#ice wife | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

therogueflame · 3 months ago

Text

The Diplomat

Hi friends,

Since I'm a Daemon girly through and through and horny as fuck, I imagined what it would be like to have terrible, angry sex with Daemon. None of the fics were hitting the spot, so I wrote one instead. There are two parts to this story, but the second part can be read as a standalone if you squint a little. Here is part one, enjoy!

✨ My Masterlist ✨

🖊️My AO3 🖊️

📝 My WIP List 📝

❄️ My ASOIAF/GOT/HOTD Discord Server 🔥

Summary: Your marriage to Daemon has been marked by tempers and tempests, but when he proposes setting the Riverlands ablaze, the need for reason has never been more urgent.

WC: 9.4k

Warnings: 18+, just fluff and a lil suggestiveness, no use of y/n, light descriptions of fem!reader, kind of a little jumping around (let me know if i put too many sword dividers in)

Daemon Targaryen x Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

The small council chamber was thick with unease. Though the warm spring breeze drifted through the high windows, stirring the black banners bearing the sigil of House Targaryen, it did little to lighten the atmosphere. The men gathered around the long oak table wore the weight of the discussion in their stiff shoulders and furrowed brows.

Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, spoke first, his voice measured but edged with authority. “The Blackwoods insist their knight acted in self-defense. He claims the Bracken lord drew steel first and would have struck him down had he not defended himself.”

Across the table, Lord Lyman Beesbury adjusted his spectacles, his aged face lined with worry. “Regardless of intent, a Bracken heir lies dead. His father demands retribution, and he’s mustered men to see it done. This feud risks spilling over into open conflict, my lords.”

“It has always been this way between the Brackens and Blackwoods,” chimed in Lord Tyland Lannister, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. He leaned back in his chair with an air of indifference. “Their hatred for one another is practically tradition. Why should the crown involve itself in their petty quarrels?”

“Because they are sworn to the crown,” Otto replied sharply, his gaze narrowing. “Their lands and titles are held in service to the Iron Throne. If we do not intervene, their conflict will destabilize the Riverlands and undermine royal authority.”

Daemon scoffed loudly, drawing every gaze in the room. He lounged in his chair, though his posture was more calculated than relaxed. His dark eyes glittered with impatience. “Destabilize? Spare me your dramatics, Otto. This is nothing more than two dogs fighting over scraps. Let them tire themselves out.”

“And when those scraps include burnt villages and dead smallfolk?” Otto countered, his tone clipped. “You would have the crown turn a blind eye while the Riverlands descend into chaos?”

Daemon leaned forward then, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “I would have the crown remind them who they answer to. Send riders, summon their lords to kneel before the throne. If they refuse, then you send swords.”

Lord Beesbury sputtered, his hand trembling slightly as he adjusted his quill. “Violence is hardly the answer, my prince. Surely, diplomacy—”

“Diplomacy has done nothing but embolden them,” Daemon snapped, cutting him off. “Every year, it’s the same. Bracken blames Blackwood, Blackwood blames Bracken. It’s a waste of the crown’s time and patience. They need to be reminded that their squabbles end where the Iron Throne begins.”

“You speak of violence as though it’s the only solution,” Tyland interjected smoothly. “The Riverlands are already tense. A heavy hand might unite them—against us.”

Viserys, who had remained silent until now, raised a hand, commanding the room’s attention. His weary expression spoke of a man burdened by the crown he wore. “Enough,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “This matter is not so easily solved. Both houses have their grievances, and both claim to act in the right. I will need time to consider our response.”

Daemon’s chair scraped against the stone floor as he rose, his movements sharp with irritation. “While you consider, brother, they will act. And your indecision will be seen as weakness.”

Viserys’s gaze hardened. “Do not mistake thoughtfulness for weakness, Daemon.”

“Call it what you will,” Daemon muttered, turning on his heel and striding from the chamber, his dark cloak billowing behind him. The remaining lords exchanged wary glances but said nothing, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

Viserys sighed heavily, the sound of a man long accustomed to the burdens of the throne. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair as he watched the doors swing closed behind Daemon’s retreating figure. For a moment, the chamber was silent, save for the distant cries of gulls from Blackwater Bay and the faint murmur of activity in the Red Keep below.

“This council is concluded,” Viserys said at last, his voice quieter now, the fight drained from it. He rose from his chair, and the lords followed suit, their expressions a mix of relief and unease.

“Your Grace,” Otto began, stepping forward as the rest of the council prepared to file out. His tone was deferential, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his eagerness to press his point. “Might I suggest—”

“Not now, Otto,” Viserys interrupted, waving him off. “I’ve heard enough for today.”

The Hand of the King inclined his head, though the tightening of his lips spoke volumes about his displeasure. One by one, the council members departed, their whispered conversations trailing behind them like smoke.

Viserys lingered for a moment after the chamber was empty. The answers would come, but not today.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

Daemon stormed through the halls of the Red Keep, his boots striking the stone floor with forceful purpose. Servants and courtiers scattered at the sight of him, their eyes darting to the crimson and black of his cloak, the Targaryen sigil embroidered in rich gold on his tunic.

The prince’s mind churned with frustration, the council’s deliberations replaying in his head like a wound he couldn’t stop picking at. Otto’s pompous tone, Tyland’s smug indifference, Viserys’s endless dithering—all of it grated against his pride.

By the time he reached the chambers he shared with you, the heat of his temper had reached its peak. He flung the doors open with enough force to make them shudder against the stone walls.

Inside, the room was a picture of calm. Sunlight filtered through the open windows, casting soft, golden light across the chamber. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the sweet warmth of spring.

