Chapter Text
Rhaenyra had never spent much time imagining what her wedding would be like. She knew it would always happen, but she had dreaded it after the death of her dear mother, Queen Aemma. For a long time, she had imagined that Daemon would stand across from her as the Septon droned on. Or that her mother would be the one who helped her get ready.
None of that had happened. Her mother long dead and her uncle having abandoned her once again.
Though she had also never imagined that her wedding would be a rushed affair as her husband to be’s lover’s dead body laid only a few feet away from them. She could smell the coppery blood from where they stood. Rhaenyra had to force herself to look at her crying husband to be and not at the dead man who could have been a close friend. If she’d ever imagined her wedding to be a rushed affair, not suitable for the heir to the Iron Throne, she’d thought Daemon would be in front of her. Him having finally stolen her away like she’d asked. Just the two of them and a Septon to marry them. Instead it was her, Laenor, and their two families.
And when the king fell unconscious after the vows were said, the pledge of love a lie, no one had any thoughts of the bedding or consummation of the wedding. All the worry was on the King. The guards taking him to his rooms without alerting anyone, the maester tending to him, the Queen disappearing, Rhaenyra pacing at her father’s door worried sick, and the Velaryons dispersed over the Red Keep with only Princess Rhaenys as her company.
She didn’t return to her own rooms until well into the hour of the wolf, Ser Erryk Cargyll escorting her back. Rhaenyra entered the solar first and found her now husband passed out on one of the chairs with discarded carafes of wine surrounding him and tears staining his cheeks. She simply covers him with a blanket and moves the glass away from him before heading to the bedchamber that was hers.
“Iksin aōha dīnilūks mirre ao jeldan ziry naejot sagon?” (Was your wedding all you wanted it to be?) Rhaenyra lets out a gasp of surprise when she sees her uncle behind her in the looking glass. He’s leaning against the wall and staring into her eyes through the looking glass. She isn’t surprised that he’s there, he’s the only one who ever conversed with her in High Valyrian. Her father’s preference for the language lessening as he grew closer to Otto Hightower and even more so when he married Alicent.
“Tolī than bona,” (more than that) she retorts, staying where she was as he moved closer to her. The High Valyrian flowing easily from her lips like it always did when she was with Daemon.
“And your wedding night?” he asks when he’s halfway to her, his eyes still glued to hers. His lilac eyes focused on her amethyst eyes as if nothing else existed around them.
“As expected,” Rhaenyra states, speaking in the common tongue as he had, “much like yours I’ve heard.” Daemon’s now directly behind her, she could feel his hot breath on her exposed neck. The game of cat and mouse they’ve been playing for so long closing a chapter as his fingers untie the laces of her wedding gown. She sucked in a breath when his fingers danced across her bare back, teasing her as he pushed the gown off of her shoulders. The wedding gown pooling at their feet, but that was of little concern to them. Their games finally coming to an inevitable conclusion since the night in the brothel.
“Gevie,” (beautiful) Daemon says. He helps her step out of her wedding gown and leads her over to the bed, the one she was supposed to share with Laenor to consummate their wedding. But Laenor’s passed out drunk and Rhaenyra only has eyes for her uncle. An unfortunate turn of events in the eyes of many, specifically her father and Laenor’s father, but a pleasant situation for Rhaenyra.
She might not have married the man she’d always wanted, but she does spend her wedding night with the only man she’s loved her entire life. She finally has Daemon like she’s wanted and for once since her mother’s death, she feels truly loved.
“Ao sagon ñuhon,” (you’re mine) Daemon says firmly as he finally enters her.
“Aōhon,” (yours) Rhaenyra affirms with a gasp and moan of pleasure. Such vows should only be made in the language of their ancestors. “Se ao sagon ñuhon,” (and you’re mine) she adds, staking her claim on him with a bite to his neck.
“Va moriot,” (always) is all Daemon says as he continues to thrust into her, consummating their relationship after skirting around one another for so long. Daemon was never much for the vows he had made, not to his own wife, but when Rhaenyra looked into his eyes as they reached their peaks together, he knew that he would always belong to her. No matter where he went, he would be tied to her and her alone. Just as he had always belonged to her, from the moment she opened her amethyst eyes and stared up at him curiously to now when she once again stared up at him but with love and desire.
