaryen his family. But these men, these White Swords, had sworn to protect their Targaryen Queen with their lives, to give their blood for hers much as Daemon had just done. He couldn’t call them his brothers yet, not so soon, but perhaps in the future, after serving with them for a time, he would be able to consider them as such. 

Not brothers as Viserys and Aegon had been, but brothers all the same. 

This done, Ser Ryam led them all across the household guard, and the new seven lined up to look upon Daemon’s score and four men, still kneeling and with their heads held high though their eyes rested upon the foot of the throne rather than the Queen as Daemon’s had. 

They were a varied group, his men. Skilled and loyal to him, but they came from all over the known world, or just about, and it was evident in everything about them.  

Four had followed him from the City Watch when he was exiled, one a captain and the others simple men-at-arms, who had all quit their jobs when they heard Daemon was gone and tracked him down in Pentos. They had been the first to announce their will to return with Daemon once he decided to come back to swear himself to his niece’s Queensguard, to serve the little Queen with their lives. 

Six were Volantene Valyrians from behind the Black Walls, who had left the comfort of their citadel to revive the old glory days of their people by serving a dragonrider from the last Dragonlord House in the known world. They had one and all been eager to serve the little dragonrider who was the first reigning queen of the Sunset Kingdoms, following the traditions of Old Valyria where all dragonriders were equal regardless of their sex. 

Three were Braavosi, two Tyroshi and one Yi-Tish, the last surviving warriors from a caravan that Daemon and his first ten had saved from a Dothraki horde on the roads between Norvos and Qohor. They had sworn Daemon their lives and swords for it, and grown even more loyal in time, until they decided to follow him back home and offer themselves to the one Daemon himself was loyal to. 

Three were Unsullied, and the other five a Summer Islander, a Dothraki, a Naathi, a Qarthi and a Lhazareen, whose freedom (and that of their families) Daemon had won in single combat against their slave master’s champion north of Meereen, and whose loyalty had been won during the journey back to the Free Cities. 

The Unsullied had sworn themselves to him first, on the way to Tolos. They had been conditioned to serve, and Daemon was a better master than their previous, but he didn’t want slaves and had made them swear they wouldn’t blindly follow him or anyone ever again. They had still been first to declare they’d come back with him, half a second after his Westerosi, as soon as they understood what was going on. 

The families of the other former slaves were in Pentos, under care of Daemon’s friend Prince Reggio, who would protect them until Daemon sent word for them to cross to Westeros. They weren’t warriors, but they still wanted to follow, and he knew what many of the boys were already training to become. 

They were a varied group, mostly Essosi but all loyal to Daemon. He knew their combat capabilities, knew they would serve well whether they were accepted to the City Watch or the household guard, knew they would prove their loyalty in due time. After all, they had upended their lives to follow him home, and not all the men he’d amassed in Essos had decided the same. 

He wouldn’t have brought men who he wasn’t sure would grow even more loyal to Rhaenyra than they were to him. He wouldn’t have risked her like that. 

Their Queen demanded oaths from all of Daemon’s men, which they gave one after the other. The Westerosi gave the oath of a sworn shield, and the Essosi both that one and the service oath of their respective peoples. In no world would that be enough for anyone to trust them (Daemon himself wouldn’t be fully trusted for a while, even with the specific oath he’d sworn), but that was expected and accepted. Even his Volantene Valyrians understood, and they were the proudest of his lot. 

After the oaths were sworn, Rhaenyra dismissed Daemon’s men to their respective assessments, the household guard to their duties and her Small Council to their own devices, then declared for everyone else she wanted to go to her quarters. 

Daemon noticed how everyone on the way stopped and scrambled to get out of the way as they vowed to their Queen, even as they gawked at his presence among this party. 

They would have to get used to him, if they ever wished to glance upon their Queen again. It would take a miracle, now that he was a Queensguard for his beloved niece, for her to be out of his sight ever again. 

The twins were ordered to stay guarding either end of the hallway to the Queen’s apartments, Sers Steffon and Lorent the doors to her chambers, and Sers Ryam and Harrold were allowed inside along her mother and Daemon. As private a reunion as they could get, now that she was Queen. 