You sat near the hearth, cradling your young son in your arms. His small fingers grasped at a strand of your hair, his innocent laughter filling the room as you smiled down at him. The sight was a balm to any who might witness it—anyone but Daemon in his current state.

The nursemaid, standing a few paces away, froze at the sight of the prince’s thunderous expression. Her hands faltered mid-curtsy, and she looked to you for guidance, her face pale.

“Out,” Daemon barked, his voice sharp enough to cut. He didn’t bother looking at her as he strode into the room, his dark eyes locked on you.

The nursemaid hesitated for only a moment before gathering the child in her arms and retreating swiftly, her footsteps nearly silent against the rush of Daemon’s presence.

When the door closed behind her, Daemon’s pacing began, each step a sharp, deliberate motion that mirrored the storm in his mind. His hands flexed at his sides, as though longing to grip the hilt of Dark Sister and channel his anger into something tangible.

“This is what passes for leadership now,” he began, his voice low but vibrating with suppressed rage. “My brother, the king, sitting in that gods-damned chair, twiddling his thumbs while the Riverlands teeter on the edge of chaos!”

You set your book aside, folding your hands in your lap as you watched him. You had seen Daemon in this mood before, his temper a force of nature that could not be stopped but only weathered. It was better to let him speak, to let the storm rage until it spent itself.

“I told them what needed to be done,” he continued, his pacing growing faster. “Ride out, demand their fealty, remind them who they serve. But no—Viserys would rather sit and think.” His lip curled as he spat the word, as though it were a curse.

Daemon’s pacing was relentless, his steps carving invisible lines into the chamber floor. His voice rose as he continued, his words dripping with scorn. “Otto’s solution? Send letters. As if words written on parchment will mend generations of blood feuds! And Tyland—he all but shrugged! ‘Let them fight it out,’ he said, as though it’s his lands that will burn when the fighting starts. Useless, the lot of them.”

He paused, finally turning to you, his dark eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and expectation. “And my brother,” he growled, his hands clenching into fists. “The great Viserys, King of the Seven Kingdoms, paralyzed by his own fear of making the wrong choice. He’ll sit there until it’s too late, as he always does, and then expect me to clean up his mess.”

You met his gaze calmly, though you could feel the weight of his fury pressing against you like a tangible force. “Daemon,” you said gently, your tone an attempt to temper the flames threatening to consume him.

But he wasn’t ready to be calmed. “No,” he snapped, cutting you off before you could say more. “Don’t tell me to let it go. You weren’t there. You didn’t see the way they looked at me—like I was some brash fool for speaking sense. They undermine me at every turn, and Viserys allows it!”

His voice echoed off the walls, and for a moment, the room fell silent. The distant sounds of the Red Keep seemed impossibly far away, muted by the tension that filled the space between you.

You rose from your seat slowly, smoothing the fabric of your gown as you crossed the room to stand before him. He watched you, his chest rising and falling with the force of his anger, his jaw tight.

“I’m not telling you to let it go,” you said softly, placing a hand on his chest. His tunic was warm beneath your palm, the steady thrum of his heartbeat betraying the tempest within. “I’m asking you to save it for when it matters most. You’ll have your chance to be heard again. But not if you burn yourself out now.”

For a moment, Daemon said nothing. His eyes searched yours, his expression still tight with frustration, but the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. He placed a hand over yours, his fingers curling around it as if anchoring himself.

“They don’t listen,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice had dulled. “Not to me. Not unless I force them to.”

“Then make them listen,” you replied, your tone firm but kind. “But not like this. Not in anger.”

His lips twisted into a smirk, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “You think you know me so well,” he said, his voice softer now, almost teasing.

“I do,” you replied simply, holding his gaze.

Daemon sighed, the last of his anger bleeding away as he pulled you into his arms. His embrace was strong, almost possessive, as if you were the only thing grounding him in that moment.

“You’re too clever for your own good,” he murmured into your hair.

“And you’re too stubborn for yours,” you replied, earning a low chuckle from him.

When he pulled back, his expression was lighter, though the frustration lingered in his eyes. “The feast,” you said gently, steering him toward a different focus. “Rhaenyra’s wedding is in a few days. You should be thinking about that, not letting the council get under your skin.”

Daemon snorted, but there was no heat behind it. “Unity,” he muttered, echoing words he had likely heard too many times already. “A grand spectacle to pretend the realm isn’t fracturing beneath us.”

You arched a brow. “Then let them believe otherwise. Isn’t that the game of thrones you so enjoy?”

He let out a short laugh, the sound both bitter and amused. “You’ve been spending too much time around me.”

You smiled, brushing a hand along his arm. “Perhaps.”

Daemon released a long breath, the tension in his shoulders finally softening as he stepped away, his gaze drifting toward the open window. The warm spring breeze ruffled his silver hair, and for a moment, he looked less like the fearsome rogue prince and more like the restless man you had come to know so intimately.

“The wedding feast,” he said, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. “A spectacle of union for a realm that can’t even decide which house to favor in a petty feud.”

You stepped closer, your tone light yet pointed. “And yet it’s not the realm’s union we’re celebrating, is it? It’s Rhaenyra’s.”

Daemon turned back to you, his expression softening further at the mention of his niece. His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he tilted his head. “I’ll admit, the girl’s managed to surprise me. Agreeing to wed Laenor Velaryon of all people. I thought she’d have burnt the keep to ashes before conceding.”

You chuckled softly, reaching for his hand. “Perhaps she learned from someone that rebellion isn’t always about fire and blood. Sometimes, it’s about choosing when to bend, so you can strike harder later.”

