the thing about dragons

chapter one (II)

in which Lyra realizes it's a fucking isekai.

part II

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warnings: (more) mentions of violent death (of the protagonist), canon-compliant violence, Daemon Targaryen as a POV character, blood, breaking and rearranging of the book-show timeline

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Daelyra never really had a mother from what Aemma gathered from the not-quite-quelled not-quite feud between her husband and her good-brother, with the girl somewhat caught in the middle. After all, if Daelyra was one of the staunchest supporters of annulment of Daemon's marriage, she couldn't be too close with Rhea Royce.

Aemma asked her, out of concern. She knew that Daemon largely did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, so it was not impossible that he merely set his daughter against his wife.

The confession she got from Daelyra instead almost had her march and scream at Viserys for not agreeing to annul the marriage instead. Sadly, she knew her husband, and while he could be decisive and stubborn, he usually was at the worst possible times. She couldn't free Daelyra (and Daemon) from Rhea, but she could at least offer the girl some motherly guidance. Gods knew Daemon had the girl wearing breeches most of the time and hacking the straw dummies until she couldn't hold the wooden sword anymore some days. She did seem to quite enjoy it, but young lady needed to know how to behave; especially a lady of this high standing, especially at court.

And when Rhaenyra spent time with Alicent, or kept harassing Viserys or, more often these days, Daemon about all things dragon, Aemma would sit with Daelyra and read fairy stories with her, and remember better times, when Viserys wasn't king, or this obsessed with having a son, and Rhaenyra wasn't quite so wilful.

○

It was the second time she chose to give up on having a remotely acceptable mother figure.

But Aemma—Aemma is a near thing, she decides. She fills in where her father simply can't, ties ribbons in her hair and gives her dresses to try and sits with her in the Godswood weaving flower crowns.

This is a dead woman walking.

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"A spendthrift?!"

Daemon cannot believe what he's hearing. Otto—that Hightower cunt—is claiming he's a spendthrift and cannot be trusted with money, and Viserys is looking at him with disappointment. After Daemon sat for hours every day making sure the money flowed properly through the castle and to all the feasts and balls and the tourney Viserys was organizing—

"You spend the treasure money on whores and dealing with the scum of the lower streets," the Hightower cunt continues. "They call you Lord Flea Bottom."

Daemon grits his teeth and clenches his fists.

"I am not blowing through the treasury," he snarls, looking straight at the man. The cunt starts to look uncomfortable, and nervously looks to Dark Sister where she rests propped against the table. "I am only using what is allotted to me, and nothing more."

"You're the one allotting the money," the cunt says smugly. Daemon considers killing him anyway, then and there.

"Otto brought reports to my attention," Viserys says and Daemon's eyes snap to him.

"Reports?"

"Of the finances. There are some worrying trends there."

"Show me those reports—"