The doors had barely closed behind them when Rhaenyra was turning around and flinging herself into his arms. He fell to his knees to hug her close to his chest, heart breaking as he felt her quivering with silent, dry sobs. 

“I’m here,” he murmured into her hair, lips brushing the silver strands. “I’m here, byka zaldrīzes, I’m never leaving your side again.” 

“You weren’t here,” she accused, a hiccup leaving her lips. Her tone was more childish, less formal, now that she was in private. “Father died, and Corlys wanted me gone, and everything was going wrong and I was so scared and you weren’t here.” 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it.” 

“You can’t leave,” she declared with the certainty of a little girl who knew for a fact that her world would bend to her will. 

“I wouldn’t want to.” 

“You’re one of mine now, you can’t leave.” 

“I swear upon Caraxes that I will never leave you again.” 

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, until his dear niece stopped shaking and she pulled back with red-rimmed eyes, sniffling as she looked upon his face and Daemon did the same, holding her jaw, ready to bring her back in for another hug at the slightest hint that she wanted it. 

Vaguely, he noticed Sers Ryam and Harrold standing by the doors and Aemma sitting on the couch behind Rhaenyra, but most of his attention was on her. 

“You’ve grown so much,” Daemon finally said, softly, hoping he didn’t set her off again. “I hear you’ve flown upon Syrax already?” 

Her little face brightened just enough that she no longer looked miserable, but rather just melancholy. “Just twice,” she admitted. “Once after... after father got sick, but before...” she trailed off, couldn’t finish the sentence, changed tracks. “The other was during the fight when Corlys had the city closed.” 

The Siege of King’s Landing. It had only lasted a fortnight before the loyalists arrived by Kingsroad and ship and smashed the traitors. Daemon hadn’t heard about his niece flying her dragon at all after the first flight that gave her immunity to sickness, and to learn she’d done so with hostiles all around... it terrified him, to know how close he’d come to losing her. 

“She sneaked away to the gardens and took off before anyone could stop her,” Aemma remarked, her tone full of the fear she must’ve felt in that moment. “She had the good sense to not get too close to the walls, but...” 

“They had to see me,” Rhaenyra argued, a stubborn tilt to her chin that Daemon remembered from his own mother. “They were fighting for me, they had to see that I knew.” 

“I’m sure they did,” Daemon placated her. “But no one would have expected you to leave the castle, where it’s safe. You’re a child, byka zaldrīzes, not a warrior, and you’re far too precious to risk.” 

“That’s what mother and Otto said,” she grumbled. “But why can’t I be a warrior? Visenya was, and she was queen too!” 

“She had training and age on her side, and she had her brother and sister still. If anything happens to you, what happens to our family?” 

Rhaenyra mumbled something unintelligible. Daemon pretended not to notice and didn’t ask for her to repeat herself. 

“I have to be a warrior,” she said next, petulant as only a Targaryen child (and a Targaryen child queen at that) could be. “Mellos says Visenya was one and they accepted her.” 

“A warrior has training,” Daemon pointed out. “Do you?” 

Rhaenyra pouted. “No,” she admitted. Suddenly, her eyes brightened and she grabbed Daemon’s right wrist, tugging on his cloak with her left. “But you can train me! You’re a great warrior, everyone says so. And you’re one of mine so you must do what I say!”  

Daemon was... trying really hard not to laugh. Not at her desire for him to train her, but at her little stomp when she reminded him of his oath. It was refreshing, to see her act like a child even with the current discussion. 

He glanced over her head at Aemma, who looked resigned. Daemon felt distinctly like this, Rhaenyra wanting martial training, was something that had been discussed before, if possibly not with his niece present. 

She was likely already being treated more like a boy than a girl, what with her having more power than even the grown men in the Small Council. What was one more thing, to facilitate her in her quest to be more like Visenya? She had idolized that particular Conqueror since she was old enough to hear her first tale of the woman’s prowess. 

Daemon smiled at her. 