He raised a brow at that, his smirk deepening. “If you’re insinuating that I’ve taught her anything resembling restraint, I fear you’ve misunderstood me, my lady.”

“Not restraint,” you countered, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “Strategy. She’s clever, your niece. As clever as you are, and just as stubborn.”

Daemon’s gaze softened further, and he let out a quiet laugh. “She’ll need that stubbornness to endure what’s ahead. The Velaryons are not without their pride.”

“And neither are the Targaryens,” you replied with a small smile. “It’s fitting, really—a match to unite two ancient houses and bolster the realm’s strength. A necessary union, no matter how imperfect it may seem.”

He sighed, his free hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “A necessary union,” he echoed. “And yet, Viserys sees it as more than that. He thinks it’ll heal old wounds and inspire loyalty. As if a feast and a wedding can undo years of division.”

“Maybe it can’t,” you admitted, your voice softening. “But it can remind people of what’s worth fighting for—family, unity, the realm’s future. Even if it’s only for a night.”

Daemon looked at you then, his expression unreadable. But there was a warmth in his gaze, one that seemed to melt away the last of his earlier frustration. He pulled you closer, his hands settling on your waist.

“You have a way of making everything seem simpler,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “Even when it’s not.”

“It’s a gift,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Now, will you let me dress you in something appropriate for the feast, or will I have to endure your complaints the entire evening?”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “Oh, you’ll endure them regardless. But yes, my dear, I’ll wear whatever ridiculous finery you deem fit. I wouldn’t want to shame you in front of the court.”

“Nonsense, perish the thought,” you said with a grin, resting your forehead against his.

For now, the storm had truly passed, and in its wake, a fragile peace remained. The feast loomed ahead, a symbol of hope for some and an illusion for others. But in this moment, there was only you and Daemon, and that was enough.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The grand hall of the Red Keep was resplendent, its vaulted ceilings adorned with streaming banners bearing the sigils of the realm’s great houses. Flickering torchlight and the warm glow of chandeliers lit the space, casting dancing shadows over the lavish feast laid upon long trestle tables. The scent of roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

Rhaenyra sat at the head table beside her new husband, Laenor Velaryon, her expression poised but faintly distant, as though she carried the weight of the realm’s gaze with practiced indifference. Her silver hair was woven with pearls, and her gown shimmered with dragonfire embroidery, every inch the picture of Targaryen majesty.

The lords and ladies of the realm had gathered in full force, a sea of vibrant colors and glittering jewels, their movements a choreographed dance of subtle rivalries and unspoken alliances. Among them sat the Brackens and Blackwoods, carefully separated and positioned at opposite ends of the hall. Their faces were schooled into neutrality, their hands busy with goblets of wine or trencher bread, but the tension between the two houses was palpable to those who knew where to look.

You were seated at Daemon’s side at a table reserved for the royal family, a position that afforded you a perfect view of the festivities—and the undercurrents of unease beneath them. Daemon was dressed impeccably in dark crimson and black, his usual defiance tempered into a sharp elegance that suited him well. His expression was unreadable as he sipped his wine, but you could see the way his gaze flickered over the room, cataloging every interaction, every veiled slight.

“They’ve managed not to kill each other—for now,” Daemon murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear. His eyes flicked toward the Brackens and Blackwoods, a glint of amusement mingling with his sharp scrutiny.

“Give them time,” you replied dryly, reaching for your own goblet. “The wine hasn’t yet worked its magic.”

Daemon chuckled, his smirk deepening as he leaned closer. “Or its mischief.”

You arched a brow at him, though you couldn’t help but smile. “You seem far too entertained by the prospect of chaos at your niece’s wedding.”

He shrugged, his gaze shifting back to the hall. “Chaos keeps the night interesting.”

Before you could respond, a herald’s voice rang out, calling for the first dance. All eyes turned to Rhaenyra and Laenor as they rose from their seats, their movements graceful as they stepped onto the polished floor. The music began, a lively tune that seemed to ripple through the hall like a spark catching fire.

The lords and ladies soon followed, filling the floor with a swirl of color and movement. Laughter and applause echoed as couples spun and twirled, their steps weaving together in intricate patterns.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming idly against the table. “Are you going to make me dance, too?” he asked, his tone teasing.

You smirked, leaning closer to him. “I was going to let you off easy tonight. But if you insist…”

He groaned in mock exasperation, earning a soft laugh from you. For a moment, the tension of the evening faded, replaced by the warmth of shared humor.

But even as the festivities unfolded, you couldn’t shake the sense that the peace was fragile, a veneer that could crack at any moment. The Brackens and Blackwoods were not the only ones walking a fine line tonight, and in the shadow of the Iron Throne, every move felt like a gamble.

Daemon’s groan was followed by a mischievous grin, the kind that always made your chest tighten and your resolve weaken. “You’re insufferable,” he said, though there was no heat to his words as he extended a hand toward you.

“And you’re predictable,” you countered, placing your hand in his. His fingers wrapped around yours, firm yet careful, as he guided you from your seat.

The music shifted as you both stepped onto the dance floor, the melody lilting into a slower, more intimate tune. The crowd parted, eyes subtly following your movements as you took your place in the center of the floor with the rogue prince at your side. You could feel the weight of their attention, but you were no stranger to it.

Daemon’s hand rested lightly on your waist, his other holding yours as he began to lead you in the dance. His steps were confident, fluid, each movement purposeful yet unhurried. “They’re watching us,” he murmured, his voice low and for your ears alone.

“They always are,” you replied, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “You’re hard to ignore.”

His smirk deepened, his thumb brushing against your hand. “And you,” he said, his tone softer now, “make it impossible.”

