Daemyra Fic - Tumblr Posts

Do you have any daemyra AU recommendations on Ao3???

Do you have a specific AU in mind? Personally when it comes to Daemyra the only AU I read is canon divergence and maybe the occasional time travel. My recommendations for those two are as follows:

Conspire by RoselynnThornwood

Shameless by daemyraspower

Our Secret Moments by Luminous_ Being

Until the end of our story by bevesy

The Red and the Gold by RhaenyraTargaryensLawyer

My Pain Fits in the Palm of Your Freezing Hand

The deleted/missing scene of Daemon and Rhaenyra after they lose Visenya, and Rhaenyra’s POV of the funeral. Title is from Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was no stranger to pain. Six childbirths, the death of her mother, her closet friend’s betrayal, and ten years trapped in a loveless marriage had served to make her well acquainted with all manner of pain. She had thought herself hardened. Not invulnerable to pain, but acclimatized enough that she could bear it with little struggle. But as she cradled the twisted, scaly body of her first and only daughter, Rhaenyra knew all the pain in the world could not have prepared her for this.

Daemon was about to lose another child. He knew it. Had known it since Rhaenyra had revealed her bloody hand, and memories of her siblings bleeding out of Aemma’s womb moons before their time had hit him like arrows. He should have stayed with Rhaenyra. Should have followed her to their bedchamber, and held her hand as she labored. And yet he hadn’t. He could not bear to watch her scream and suffer for a child unlikely to survive while he did nothing. He could not be helpless. But neither could he be idle. And so, as his wife labored alone, he had called together her Small Council and set about preparing for the coming war. They were uneasy about it, Daemon could tell. They believed he was making a power grab, seeking to undermine Rhaenyra and establish himself as the true authority. Daemon didn't care. How they perceived him mattered little, so long as they followed his orders. Rhaenyra's scream echoed through the Castle. Daemon tightened his grip on Dark Sister's hilt. You do not want me there. He wanted to scream. I cannot help you there. Let me remain here where I may be of use to you. He forced his attention back to the Painted Table. He could not actually call any banners, that would be tantamount to treason. He could, however, see to Dragonstone’s defenses and send ravens to their allies. “We’ll send ravens to our nearest allies,” another scream rent the air, and Daemon forced himself to keep talking “Lords Darklyn, Massey, and Bar Emmon.” “Daemon!” It took every ounce of control he had to keep up his unbothered facade. But he managed. Even as guilt and grief were sawing him apart from the inside. The Small Council glanced at him anxiously. Perhaps he didn’t appear as unconcerned as he’d hoped. “Do you want to speak to the maester, my Prince?” The inquiry had come from one of the Kingsguard (no, Queensguard,) but all of the Small Council nodded along encouragingly. Daemon glared at them all. No, he did not want to speak to the maester. At best he would hear what he already knew: it was too early. The babe was unlikely to survive, and he should prepare himself. And at worst…Daemon didn’t want to consider to worst. “I will fly to the Riverlands myself and affirm Lord Tully’s support.” “You will do no such thing.” Rhaenyra’s eldest son strode into the council chamber. “My mother has decreed no action be taken while she’s abed.” Daemon glanced at Jacaerys, then looked away. “It’s good you’re here, young Prince. You’re needed to patrol the skies on Vermax.” “Did you hear what I said?” The distraction might have worked on another boy, but not Jace. He was far too focused. Daemon felt a flicker of pride. Rhaenyra screamed again, and the feeling guttered out. He could not continue his preparations here, Jace had made that clear, but he could not bring himself to face Rhaenyra, especially not now that he had left her for so long. He looked up. “The ravens, Lord Bartimos,” he said. The other man hesitated for a moment before giving in. “I shall see it done.” Daemom grabbed Dark Sister, and turned away from the table. “Summon Ser Steffon,” he said as he walked away, “our Kingsguard are needed on the Dragonmont.” Queensguard. He should have said Queensguard. “Come with me,” he said as he passed Jace, “I’ll show you the true meaning of loyalty.

