House Of The Dragons

In the midst of war. Beneath the weight of the crown. As the realm tore itself apart over who had the right to rule… There were still nights the maesters never wrote of.

Rhaenyra had just been crowned.

Before them all, she had remained standing tall. Dignified. Determined. A queen.

But when the door closed behind the last of her councillors, something inside her gave way. For the first time since the crown had been placed upon her head, she was alone with Daemon.

Slowly, she removed it. The metal seemed almost too heavy between her fingers as she set it upon the table. Her hand trembled.

How many sacrifices had it taken to come this far? How many deaths? How much had been lost for a crown that half the realm still refused to acknowledge as hers?

For a long moment, she stared at the metal before her.

Who had truly wanted her upon that throne? Her father, once. And him. Always him.

Daemon said nothing. He watched her from across the room, making no attempt to disturb her silence.

He had learned. He had learned that there were silences now that no words could mend.

So he waited. For her to speak. To scream. To order him to leave. Or simply to remember that he was there.

His queen.

The thought should have filled his heart with pride. And it did. But something inside him was broken too. Proud and shattered all at once.

There was hardly a night now when he did not hear her cry when she thought he was asleep. Hardly a week when she did not turn her anger upon him.

He did not blame her. How could he?

She had known betrayal. Grief. War.

She had lost so much that sometimes he wondered how she still managed to remain standing.

But she had not lost him. And she would not.

He would stay. Until the very end.

Even when the realm doubted her. Even when she doubted herself. He would not. Never.

At last, Rhaenyra looked away from the crown. Then she walked toward him. Slowly.

Daemon knew that look.

He wished she would speak to him. Tell him what haunted her. That, if only for one night, she would stop using anger, war, or desire to escape everything she refused to feel.

But when she reached him, her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Please, Daemon… kiss me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Only yesterday, she had asked him to go and fight. Tonight, she was asking him to help her forget.

He wished things could have been different. He wished he could give back everything the crown had taken from her.

But when she moved closer still, and her scent found its way back to him, every ounce of resolve he had built crumbled. As it always did.

His hand gently found her waist. He lowered his gaze to hers. And something resembling a smile finally crossed his face.

“As you command, my Queen.”

The maesters write of wars, coronations, and deaths. But some stories never found their way into their books.

To be continued…