You rolled your eyes at his flattery but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. The dance brought you closer, his hand at your waist pulling you just shy of propriety, but enough to make your heart race.

The world around you seemed to fade, the music and laughter becoming a distant hum as you moved together. Daemon’s presence was magnetic, his intensity grounding yet exhilarating, as though the two of you existed in a world apart from the one where alliances were made and broken over cups of wine.

“You’re rather light on your feet for someone who pretends to loathe courtly things,” you teased, letting him spin you gently before drawing you back into his arms.

“Don’t mistake talent for affection,” he replied, though his smirk betrayed him. “I’d burn this entire hall if it meant avoiding another round of politics.”

“And yet, here you are,” you said, your tone light but pointed. “Dancing at a wedding, pretending to tolerate the people you claim to despise.”

“For you,” he said simply, his voice low and sincere in a way that made your breath hitch. “Always for you.”

For a moment, the tension of the feast melted away, replaced by the warmth of his confession. But it was fleeting, a stolen moment in a night that promised anything but peace.

As the dance came to an end, Daemon held your gaze, his hand lingering at your waist. Applause filled the hall, but you barely heard it, your focus locked on the man before you.

“You’re going to set tongues wagging,” you said softly, stepping back as decorum demanded.

“Let them wag,” he replied, his smirk returning. “They’d do it anyway.”

The spell was broken as the music shifted again, and other couples moved to fill the floor. Daemon led you back to your seat, his hand brushing against yours one last time before he turned his attention back to the feast.

The hall was alive with revelry, yet beneath the surface, you could feel the fragile balance of the evening teetering. The Brackens and Blackwoods had kept to themselves so far, but there was no denying the sharp glances exchanged across the room, nor the tension lingering like a storm on the horizon.

Daemon, of course, noticed it too. He leaned toward you, his voice low and conspiratorial. “How long do you think it’ll take before someone breaks the peace?”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “Hopefully not before dessert.”

His laughter was soft but genuine, a rare moment of levity in a night that felt like a game played on the edge of a knife.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The revelry continued unabated, the music and laughter rising to fill the cavernous hall. Goblets were refilled, plates heaped with delicacies, and the scent of roasted quail and sweet pastries hung heavy in the air. Yet, despite the vibrant atmosphere, an undercurrent of unease persisted—an unspoken tension that seemed to ripple just beneath the surface.

At opposite ends of the hall, the Brackens and Blackwoods remained in their carefully orchestrated positions. Their eyes rarely wandered toward one another, but when they did, it was with the kind of simmering disdain that no amount of protocol could conceal.

Daemon leaned lazily back in his chair, one arm draped over the back of your seat. His eyes roamed the hall, sharp and assessing despite the deceptively casual posture. He sipped his wine, his smirk growing as his gaze lingered on the Bracken table.

“They’re twitching like hounds on a short leash,” he muttered, the words meant only for you.

“You’re not helping,” you replied, though your own gaze flickered toward the Blackwoods, where a young lord’s hand gripped the stem of his goblet just a little too tightly.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of a raised voice—a sharp, mocking laugh from the Bracken side of the hall. Heads turned as Ser Amos Bracken, a stout man with a ruddy complexion, leaned back in his chair, his booming voice carrying over the din.

“Tell me, young Blackwood,” Amos said, his words dripping with condescension, “is it true your family still claims descent from the First Men? Seems a bold thing to boast when all it’s earned you is a table in the corner.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter followed, and for a moment, it seemed as though the insult might go unanswered. But then, a young Blackwood lord—tall, lean, and barely out of boyhood—rose from his seat, his face flushed with anger.

“And yet we’re here,” the Blackwood retorted, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “Unlike your ancestors, who’d sooner kneel to any conqueror who offered them a scrap of power.”

The hall fell silent.

Daemon’s smirk widened, and he leaned closer to you, his voice a low murmur. “Here we go.”

You shot him a sharp look, but before you could reply, the tension in the hall snapped like a drawn bowstring.

Ser Amos Bracken surged to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. “You’ve got a sharp tongue for a boy who hides behind his mother’s skirts!” he barked, his meaty hand slamming down on the table.

“And you’ve got a lot of nerve for a man whose house clings to its titles like barnacles to a sinking ship!” the Blackwood shot back, stepping forward.

The two were separated by the breadth of the hall, but the air between them was charged, their mutual hatred igniting like dry kindling.

From his place at the head table, Viserys rose, his voice booming over the commotion. “Enough!” he commanded, his face flushed with the effort of asserting authority. “This is a wedding feast, not a battlefield!”

The hall quieted, though the tension lingered like smoke after a fire. The Bracken and Blackwood men glared at one another, their hands twitching near their sword hilts despite the king’s warning.

Beside you, Daemon watched with unveiled amusement, his smirk never faltering. “Viserys will tire of this soon enough,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And when he does, the real fun begins.”

You sighed, your hand reaching for your goblet. “It’s a wonder we ever manage to call ourselves united,” you muttered.

The feast continued, but the mood had shifted. The Brackens and Blackwoods returned to their seats, though their tempers simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest provocation to boil over.

And in the shadows of the great hall, as wine flowed and music played, you couldn’t help but wonder how long this fragile peace would last.

The feast dragged on long after the first sparks of conflict had settled into the deep, tense silence of uneasy truce. The Brackens and Blackwoods remained seated at opposite ends of the hall, their eyes darting sideways, but never meeting. The music played, but it seemed faint, muted by the hum of strained politeness. The air was thick with the weight of unsaid words and the knowledge that the night was not done with its drama yet.