Daemon’s steps were slow as he walked back to the castle. To any observers, it would seem as though he were simply taking a leisurely walk from the Dragonmont. In truth, he was doing everything he could to delay his return. It was pathetic and cowardly. He was Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince, Rider of Caraxes, Wielder of Dark Sister, King of the Narrow Sea. And yet, here he was. Wandering about Dragonstone because he was afraid of what awaited him at the castle. But despite the fear, he couldn’t silence the foolish, innocent part of him that whispered that there was still a chance of his daughter living. She was a Targaryen. Targaryens were nothing if not fighters. He ended that line of thought quickly. For all that Targaryens were fighters, his family has also lost its fair share of babes in the cradle. Daemon thought of his little brother. Syrax screeched, and Daemon looked up. He was used to Syrax’s calls, he had lived near the dragon for six year, but something about that one had jolted him. It had seemed almost…familiar. Daemon shook himself. Syrax was probably just hungry. It meant nothing. Still, he couldn’t shake the cold tendrils of fear that had wound their way about his ribs. Syrax let out another shriek, and suddenly Daemon was three years old again, face buried in Queen Alysanne’s skirts while his mother died behind a closed door. He hadn’t understood at first. He and Viserys had been going to visit their lady mother, but when they arrived at her chambers there had been a score of maids and maesters congregating about the door. Daemon could dimly recall glimpsing his father’s boots as the Spring Prince paced within the room. His grandmother had come out then, and upon seeing him and his brother she had gathered them close to her. Perhaps she had been murmuring words of comfort. Daemon could not recall. What he did recall was the terrible, agonized dragoncall that had echoed through the Red Keep. For a moment his young mind had imagined it to be the Doom come again. He would later learn that it was Meleys, mourning the death of her rider. Daemon had no memories of the rest of that day, and only fragments of the funeral, but he remembered that cry. He could hear echoes of it now, in Syrax’s wails. Rhaenyra. He had to get to her. He quickened his pace, heart hammering in his chest. Another cry rent the air. Daemon was running now. What if he wasn’t fast enough? What if she was already gone when he got there. Gods, why had he left her? He had a been a fool and a coward and now he might never see her again. No. She would live. She had to live. If she didn’t he would burn them all. He’d take Caraxes and burn the whole fucking court of vipers, the leech Otto Hightower, his whore of a daughter, and all her half breeds. Kinslaying be dammed, he’d burn them all.

He was at the castle now. The sentries were opening the gates for him and he was speeding past them without an acknowledgment. The way to his chambers was familiar as breathing and in what felt like seconds he was in the hallway and Maester Gerardys was standing in front of him. He looked haggard. Daemon’s pulse beat in his ears. “It’s over, my Prince,” he said, eyes on the floor, fingers twisting together. “And the Queen,” his voice sounded wrong. Strangled and breathy. “She lives? She is well?” “She is alive, my Prince. She does not seem to be in any danger at the moment.” He said something else but Daemon didn’t hear. He already shoving past him, towards Rhaenyra. Although it couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, the walk seemed to take hours. Rhaenyra is alive. Thank the gods, she’s alive. And if she’s alive then our girl could… The thought died as Daemon stepped into the room and beheld the scene there. Rhaenyra was sitting slumped against the side of their bed, shift stained red, and bloodied to the wrist. (Why were her hands bloody? Had she drawn the babe out herself?) Her head was bent so he couldn’t see her face, but he could see what she held. Their daughter was in her arms. She had dragon scales. Even bloodied as they were they still gleamed faintly. Rhaenyra held her as though she were alive, head pressed against her breast like she wanted her to drink. Daemon bowed his head. The grief was crushing, all consuming. He was still standing in the doorway. He looked up and Rhaenyra’s eyes met his. She said nothing. She looked so hollow. She rose, unsteady on her feet, and took a few shaky steps towards the balcony where she sat, legs crossed, dead daughter in her arms. Daemon couldn’t move. She rocked the child, the way she had with Aegon and Viserys. Daemon came up behind her, tentative. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Rhaenyra.” “She was my only daughter,” the brokenness in her voice nearly sent him to his knees. “She was my only daughter and they killed her.” The words brought Daemon a confused sense of relief. Vengance was preferable to pain any day. “We shall burn them all,” he whispered. She said nothing. He knelt behind her, arms going around her shoulders. Not quite drawing her to him, but holding her nonetheless. She leaned into him. “We must burn it.” He could only nod.