“I would be honored, Your Grace.” 

~~~~~o~~~~~

By the end of the day, Daemon had been measured for his own Queensguard armor, and was walking behind his niece alongside Ser Ryam, Ser Harrold and one of the twins, a Ser Erryk Cargyll, in his old Targaryen armor with a borrowed white cloak hanging from his shoulders. The other twin, Ser Arryk, was currently guarding the Hand of the King as the man oversaw the oaths Daemon’s men were giving to their new posts, while Sers Lorent and Steffon were protecting the Queen Regent as she held court among the ladies in the gardens. 

Ser Erryk, whose spare cloak Daemon was wearing, had spent the time he was getting measured and redressed to give him some context about the current state of things in King’s Landing. 

The Red Keep was hosting more children than ever. Just over a dozen were high-profile noble hostages, mostly girls such as Lady Laena Velaryon and the Baratheon sisters, but there were also five boys young enough to still be considered babes and toddlers. A score were sons and daughters of courtiers and Small Council members, chief among them the Hand’s. The rest were wards of the Crown, orphans of loyal houses whose sacrifices had been rewarded by having them raised alongside the Queen. The Citadel, he’d been informed, had needed to send many maesters just to teach the small army of young nobles currently residing there, and a few more to see to their health. 

The day-to-day ruling was done by the Lord Hand and the Queen Regent, while their Queen was attending her lessons, but every other day she held Court and gave announcements – mainly things suggested by the Small Council which she decided to approve (because she was a dragon, and she would not speak things she did not want), but sometimes things she herself had decided and ran by her advisors. 

One of the first things Jaehaerys had done upon reaching his majority was to change the law around royal regencies. Many decisions, which before had rested exclusively upon the Hand and Regent, would start being turned over to the child monarch for final approval from the moment they turned six – starting with their own betrothal. He had chafed at many things done by his mother and her husband, hadn’t wanted another child of his House to have to suffer that uncertainty and for their name to be used to do things they were against. It was not full power, but it was enough. 

And Rhaenyra, the first beneficiary of that law, was clearly taking full advantage of it, making what decisions she already could and exercising her power to stop what she did not want done. 

Despite spending a few hours of every day either holding Court or reviewing the suggestions of her Small Council, ruling was still, understandably, the lesser part of her life at the moment. Instead, the Queen spent most of her days in lessons, which included courtly graces, history, politics, genealogy, diplomacy, warfare and everything else a young royal might need to know, except for swordplay, which Daemon was told by Aemma would start by the end of the week once the advisors and teachers figured out how best to rearrange her schedule. 

She had been wanting to learn since the moment she could walk, Daemon knew, remembering her toddling around with a toy sword held in her pudgy grip and babbling about Queen Visenya. Why hadn’t she started yet? It was obvious she had enough power even as a child queen to get at least her Queensguard to fold to her demands, so why was she only starting now that he was back? Was it because he was back? 

She led a lonely and busy life, Ser Erryk confided in Daemon during a brief moment they were alone. Their little Queen didn’t have many friends, being the Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, but thankfully she did have Alicent and Gwayne Hightower, the Hand’s children, who had been her friends since shortly before Daemon was exiled. Not that she could spend as much time with them anymore, even though they attended many of Rhaenyra’s lectures, but when they were she clung to them – the girl more than the boy, but it was evident to anyone with eyes that his niece was fond of them. 

But she was the Queen. With Jaehaerys’ law supporting her, she’d established herself after her second flight upon Syrax, when the siege was broken and the traitor commanders were brought before the throne and Rhaenyra passed judgement upon them with a clear voice and her dragon lounging next to her – because Syrax was small, but her fire was already strong enough to burn a body, as demonstrated when Viserys died and his only child had to light his pyre. No one wanted to speak against her when her golden beast was glaring and puffing. 

It had been the first time the twins had seen the Queen, Ser Erryk told Daemon, as they had broken the siege with the loyalist army and been allowed in the throne room for the judgements of the traitors. She had been even more magnificent than that day as she welcomed Daemon back home, with the sun framing her on the throne and Syrax by her side. 

Here was a Dragon Queen, Ser Erryk remembered being said by other loyalists around him on that day, remembered thinking it himself. A child, yes, but a dragonrider all the same. 

And wasn’t that what the Targaryens were, first and foremost? 

Daemon knew, then, that he would have to add more lessons to his plans with his niece. She was already the youngest dragonrider in their family’s history, but by the time he was done she would be closer to her dragon than any Targaryen before her. 

He idly wondered if he would be allowed to have Caraxes in the Keep gardens where Syrax was being housed at the moment, just so his Blood Wyrm would be able to teach the little golden lady. 