Daemon spends the night with Rhaenyra, no thought of leaving her alone for the few hours until the sun will rise and they will be forced to play their roles. He doesn’t tell her that he’ll be taking Caraxes and leaving the city. He, instead tells her of how he loves her and will always belong just to her. And as she sleeps cuddled up against him, he curses himself for not stealing her away to Dragonstone and marrying her like she’d asked him to. But he would never threaten her inheritance, not when the Hightowers openly flaunt their want to see baby Aegon as king after Viserys.
As the birds sing, signaling the start of the day, Daemon places a kiss upon his beloved niece’s forehead and leaves her bed before maids could come to wake her and ready her for the day. “One day I will return to you,” he promises her, “Kesan va moriot māzigon arlī naejot ao.” (I will always come back to you.) With that, Daemon Targaryen is gone through hidden passages.
The screeches and thunderous flaps of Caraxes’ wings, the last anyone sees of Daemon Targaryen for years to come.
Unbeknownst to Daemon, a part of Rhaenyra breaks when she wakes up alone in bed. Once more abandoned by someone she loves so dearly.
Her and Laenor play the part of a married and consummated couple when they visit her father. Laenor never asking more than who she had spent the night with. He doesn’t need to know more than that, he tells her. Roast duck and goose coming up once more, and a sad smile shared between two who had lost their loves. Laenor’s dead and Rhaenyra’s once more abandoning her. Their partnership solidified as they act for the king and his parents.
And when they learn Rhaenyra is with child two months after their wedding, Laenor just holds her as she cries. He doesn’t ask if she cries for the child that will never know its true father or for not having Daemon at her side. He thinks it's both, but it’s not his place to say anything. His duty is to support her and provide her with friendship. “At least the child will have the Valyrian look,” Laenor tells her and for the first time since they’d learnt of her pregnancy, Rhaenyra smiles.
“I’m glad I married you,” Rhaenyra says and it’s the truth. Laenor has proven himself to be the friend she so desperately needed.
“Me too, Nyra,” Laenor says and he’s not lying. He doubts very much that any other women would turn a blind eye to his proclivities and support him as she has.
They don’t announce that she’s with child for another month. Only doing so when a small bump has formed and she will not be able to hide it much longer. No one is happier than Viserys and Corlys.
Rhaenys has her concerns, but Laenor is adamant in telling her that the child will be of pure Valyrian blood. With the announcement of Rhaenyra’s pregnancy, Laena Velaryon is invited to court to be a part of Rhaenyra’s household.
Six months later when Rhaenyra is in her labors, Laena is at her side and Laenor pacing outside the birthing chamber.
“A girl, your highness,” the midwife says. Rhaenyra had been strict in not having a maester when she gave birth. Her distrust in maesters since the murder of her dear mother still fresh in her mind. The midwife’s assistant cleans the babe before handing her to Rhaenyra.
“Visenya,” Rhaenyra says looking at her daughter, lilac eyes staring up at her.
“A fitting name for a future Queen,” Laena agrees, patting the sweat dry from Rhaenyra’s face. During all this, someone had let Laenor in. “You have a beautiful daughter, brother,” Laena tells him, moving away from Rhaenyra’s side so he can take her place.
“Dārilaros Visenya hen lenton Targārien se Velaryon,” (Princess Visenya of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon) Rhaenyra tells her husband. A child born from her and Daemon should only be announced in the language that they held dear and showed their love in, the last language her father had spoken to her mother. It’s the one thing she’ll be insistent on if her birth father is not to be in her life.
“Beautiful like her mother,” Laenor states, taking Visenya in his arms for the first time. “You will be loved and protected dearly, Sweet Visenya,” he says, vowing to raise her as if she were his own and not the daughter of his wife and Daemon Targaryen.
The new princess is presented to the court two weeks after her birth. News of her birth doesn’t travel beyond King’s Landing until then. Only reaching Daemon Targaryen in Essos months after she had been born. And the Prince none the wiser that his Rhaenyra had given birth to their child, not Laenor’s.