Vax Crouching Protectively Over Keyleth’s Body, Daggers Out, Snarling “don’t You Even Dare. (bonus:

vax crouching protectively over keyleth’s body, daggers out, snarling “don’t you even dare. (bonus: marisha shouting “champion, my champion!”)

Being Daemon's Daughter Would Include (Part II)

a/n: I wasn't expecting such an incredible response to Part I & I just 😭 I'm so so sorry it took me so long to write Part II but here it is! I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it- it really took on a mind of its own! Your mother/Daemon's wife makes a greater appearance, so you get to see Daemon as a wholesome husband, too 💕

Let me know if I should start a tag list for this & if you'd like to be included on it for future parts!

Part I

summary: It's been near a fortnight since your birth, and Daemon cannot bear to leave your side. How else would he spend his time if not murmuring tales by your cradle...and mayhaps singing...

cw: some angst (and foreshadowing about angst to come) but mostly just comfort, a little fluff, fem reader

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A Song To Keep You Warm

-Upon the hour of your birth, the bells of King's Landing sang out to the city, continuing to sound for nigh on a week. The realm had been blessed with a new princess, and though this was celebrated far and wide, no one was as happy as your father.

-Daemon Targaryen delighted in your mere existence, and would often be seen by your cradle, murmuring tales of love and valor in High Valyrian. You would clutch one of his slender fingers with your whole hand and on more than one occasion, he swore you tried to pull him closer to you. The servants, however, insisted this wasn't possible for a babe so young.

-"Forgive me, my prince," the one girl curtsied, too nervous to look him in the eye. "She's not yet two weeks. She hasn't the strength for such a feat." The others agreed, albeit with hesitation, nodding with sympathy and a little fear, feeling as though they were in some way disobedient.

-To their surprise, he gave them all a wry smile. "She's a Targaryen," he said, holding his head high, "the blood of Old Valyria and daughter of the Rogue Prince." You made a few little noises, then, as you were wont do when you heard your father's voice. You so loved the tenor, which rumbled through you like a kitten purring on your chest. He felt you pulling again. Kneeling, he pressed a kiss upon your cheek and beamed with pride. "She's simply taking what she wants."

-The servants could not but giggle, taken aback and entirely charmed. Daemon was, at once, both tender and wild. He spoke of you as one would the Conqueror, and it was truly odd to see such language applied to a babe. Yet, so too had you allowed him a softness that made his disposition rather agreeable, even calming. Those who had been wary of his presence for countless years were now eager to serve, if only to witness the magic that was said to occur at the hour of the wolf.

-Though you had no trouble finding rest while bathed in the warmth of the sun, you were not one for sleep once the candles were lit. The hour of the bat and all hours that followed saw you not only awake, but seemingly alert, a curious thing indeed for one so young.

-"Remarkable," one Maester had mumbled under his breath, declaring he had never seen anything quite like it. Nor had he read of any similar cases in all his years at the Citadel.

-While your father was intrigued, your mother grew increasingly nervous. He squeezed her hand as she worried at her bottom lip, brows furrowed with a soft concern. "Is she alright?"

-"She is positively glowing, my lady," he assured her. "As healthy a babe as I have ever seen. She merely seems to thrive under the moon."

-He noted that it would be interesting to see whether or not this trait persisted into childhood (indeed, it would), but either way, there was no cause for any distress.

-Though the Maester's words were based in wisdom and reason, they did little to ease your mother's anxieties. She could not explain it, nor find a way to speak it properly, but a terrible anticipation had burrowed itself in her stomach. She felt as though she were preparing for battle, not only waiting for an enemy's strike, but for her happiness to be torn from her.

-In this respect, Daemon had greater success than the Maester. "Hush now, my darling," he whispered, running his fingers through her hair, gently twisting them into loose, flowing braids. Her breathing slowly returned to normal.

-"Think of the dragons," he murmured. "Caraxes is, this very moment, in the heart of the pit, smothered in darkness, and he is in no torment. Quite the opposite."

-"It's true, he isn't what anyone expected him to be," your father allowed, "and mayhaps some might consider him an oddity...though they do not live to think that for long." He playfully nudged her, earning a genuine chuckle. That sparkle of mischief that he fell in love with returned to her eyes as she settled into his arms, letting his words wash over her.

-"He is one of the fiercest creatures in the realm, and he, too, sometimes thrives in the darkness." Daemon purposefully mirrored the Maester's words, smiling when he felt your mother's shoulders relax. "We need not understand it, nor concern ourselves with altering it. She is as she is."

-"So, she's drawn to a little darkness." He buried his face in her hair, whispering into her ear. "Weren't you?" She giggled as she remembered her first encounters with her prince. She couldn't deny it, she had been drawn to his darkness.

-"Tis true enough, husband," she sighed. "But darkness or no, she needs her rest."

-Daemon hummed in agreement, his own forebodings beginning to take shape in his mind. He wouldn't tell your mother, for fear of worrying her further, but he, too, shared in her dread. These last days had felt very much the calm before the storm.

-Still, he was no stranger to war. He insisted on continuing on with as much a sense of normalcy as possible. But Dark Sister remained constantly on his hip and he remained by your cradle every moment that could be spared. Most especially after the sun had set.

-This was the magic the servants so desperately wanted to behold. For in the darkest hours of the night, when the candles burned low and sleep evaded you, Daemon would kneel by your cradle, his breath warm against your skin, and he would sing the most gentle lullabies of your long-lost homeland in the language of your ancestors.

-The first night, he had recited only two ballads before you had drifted off, but mere moments after he stopped singing you had woken again. And so every night after, your father sang to you for hours on end, until the sky turned pink as a maiden's blush, and his throat was all but raw. Not once did he complain, or even seem to mind the ache. He cherished these quiet moments with you, singing to you of tales far and wide.

-The songs varied from night to night, depending on the prince's mood. Some were rather melancholy, songs of loss and loves never to be. Others were triumphant, exciting recollections of war and heroics.

-When naught would tire you, a slight mischief would dance in his eyes as he looked round, ensuring no one was lurking, and would sing a song well-suited to taverns and fools. Songs of the smallfolk had such humor he would lean into that you were sure to squirm and smile before soon finding rest.

-One evening, after he had faced a particularly tedious few hours with the Small Council, Daemon found himself yearning for days long since passed, when chaos and violence had rule over his heart. His mind wandered to the Stepstones, which had returned to something of a dismal state in the recent years. He could not bear to leave you, nor could he deny that he still longed for battle.

-That night, lost in his nostalgia and torn between his greatest loves, he could not but sing the shanties of the common tongue that had filled each silence off the coasts of war.

-Perhaps there was something of the sea in his blood, as it seemed there was in yours. You looked at him with wide eyes as he sang, his voice somehow both gentle and rough, much like the sea herself.

-He picked you up in his arms and carried you to the window, looking out to the waves, all but black and shimmering in the moonlight, crashing against the rocks. His voice was low, rumbling. Tears lingered on his lashes. You squeezed his finger.

-Outside the chambers, servants had gathered. Each wept as they listened to songs of the sea. Of war and of loss, and of a love that even death cannot touch.

-He knew they were there, but he could not bring himself to send them away.

-"Let them hear," he murmured, in a language they could not understand. "Let them know even a prince yearns for something more."

-In the hour of the owl, you fell asleep to the sounds of the sea and your father's strong voice, safe and warm in his embrace.

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