Daemon’s hand never left your side, though he barely spoke throughout the evening. His gaze, sharp and watchful, moved across the hall with the same intensity he had shown in the small council, as if he were cataloging every movement, every slight. Yet, when he turned to you, the ever-present amusement lingered in his eyes, softened by the flicker of warmth that only you could evoke.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

Finally, the night wore on long enough that the revelers began to tire. The hall was slowly emptied of its guests, many of them still nursing their drinks, their conversations lowered to murmurs. It was only then that you and Daemon rose from the table, both of you feeling the weight of the evening—its many unspoken tensions—and the need to retreat from it all.

As you made your way through the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, your thoughts were heavy, your feet quickening to match the pace of Daemon’s long strides. The air had cooled slightly, but the heat of the feast still lingered in your chest, the pressing weight of what had transpired and what might yet come. You were both silent, the quiet of the corridors filled only with the faint sound of your footfalls.

Upon reaching your chambers, the door was barely shut before Daemon’s mouth found yours in a fierce kiss, a hungry press of lips that spoke more than words could. It was a fire that hadn’t been stoked since the tension of the council, since the weight of the evening’s events, and now, it erupted between you both, a spark turning into a blaze.

His hands were quick, unhurried but firm, as they sought the fastenings of your gown, the fabric brushing over your skin like a whisper. He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your ear, as he murmured words that had no need for meaning—just the undeniable presence of him, the demand of his touch. You responded in kind, your hands threading through his silver hair, pulling him even closer, your own lips demanding, pushing, surrendering.

The world beyond your chambers ceased to exist, only the feel of his body pressed against yours, the heat of your skin mingling in the dim light of the room. The frantic pace, the shared desperation—this was the only way to truly escape the suffocating expectations of the night, of the court, of the world that always surrounded you both.

Time seemed to lose all meaning as you moved together, your bodies in perfect sync, the world beyond the stone walls forgotten. And when it was over, when the storm had finally subsided, you lay together in the coolness of the sheets, breathing heavily, the weight of the night still lingering but now softened, shared between you.

For a moment, there was only quiet, the kind that spoke of an intimacy deeper than any words. But eventually, Daemon’s voice broke the silence, his tone low and thoughtful.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his fingers trailing lazily down your arm. “I expected you to have more to say about tonight.”

You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow as you looked at him, his silver eyes darkened by the faint candlelight, the weight of the evening still present but subdued now. “What more is there to say?” you asked, your voice soft, though a trace of the earlier tension remained in it. “It’s all a game, isn’t it? A dance between houses, between power, between… everything we can’t control.”

Daemon’s lips quirked into a faint, almost rueful smile. “Not everything is a game,” he said, his voice low, his hand coming to rest on your waist. “But sometimes it’s the only thing worth playing.”

You let out a small laugh, but it was tinged with weariness. “And we’re all just pawns.”

He turned toward you fully now, his eyes sharp but softer, the edges of his smirk fading into something more sincere. “Not pawns. We’re the ones pulling the strings, whether we admit it or not.”

You met his gaze, searching his face for any sign of doubt or calculation, but found none. For all his cynical remarks, for all his posturing, Daemon was a man who knew the weight of power—and the way it could be wielded.

And yet, there was a part of you that wondered if, beneath it all, he still feared being pulled into the same web of politics, of manipulation, of being a player rather than a kingmaker.

“I suppose we have no choice but to play,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now, more resigned. “And if we can’t win, we make sure no one else does.”

Daemon chuckled, the sound low and dark, and he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your forehead. “That’s the spirit. And if the night’s mischief didn’t satisfy you, you can always count on me to make things interesting tomorrow.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers idly tracing patterns along his chest. “Let’s sleep first,” you said, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you. “We can fight the battles tomorrow.”

Daemon’s arms tightened around you as he kissed your hair softly. “Tomorrow, then. But for tonight, let’s leave the world outside.”

And as the flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, you closed your eyes, the weight of the night finally lifting, knowing that come the dawn, the battles would still await—but for now, you were content to simply rest beside him, the world outside a distant echo. ▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The next morning, the tension that had hung heavy over the wedding feast still clung to the air in the Red Keep. Even the rays of sunlight filtering through the high windows of the small council chamber seemed to carry an oppressive weight, as if the very castle itself was holding its breath. The room, normally filled with the dull murmur of routine affairs, now buzzed with the friction of yesterday’s simmering conflict.

Viserys sat at the head of the table, his usually placid expression marred by a faint crease between his brows. The day after Rhaenyra’s wedding feast, it seemed the wounds were still fresh, not just in the eyes of the Brackens and Blackwoods, but in the silent resentments of the council members who had grown all too accustomed to the tense dance of alliances.

Daemon sat with his usual relaxed posture, though there was no hiding the coldness that lingered in his eyes. He had never been one to mince words or tolerate the games of court, and today, it seemed, his patience was thinner than ever.

The council’s discussion was still focused on the aftermath of the previous evening’s altercation. Some spoke of ways to soothe the ruffled egos of the Brackens and Blackwoods, but it was clear no one quite knew how to do so without further escalating the situation.

Lord Mervyn, a portly noble with the tendency to speak before thinking, suggested, "Perhaps we should offer them gold—some measure of coin to settle their quarrels, a show of goodwill."

The Master of Coin, Lord Ormund, a sharp-eyed man with a wry sense of humor, laughed aloud, his voice cutting through the tension. “Gold?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “And where, pray tell, do you expect to find this coin? We are in a constant state of debt, Mervyn. Should we start selling off the castle to please the Brackens and Blackwoods?”

