#daemon takes good care of netty and it’s what she deserves

[bohemian-nights]

OK mini headcannon to lighten the mood (sort of)

When the maester at Maidenpool brings the letter to Daemon and Nettles they are said to be having a "simple meal" this part stands out to me a lot because since they're honorary guess and Daemon is the prince/king consort of the 7 kingdoms you would expect there to be a grand meal awaiting him (and by extension Nettles as his companion) with many variety of foods for breakfast and dinner (especially Dinner since it's predicted that Nettles and Daemon would be out all day, barely taking time for lunch) so that being said if dinner would probably be more of a feast but here's my headcannon: Nettles gets sick. Being on the street and getting by on scraps her stomach isn't used to a variety of foods (it's been well documented that when trying to feed a starved person it could actually make them a whole lot worst) so perhaps on the first night they are treated to a variety and Nettles is encouraged to try different things (probably by Daemon) she of course doesn't gorge herself, but she eats enough that it actually makes her really sick and their search is delayed for a while so she could recover, after that Daemon takes notice that Nettles only takes a few things on her plate and from time to time tries 1 new thing, after that Daemon just request simple meals so that 1.Nettles doesn't feel overwhelmed and 2. He could eat with her.

OK so I know that it's very vague and probably not even the reason at all but it's just a sweet little HC 😅

Love this 🙌🏽 A bit morbid, but this kinda reminds me of Audrey Hepburn who grew up in occupied Holland. She nearly starved(she had to eat tulip bulbs at one point) which messed her up. I don’t believe she ate very much for the rest of her life.

The lack of regular nutritional meals while Nettles was still developing would definitely affect her dietary habits at Maidenpool(and beyond), and while I’m sure she would like to eat whatever(and she definitely doesn’t want to be impolite and turn down food), she just can’t.

Daemon cares less about being polite and more about her safety. Making sure that Netty eats what she can and that they share their meals would be his top priority so simple yet hearty meals it is 🙌🏽

[dwellordream]

43 kisses, nettles and daemon

Be gone, she thinks. We’ve tarried too long already, be gone now, damn you.

She’s jumpy as a hare now. Every howl of the wind or rustle in the pines could be Aemond and Vhagar overhead. Nettles is far past the point of caring what happens to her, but the people of Maidenpool do not deserve to die by fire.

Nettles could tell you with confidence now that fire is the worst way to die. The blood of the black ram is still drying on her hands. Sheepstealer is sated and ready to fly, chafing at his chains.

No more after this. She will never chain him down again. Nothing good has ever come of keeping him chained in a pit like a monster, while she let herself be drawn into the high lords’ games and grudges.

I will not be chained, she thinks, as he approaches. Not again.

“I had hoped things would be different,” he says. In the pale morning might she sees his age. He is not an old man yet, but he is not a young one, either.

You are old enough to be my father twice over, she thinks. Did that ever trouble you, when I was in your bed? Does anything ever trouble you, but thoughts of war and revenge?

He strokes her chin with a gloved thumb.

“Different how?” she asks.

He shrugs with forced levity. “Sometimes we delude ourselves into believing we could begin again.”

Aye, she thinks. Out with the old and in with the new. Cast off your queen, who wants my head, who says I bewitched you between my brown legs, and take up the wharf rat, the thief, the bastard of Spicetown. And would you dress me up in yellow silks, like the Maiden of the Tree?

She is disgusted by how much a pathetic, desperate part of her wants that. Not the riches, not even the power. But for someone to just want to keep her close. Even her own mother could not do that much.

“Of course,” he says, “that was just a little boy’s fancy.”

You are not a little boy, she thinks, though you’ve killed plenty. Does it torment you at night? I don’t think it does. At your age, all the dead boys must blend together. What is one more on the morrow?

Ah well. Better a dead old rogue and a dead little boy than a dead Netty, aye? Let him and Aemond rip each other apart. Sheepstealer is waiting for her.

Yet she lingers, and then, before he can say any more, kisses him. He smiles against her mouth, as cocky as if this were just another triumph. Doubtless he expects he will come find her after this. Doubtless he expects she will crawl back to him for sanctuary.

But he was right. You can’t begin again.

[dwellordream]

I love the Maris and Nettles one, May I request Nettles and Daemon? You can pick whatever nr your heart desires lol

Nettles has a good arm, but even well past forty Daemon’s reflexes are honed, and he ducks, to her dismay.

The hairbrush collides with the doorframe instead, clattering to the floor. She expects him to redden in fury, but instead he simply shuts the door behind him, picks up the hairbrush, and turns it almost thoughtfully over in his gloved hand. “You’ve cracked it,” he says. “Am I to assume it was not to your liking, or was that simply the only thing in reach?”