~~~~~o~~~~~

The first time Daemon saw Gwayne Hightower, he had to stop himself from narrowing his eyes at the boy’s familiarity with their Queen. Formal enough, he supposed, but still too familiar for Daemon’s tastes. 

When he spotted Otto looking at the children, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the boy would be presented as a suitor when the time came. And who would argue, should his niece pick him? True he was no great lord, but she was Queen, and it would be no hardship to the Hightowers to have him marry into her family should that happen – not that there was much arguing against Rhaenyra’s decisions, according to what his brothers in white told him. 

He knew Otto. He knew that the most likely explanation for the boy’s presence in the capital was for him to gain a headstart once the time came for his niece to find a husband. 

It rankled, that her Hand was already jockeying for a position as her goodfather, but he had to admit the plan had enough merit, in that should Rhaenyra pick him then she would get to marry a friend. And wasn’t that more than most got? 

Daemon determined that he would refrain from doing or saying anything against the boy or his family’s designs for him unless asked (in which case he would explain his worries) or forced (in which case he would try to be subtle about whatever actions he deemed necessary). 

~~~~~o~~~~~

Daemon had been a Queensguard for three days when he first met Lady Alicent Hightower. 

His niece’s best friend had been feeling a little sick lately, not worryingly so but enough for the maesters to confine her to bedrest, and so their first meeting transpired when Daemon had already donned the white armor of his order. 

She was more formal than her brother, but somehow closer to Rhaenyra, in a way that told him they were each other’s best friend. 

He wondered how different their relationship might have been if Viserys hadn’t died, if Rhaenyra was still free to be a child. If the weight of Westeros and the Targaryen dynasty hadn’t been thrust upon her shoulders when she was only five, if she hadn’t become one side of a civil war by six. 

But with Otto’s daughter around, Daemon saw his niece relax and act more like a child than with anyone else he’d seen barring himself and Aemma. He saw her gap-toothed smile, genuine and bright (the shadow of the throne leaving her eyes, the weight of the crown easing off her head) and knew what Alicent Hightower meant to her. 

Reluctantly and provisionally, he decided to approve of this girl so close to Rhaenyra, provided Otto didn’t use her to manipulate his niece. 

There was an obvious ulterior motive for Gwayne’s presence – he would be a suitor when the time came. With Alicent the gain was less evident, more about the subtle influence of a child’s confidence than the greed for the little Queen’s bloodline. Alicent’s presence was far more innocent than Gwayne’s – still dangerous, but something that he decided to allow for the time being, much as he would allow Gwayne for as long as no one tried to force his niece to take him to husband. 

If anyone tried, he would remove them from her life. And from their own, if it was necessary. As the Queen’s uncle and Queensguard, he felt justified and even obligated to. 

There would be a lot of that going forward, of staying his hand until Otto or anyone else stepped out of line. And judging by the way the man eyed Daemon when they crossed paths, the Hand was well aware that the only reason Daemon was behaving was because his usual tactics weren’t yet necessary to protect Rhaenyra. 

And if the Small Council and courtiers behaved themselves, then the old Daemon would never make an appearance. They had to know that there was little he wouldn’t do for his family, and he had never been needed half as much as Rhaenyra needed him now. 

The rogue was not tamed. He was a dragon, bonded to his family, and like a dragon he would do whatever it took to keep them safe. And if that person was a child queen, then the rogue would act the white knight until she was in danger – in which case he would have no problem donning the black and red of a dragon once more. 

Daemon looked at his niece, moving through life under the weight of duty and the threats of her position, training to fight like the Conquerors and rule better than any Targaryen before her, and determined to never make it necessary for her to defend herself.