The room shifted uncomfortably, though Lord Mervyn, his cheeks growing redder by the second, remained silent, his suggestion now hanging in the air like a poorly timed joke.

Daemon rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Perhaps we should all just stop speaking entirely, seeing as it’s become a contest to see who can drone on the longest about the same petty squabbles.” His words were not aimed at anyone in particular, but they struck a chord in the room.

The rest of the council fell into a strained silence. Viserys sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead as if to ward off the growing headache he surely felt. “Enough,” he commanded, his voice quiet but firm. “Let us take a break for now. I will consider all your suggestions and call upon you when I have come to a decision.”

The meeting, like so many before it, ended without resolution. There were no clear answers, no easy solutions to the brewing tensions in the realm. The room emptied slowly, each member of the council filing out, their faces etched with the same frustrations.

Daemon stood quickly, brushing past his fellow lords without a glance, his movements sharp and restless. He had never been one to tolerate idle chatter, least of all in a place that made him feel like a caged animal.

With a grunt, he headed for the exit, intent on blowing off steam in the training yard. It was there that he could find his peace, if only for a moment—away from the endless plotting and bickering of the council.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The council meeting had ended in a tense, uncertain silence. Daemon’s comments had left the room heavy with discomfort, and the usual murmurs among the lords had subsided into a quiet unease. The entire realm could feel the tension as it thickened in the Red Keep, especially with the lords now speaking in hushed tones about Daemon’s latest tantrum. His temper, unchecked and untamed, was becoming too much even for his own family to ignore.

You, however, were no stranger to Daemon’s anger, and as much as it threatened to boil over, you knew something had to be done. The matter was already critical—his pride had endangered everything, and the last thing you could afford was another of his impulsive decisions damaging the realm.

You had not attended the council meeting; there was no need. You knew that the key to solving this issue would lie not in words spoken around the council table, but in private action, taken swiftly and subtly.

When the last of the councilors had left the chamber, you’d already made your way to Viserys’s solar, your mind fixed on a plan. The moment you stepped into the room, you could sense the quiet weight of the king’s exhaustion. His shoulders slumped under the weight of the crown, and there was a weariness in his eyes that had grown familiar over the years.

He turned slowly as you entered, a faint glimmer of recognition in his gaze. “So, it’s done then,” Viserys remarked, his voice low and heavy with the same tension that clung to the walls. He knew. The moment Daemon’s rage had been unleashed, it had been clear that something would need to be done, but you had taken no part in the council’s discussion.

You closed the door softly behind you, moving closer to the king. “Daemon’s actions cannot go unchecked any longer, Your Grace. The Brackens and Blackwoods have made their demands clear, and the council is growing restless. This will escalate if we don’t step in quickly.”

Viserys’s lips tightened in a frown. “And you have a solution?” he asked, though the weariness in his voice suggested he was more than ready to hear one.

You nodded, settling yourself beside him at the table. “I do. I’ve already considered it carefully.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on you with curiosity but no doubt. “Speak plainly, then. What do you propose?”

You hesitated for a moment before diving into the details, your voice steady and measured. “The Brackens are proud. They demand recognition, something that will soothe their wounded egos and quell their desire for vengeance. We offer them a royal boon—a land claim that will satisfy their pride and keep them from seeking bloodshed.”

Viserys listened intently, his gaze not wavering. You knew that he understood the importance of keeping the peace, especially in the wake of Daemon’s volatile temper. “And the Blackwoods?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he sought clarification.

“The Blackwoods are more about justice. They’ll demand the life of the knight who wronged them, but we can’t allow that. Instead, I will offer them exile to the Night’s Watch. It’s a compromise—justice without bloodshed.”

Viserys nodded slowly, considering the weight of your words. “And how do we prevent Daemon from knowing about this?”

You smiled softly, though there was no humor in it. “That’s where you come in, Your Grace. This needs to be seen as your decision—your action. We will stage a public reconciliation ceremony, where both the Brackens and Blackwoods will swear oaths of peace before the Iron Throne. The realm will believe it was your command. Daemon will not suspect a thing.”

Viserys stared at you for a long moment, his expression shifting as he absorbed the intricacies of your plan. You could see the internal conflict on his face—he had always strived to maintain the appearance of unity between himself and his brother, but there was no denying the mounting pressure to act swiftly. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he sighed, his shoulders drooping.

“This will anger Daemon,” he said, the words heavy with the weight of a decision he knew he would have to make. “He will not take kindly to being excluded from such an important matter.”

You nodded in agreement. “I know. But we cannot afford to let his temper ruin everything. We need to act swiftly, before the situation spirals beyond our control. The realm depends on it.”

Viserys stood slowly, walking to the window and staring out over the city below. You could see the exhaustion and the weariness of ruling in his every movement. Finally, he turned back to you, his expression resolute.

“Very well,” he said, his voice carrying the heavy authority of a king. “I will handle it. But you must understand, this may not be the last time we face such a challenge with Daemon.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” you replied quietly, your voice resolute. “But for now, we act. This will prevent any further escalation, and it will protect the realm.”

Viserys gave a small nod, a faint trace of a smile appearing on his lips as he stepped forward, his resolve hardening. “Then we proceed as you’ve outlined. You’ve made it clear that Daemon cannot know, and I’ll ensure that the public sees this as my decision, not his. It will work.”

You bowed your head slightly. “Thank you, Your Grace. This is the only way forward.”