Daemon stumbled out of the room, head spinning as though he were drunk. He was dimly aware of calling for a funeral pyre to be built and for the inhabitants of the castle to assemble on the Dragonmont. He felt strangely removed, as though he was watching somone else control his movements. Colors and sounds blurred together, and suddenly he was on the beach and his knees were hitting the sand. He had drawn Dark Sister at some point. The sword's point was buried in the sand, and Daemon was leaning on it the way his brother had leaned on his cane. He had known. He had known, he had known, he had known. He had known he was going to lose the child, so why did it still hurt so much? His head was full of memories. Rhaenyra's delight as she told him she was with child again, her surety that she was finally carrying a girl, the first time he had felt his daughter kick, the egg he set aside for her cradle, retrieved the day Baela's letter arrived and everything went to hell. He clung tighter to his sword, trying to drown out Rhaenyra's voice in his ears. I want a girl, Daemon. A daughter

We must burn it

She was my only daughter

My only daughter

She was my only daughter and they killed her

They killed her

They killed her They killed her They killed her And yet, they had done worse than kill her, hadn't they? If he closed his eyes, Daemon could still see the scales that covered her skin, and the hole where her heart would have been. He had heard stories, as a child, about Maegor's children, how they had all been born dead, and with dragon features. He had never expected it would happen to him. Otto Hightower's voice rang in his ears. A second Maegor the Cruel, or worse. Daemon felt a laugh bubble up im his chest, but when it slipped from his lips it was a sob, and then he was weeping. Shoulders shaking, body wracked with agony, Daemon clung to Dark Sister the way he had once clung to the Good Queen's skirts as his mother's body cooled. Caraxes had come at some point. Daemon hadn't needed to look up to know. He had felt his dragon's presence like tug on his soul. He could feel him now, circling the beach, protecting him while he grieved. There, on that beach, with no one but his dragon as a witness, and nothing but a sword for comfort, Daemon wept.

The pyre was tiny. More of an alter than a pyre really. Rhaenyra stood just in front of it. Daemon was at her side, and their children stood a short distance behind them. Her ladies had done their best to neaten her up, but she knew she still looked a sight. They had scrubbed the blood from her skin, tied her hair back in a simple style, given her a fresh dress and cloak to wear (black lined with red,) and even slipped small earrings through her ears. But they could not hide the grief, nor could they take away the pain. The walk from her chambers had been agony. Rhaenyra could not help but recall another walk, just after a birth. For a moment she almost longed for it. At least then she’d had a child to hold. She watched the flames devour her only daughter’s body. Daemon turned to look at her. He wanted to say something. She could feel the words gathering between them like storm clouds. She did not know where he had gone after he left her. Presumably somewhere isolated, where he could grieve without the risk of being seen. She wished he had stayed. She wanted to mourn with him, united by a pain few could understand, but openness had never been Daemon’s strong suit. That was why he had left, and that was why she had labored alone. She was well aware of his need to do, to help her, but she wished he would realize that staying would have helped her more than any war council. He was still looking at her, but he said nothing. She continued to watch the pyre. Someone was approaching behind her. Her Queensguard moved closer, and Daemon turned to face the stranger. Rhaenyra watched the pyre. She heard the drawing of steel. “I mean not harm, brothers.” She knew that voice. Ser Erryk. Twin to her sworn shield. She heard swords slide back into their sheaths. She turned. Erryk knelt. He reached into a leather satchel at his side, and drew out her father’s crown. He held it up to her. “I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength, and give my blood for hers,” Rhaenyra watched him. It almost felt like a dream. Daemon stepped forward, taking the crown. “I shall take no wife…” Her husband held the crown. Rhaenyra couldn’t see his face. Her father had always said he wanted it, but throughout their marriage he had seemed perfectly content with being her consort. “…hold no lands…” Daemon was still looking at the crown. She remembered the tenderness with which he had placed it upon his brother’s head. Had he ever truly wanted it? Or had he merely wanted trust? “…father no children…” No one moved. “…I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands…” He looked up. The hand holding the crown fell to his side. “…ride at her side and defend her name and honor.” Daemon glanced at the crown in his hand, then turned to face her. She nodded, ever so slightly. He closed the gap between them. She kept her gaze steady, looking into the lilac eyes she had known all her life. Gently, oh so gently, he placed the crown on her brow. The metal was cold, but warm where he had held it. It sat heavy on her head. Daemon knelt. She watched him. He looked up at her. Their eyes met. “My Queen.” His face was open, eyes swimming with love and devotion, but grief shadowed it all. He looked down again. Her eyes went beyond him, to the rest of her court. One by one, they all followed his example. Even her boys, and Daemon’s girls. All knelt, save one. The Queen Who Never Was remained standing. Rhaenys met her eyes, and something passed between them. Rhaenyra looked back at her people, all on their knees. For me. Not for my father, or my husband. For me. They kneel for me. And as her daughter’s pyre burned behind her, Rhaenyra knew, she was a Queen in truth now.