It is on the tip of her tongue to scream and shout at him, to puff herself up in rage, to rant and rave until he stops that almost condescending smile of ‘don’t be such a child’ and screams back at her, but Nettles restrains herself. He’s not the only one who can curtail their temper. And she’ll just prove his point if she rages and curses at him, as much as she wants to. “It’s useless,” she says, instead. “It’s- do you think they made a brush like that for hair like mine?” She wants to take him and shake him until his teeth chatter in his skull, though she’d have to stand up on her tiptoes to do so. 

Most men have gone to fat by the time they are pushing fifty, but aside from the lines in his face, around his eyes and mouth, he is still hale and strong, skin smooth and unblemished, not an ounce of extra weight on him.

And she’s not the skinny, half-starved, grimy waif she once was, but she doesn’t like to lie to herself, either. Dragon rider or not, they have never been on equal footing, and not just physically. They will never be on even ground. That’s part of the problem.

She stiffens as he comes closer, setting the ivory brush down on the table. It’s cracked, and she feels a brief jolt of guilt. It was very expensive. 

He tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear, and presses a kiss to her brow, as a father might to a daughter. That makes her trade the guilt for anger instead.

“I’ll get you a comb instead,” he says simply, as if that resolves everything.

When she will not look at him, he tilts her chin up, but she wrenches her face away, feeling her cheeks darken with embarrassment. Now she does feel like a child again. He’s won. 

“It’s not about that,” she says, turning from him. “It’s- I am not- I won’t be-,” she can’t find the words, and she hears him about to chuckle, then whirls on him, “I won’t be bought,” she snaps, “with- with hairbrushes and looking glasses and silks and velvets! I am- I am not your whore! I am not Missy Wormtongue-,”

That succeeds in provoking him; he will never hear a word against Mysaria, even if last Nettles heard they could scarcely look at each other. The same might be said for him and the queen, but Nettles is not bold enough to test that, bold as she is.

“You will hold your tongue,” he says, the emphasis on tongue, “when you speak of Lady Mysaria. She is none of your concern.”

“She is when you make me think you’d like to have both of us in your bed when you return to court!” Nettles snaps. 

He offers her a sharp, sardonic smile that makes the back of her neck prickle. “You’ve proven quite fond of my bed, these past weeks.”

“I don’t need bloody brushes and dresses to keep me there!” she retorts, then wants to curse herself- what is she saying? No. This has to stop. This… this is not what she wanted, only he’s- he’s made it all so… this is not what she wanted. She swore to herself this would not be her. That she would not be- she would not let them paint her as- as just another upjumped mistress, some common wench swept off into a prince’s bed, she is not- she is a dragon rider, she is a soldier, and she- she would have been made a lady, had Jace yet lived. 

Well, she is not, she will never be, and she has no complaints about that. But she wants- she wants to be respected, and whatever Daemon is offering her- whatever she’s foolishly taken, like a greedy little child grasping at scraps of bread in the gutter- she does not know that it is respect. 

He softens; she hates him for it. His hand comes up to cup her face, gloved fingers stroking her wet cheek. She’s horrified by her own tears, and wants to jerk away again, but then he’s pulled her close.

“I would never try to keep you anywhere against your will,” he says. “I know you to be far too fierce and proud for that, Netty.”

Nettles, she thinks. These men, they always want her to be Netty. Well, Netty died with all the other wharf rats running around Driftmark. Nettles tamed a dragon. Nettles went to war. She is Nettles. She is not any man’s Netty, no matter- no matter how silver his tongue or tender his embrace.

“I just want you to- to respect me,” she mutters. It sounds weak and pathetic to her ears, a little girl’s teary confession. 

He pulls back. “I respect you,” he says, soberly. She wants to believe him. He is seldom sober. She does. She must. “I only wish you’d let me care for you. I think you in dire need of it.” He strokes her hair, gently. “I think you deserve it.”

There’s a lump in her throat. Nettles swallows hard, then gives a small nod, though she does not feel triumphant or vindicated.

What is she going to do? Rail at him some more? Throw things? He’s the Lord Protector, the Queen’s prince consort. She is- she is Nettles. Just Nettles. She desperately wants that to feel like enough. Sometimes, with him, it does. He releases her, removing his cloak and gloves. Nettles retreats to the window seat, feeling chastened and resentful all at once. He sees her watching him, arms wrapped around herself, and says, too casually, “I do have one thing you might not begrudge me to give you, sweetling.”

Nettles chews on her lower lip, and watches him produce a slim leather bound journal. “To practice your letters in,” he says. “You can throw this at my head if you like, I should think it will hurt less.”

She snorts, and after a moment, comes over to take it from him, trying and failing to ignore the small, satisfied smirk on his face.