As Viserys turned back to his window, the weight of the crown settling back on his shoulders, you knew that the plan was in motion. The Riverlands would be pacified, the Brackens and Blackwoods would be brought to heel, and Daemon would never suspect that it was you who had orchestrated it all behind his back.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The quiet hum of the Red Keep was always present in the early morning hours—footsteps echoing down long hallways, servants bustling with preparations, the distant sound of metal clashing as the guards went through their drills. But in the stillness of your chambers, there was no sign of movement save for the careful glide of your quill as it moved across the parchment. The dim light of the hearth flickered, casting shadows across the room, and the quiet whisper of ink meeting paper was the only sound you allowed yourself to hear.

The plan had been set into motion after a whispered discussion in Viserys’s solar. He had agreed, reluctantly, that action needed to be taken—but he had trusted you to carry it out. You had laid out the details of the diplomatic approach, and while it was Viserys’s seal that would adorn the letters, the intricate work, the precise wording, and the careful manipulation were all your doing. The king, though burdened by his crown, knew you were the one with the strength to handle the delicate negotiations.

You’d already sent word to the Brackens, a carefully worded letter crafted with precision. To them, you’d extended an olive branch wrapped in gold. A recognition of a contested land claim, something that would soothe their pride without pushing them too far. You had given them a reason to let go of their anger, without allowing them to feel they’d lost face.

Now, it was time to turn your attention to the Blackwoods.

You dipped your quill in ink once more, the tip gliding across the parchment. This letter was more delicate—more intricate. The Blackwoods had a deep sense of honor, and while they were willing to settle, their thirst for justice could not be ignored. You’d offered them the exile of the offending knight to the Night’s Watch, a compromise that would keep his life intact while still serving a form of justice. It would appease their pride, for their enemy would face punishment, but without the bloodshed that would only fan the flames of rebellion.

Each stroke of the quill was deliberate, forming words that sounded gentle but carried the weight of authority. You wrote as Viserys would, sealing your words in the king’s name, though it was clear to both of you that it was your own hands guiding the outcome. Viserys’s approval had been given with the understanding that the matter would be handled quietly, behind closed doors. The lords wouldn’t question the king’s actions—they would simply follow his lead, as they always did.

The letters were ready, each addressed to their respective families. You carefully rolled them, ensuring no trace of ink stained the edges, before sealing them with the king’s seal. You paused for a moment, looking at the waxen emblem, the sign of Viserys’s rule. It was a symbol of power, but it also carried the weight of everything you were trying to protect.

Ravens were summoned, and you entrusted them with the sealed letters. They would carry your carefully crafted words far from the Red Keep, bearing messages that would shape the future of the realm. And while Viserys would ultimately take credit for the decision, it was you who had orchestrated it all.

With the letters dispatched, you turned your attention to the next step of the plan: ensuring that the public reconciliation ceremony would go smoothly. But for now, you allowed yourself a rare moment of quiet. The ravens were on their way, and there was no turning back.

The small council chamber fell silent as Viserys took his seat at the head of the table, his weary eyes scanning the gathered lords. The air was thick with tension, remnants of Daemon’s outburst still hanging in the room.

“Let us be clear,” Viserys began, his voice steady but firm. “The situation with the Brackens and the Blackwoods has been resolved. There will be no bloodshed, no more open hostilities.”

Daemon, who had been sitting quietly, his expression simmering with frustration, leaned forward slightly, his voice low but sharp. “And you believe you can simply end this, without consulting me?”

Viserys’s gaze met his brother’s, unwavering. “I did not consult you, because this matter required swift and delicate action. It needed to be handled quietly, with the authority of the crown, not driven by emotion or pride.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, but Viserys continued, his voice cool. “I’ve sent a message to both houses. The Blackwoods will receive the justice they desire, but in a way that preserves peace. The Brackens, meanwhile, will be granted a significant boon—a recognition of their claim to disputed lands. A small price to pay to prevent further bloodshed.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “And what of my role in this, brother? What role do I play in this ‘delicate’ matter?”

Viserys looked at him, unflinching. “Your role, Daemon, is not to interfere. You are the Commander of the City Watch, but this was not a matter for the City Watch. It was a matter of diplomacy. Of keeping the peace.”

He paused, allowing the words to settle in the air. “The reconciliation ceremony will take place before the Iron Throne. Both the Brackens and the Blackwoods will swear oaths of peace, under my direct orders.”

Daemon opened his mouth to speak, but Viserys raised a hand, silencing him. “The matter is settled. There will be no further discussion. The lords of the realm will see this as a wise move—one that ensures peace in the Riverlands.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his expression softening as he glanced around the room. “Now, we move on. We have more important matters to discuss. The realm cannot wait.”

The silence in the room was palpable as Daemon, his temper barely contained, stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the stone floor as he stormed out, leaving a tense stillness behind him.

Viserys turned to the remaining council members, his voice once again calm. “Let us proceed with the agenda.”

And with that, the council resumed, but the air was thick with unspoken words.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

You weren’t expecting to find yourself outside the council chambers today, but the moment you heard raised voices echoing through the halls, you knew something was amiss. You didn’t need to hear the words to understand what was happening—Daemon and Viserys were locked in yet another heated argument.

As you neared the door, you paused, quietly listening to the tension that hung thick in the air between the two brothers. You knew this wasn’t a casual disagreement. No, this was deeper, more volatile than anything that had come before. Daemon’s temper was a fire that could not easily be quenched, and Viserys’s patience had long since reached its breaking point.

“—and you’re willing to let them do this without me?” Daemon’s voice rang out, full of disbelief and fury. “You sit there in your throne and make decisions that should be mine to make!”

Viserys’s voice followed, sharper, colder. “I am the king, Daemon! Not you. And you’re not in charge of the Riverlands. You’ve made it abundantly clear that your temper will only make matters worse, and I will not let you jeopardize everything we’ve worked for.”

You couldn’t help the tightness in your chest as you slowly opened the door. You knew that Viserys had been under pressure, but hearing the raw anger in both of their voices made your heart ache.

Daemon’s eyes snapped to you as you entered, his features momentarily softening when he saw you. But it didn’t last long. His frustration was too much to hide.

“You heard all of that, didn’t you?” he growled, his words aimed not at you but at the air around him. “He undermines me, as always.”

Viserys, still seated at the council table, gave a weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s for the good of the realm, Daemon. Your actions, your temper... they’ve made it impossible to move forward.”

Daemon took a step toward him, eyes blazing. “And you think I haven’t sacrificed enough for this family? For you?”

You stepped closer, placing a hand on Daemon’s arm gently, though the weight of the argument still hung between the brothers.

“Daemon,” you said softly, “let’s not do this now.” Your voice was calm, but firm, a gentle anchor amidst the storm. “You can talk about this later, after you've both had time to breathe.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched, his eyes still locked on his brother, but his posture softened ever so slightly as your touch worked its magic. He exhaled deeply, frustration still etched in every line of his face, but he made no further move toward his brother.

Viserys looked between the two of you, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. There was a faint flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he stood, straightening his robes. “I’m done with this conversation for today,” he said coldly, and Daemon shot him one last, bitter glance before Viserys turned to leave.

As the door closed behind the king, the weight of the room seemed to lift, but Daemon’s anger still simmered beneath the surface. You could see it in his clenched fists, his furrowed brow, and the way his shoulders tensed with each breath.

You didn’t say anything at first. Instead, you gave him a moment to calm himself, knowing all too well that a conversation now would only lead to more frustration. Slowly, Daemon turned to face you, and when his eyes met yours, they were softer, though still clouded with the storm of emotion he was struggling to contain.

“You shouldn’t have heard that,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, the anger in it fading, replaced by a weariness that had settled deep within him. “It’s not for you to hear.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “I know you’re frustrated, Daemon. I don’t like seeing you like this.” You paused, your gaze steady. “But this fight... it’s not one you’re going to win. Not now.”

Daemon was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he pulled you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this,” he admitted, his voice raw and vulnerable. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

You held him a little tighter, feeling the weight of everything pressing on him. “I know. But we’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His arms tightened around you as he buried his face in your hair. For a moment, the tension seemed to lift, and all that remained was the two of you, holding on to each other in the quiet aftermath.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

A week passed since the resolution of the Bracken and Blackwood dispute, and while Daemon’s anger had simmered down to a quiet brooding, the tension in the Red Keep was palpable. The lords had spoken their piece, the council had concluded their deliberations, and the kingdom, for now, appeared to be at rest. Yet you knew better than to believe in a calm that came too easily. The peace had been achieved—quietly, subtly—without Daemon’s direct knowledge.

It had been your plan, executed with careful precision. The letters sent under the king’s seal, the meetings with the Brackens and the Blackwoods, the subtle maneuvering to avoid bloodshed—all of it was your doing. Daemon remained unaware of your role in it, and you intended to keep it that way. His temper, as volatile as ever, had quieted somewhat since the ceremony in the throne room. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the quiet between you both was fragile, and the whispers of the court only added to the unease.

The public reconciliation between the Brackens and the Blackwoods had been nothing short of a spectacle. The Iron Throne witnessed their sworn oaths of peace, pledging loyalty to the crown under Viserys’s direction. And while the ceremony had been regal and well-executed, the true work—the work done behind the scenes—remained a mystery to most.

But not to you. The weight of the success felt heavy, and you knew it would not stay secret for long. Even as you stood in the shadows of the throne room, observing the lords of the Riverlands make their pledges, you could hear the faint murmurs beginning to stir. First, it was a passing remark. A raised brow. Then, it grew louder, until it was impossible to ignore.

It was Daemon’s wife who had orchestrated it, they said. Not Viserys, not the king—Daemon’s wife. The rumors spread like wildfire. How had she managed to bring two feuding houses to the table? How had she secured the peace when all seemed lost? The whispers spoke not of Daemon’s involvement, but of your quiet influence. It was you who had orchestrated the peace—through your diplomacy, your steady resolve, and your deep understanding of the delicate balance that held the realm together.

At first, the whispers were faint, almost unnoticeable. But the longer the court simmered in its quiet post-celebration lull, the louder they became. A glance here, a sidelong comment there, as courtiers spoke behind their hands, careful not to draw too much attention. You overheard their theories—the reader of the letters, the one who had soothed the lords’ tempers, the one who had convinced the Brackens and the Blackwoods to lay down their swords.

Daemon had been busy in the training yard, his mind focused elsewhere, and so the whispers were a quiet storm that he hadn’t yet noticed. Yet, you knew it was only a matter of time before he pieced it together. For now, you kept to your silence. Your role in the peace had been deliberate. The credit, you were certain, would fall to Viserys. He was the king, after all, and it was his decision in the eyes of the realm. But it didn’t make the whispers any less insistent, nor did it quiet the growing suspicion in your heart that your husband might soon learn the truth.

You didn’t seek attention for your actions; your only goal had been the realm’s safety. But with each passing day, you could feel the weight of what you had done. Viserys had given you the freedom to act, trusting you to handle it, and you had. But now, as the court grew more talkative and the truth became less veiled, you couldn’t help but wonder: When would Daemon learn the full extent of your involvement? And what would his reaction be when he did?

The whispers only grew louder as the days wore on, echoing in the hallways and chambers, but for now, you remained tight-lipped. The peace had been secured. The rest, for the moment, didn’t matter.