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Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories:

F/MGenM/M

Fandoms:

House of the Dragon (TV)A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms

Relationships:

Daemon Targaryen & Original Female Character(s)Caraxes | Daemon Targaryen's Dragon & Daemon TargaryenRhea Royce/Daemon TargaryenHarwin Strong & Original Female Character(s)Aemma Arryn/Viserys I TargaryenAemma Arryn & Original Female Character(s)Original Female Character(s) & Cannibal the Wild Dragon (A Song of Ice and Fire)Aemma Arryn & Balerion (God of Death)mentions of other relationships - Relationship

Characters:

Daemon TargaryenCaraxes | Daemon Targaryen's DragonOriginal Female Character(s)Rhea RoyceDaelyra Targaryen (OFC)Aemma ArrynViserys I TargaryenRhaenyra TargaryenAlicent HightowerHarwin StrongBalerion the God (A Song of Ice and Fire)Shrykos the God (A Song of Ice and Fire)Cannibal the Wild Dragon (A Song of Ice and Fire)Original Male Character(s)Ulf the White (A Song of Ice and Fire)

Additional Tags:

ReincarnationFix-Itmodern girl in westerosHurt/ComfortDragonsKid FicDaemon-CentricProtective Daemon TargaryenSoft Daemon TargaryenFather-Daughter RelationshipDaemon Targaryen is Bad at FeelingsTargaryens Being TargaryensTargaryens Aren't Fully HumanNo beta we die like a lot of peopleGrowing UpHigh Valyrian (A Song of Ice and Fire)Caraxes is the Best BabysitterMix of book and showOtto Hightower Being an AssholeBad Parent Viserys I TargaryenViserys I Targaryen Being an IdiotViserys I Targaryen BashingTimeline What TimelineAnimal InstinctsValyrian Gods Solemnly Swear They're Up To No GoodAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceI took canon behind a Walmart and put it out of its misery this is my playground nowWARNING: Not Rhaenyra-beatificshe's just a normal person in this who makes mistakes and faces consequences like everyone elseExpanded Fantasy WorldbuildingMagicBlood MagicGodsFantasyAction/AdventureTargaryens PurrIsekai and TransmigrationPOV Third Person LimitedUnreliable NarratorBiased Narrator

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of all about dragons (and more) Next Work →

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Published:2022-11-17Updated:2025-08-12Words:93,655Chapters:10/?Comments:2,642Kudos:9,311Bookmarks:4,340Hits:284,705

the thing about dragons

KillerGirlFuria

Chapter 2: Chapter One, in which Lyra realizes it's a fucking isekai.

Summary:

A translation into Thai by Meviss is now available!

Notes:

Timeline-what-Timeline alterations of this chapter:

98AC - Daelyra born

94AC – Rhaenyra born

91AC – Alicent born

78AC – Aemma born

For the sake of continuity, Daella (Aemma's mother) and Maegelle were twins in this AU, both born in 62AC.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

When they touch down for a rest stop and set up a small camp, it's almost like just a normal camping trip with nothing pressing happening. They stop fairly away from any settlements, near to a road, by a small river that feeds into equally small lake, and set up a bonfire and a bedroll for the night. The only tent they need is Caraxes' wing once he settles down.

They have rations, but they go fishing anyway, having discarded their shoes and rolled up their breeches. Daemon is quick enough to catch a nice-sized catfish with his bare hands. He's a bit lost on what to do with it later—he always had someone else to prepare the game for him, after all—so Daelyra stabs the fish through the head and shows him how to gut it and then filet it.

Daelyra cocks her head.

The Internet.

The fuck's Internet?

It's almost as if they're not on their way to the capital for Viserys' coronation, and Daemon isn't to be considered to be an heir in all but name until his brother manages to make a son.

But he won't, though? All Viserys will do is bring them to easily avoidable ruin.

That man is a fool.

When the night falls, they lay down on the bedroll, Daelyra tucked in her customary spot under Daemon's right arm, and they trace the constellations on the dark sky until Caraxes coils around their little campsite and puts his wing over them, shielding them from elements.

<…I suppose so? No, wait, I don't think so. Not if I'm not even the official heir.>

Daelyra scrunches her nose.

Daemon laughs.

He pokes her in the side and she squeals, moving away. He knows she's ticklish! He's ticklish in the exact same spot! She pouts at him, and he laughs and presses his forehead to hers.

she says, still pouting.

○

They arrive in King's Landing late afternoon next day; Caraxes caught a wind current that carried them gliding most of the way, greatly reducing the amount of actual flying he had to do past occasional flap of his massive wings to keep the altitude.

Daelyra says unhappily as they near the cesspit of a city.

She rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs.

He laughs.

○

"What are you doing here?"

Daelyra looks up at Rhenyra—damn her age and height advantage—and blinks placidly at the very apparent unhappiness of the princess. Rhaenyra is being flanked by a servant and another girl, one in pretty blue dress with pretty chestnut hair that Daelyra doesn't know. She's taller than them both, lanky in a way only tweens really are when their body mass is yet to catch up to their rapidly growing bones; she's all limbs, and she looks about twelve-ish. Older than both Targaryen girls, at least.

She's eyeing Daelyra's riding leathers with a degree of apprehension, in stark contrast to Rhaenyra's obvious jealousy.

Alicent Hightower , her mind whispers. Must be.

"Why wouldn't I be here?" she asks back, and where Daelyra didn't falter, Rhaenyra does, loosing a bit of her bravado. "It's my uncle's coronation day, and my father will likely be named heir soon after."

The girl-that-might-be-Alicent gently grabs Rhaenyra's elbow. "Princess, that was very rude."

Daelyra chuckles and turns to the maybe-Alicent, and greets her with a dignified dip. It's the best she can do, as a noble lady of higher rank than the other girl. "Excuse my manners, I've spent last two days on dragonback. I'm Daelyra Targaryen, nice to meet you, my lady."

Maybe-Alicent smiles at her appreciatively, her apprehension melting away. Daelyra might have grown in bumfuck nowhere, but she always felt like learning manners was important, and it was serving her well now. The older girl also dips down with much more grace, but also lower on her knees than Daelyra did; the lower the rank, the lower the dip, after all.

"Well met, my lady. I'm Alicent Hightower," she says with a smile.

Ah, so the maybe-Alicent is Alicent. Rhaenyra huffs and rolls her eyes; Alicent elbows her. Knowing what Daelyra knows, the older girl likely has no taste for courtly manners either.

Daemon takes this moment to walk out of the Dragonpit, taking off his riding gloves. "Apologies for the delay, Caraxes wasn't keen on nesting in this contraption."

Rhaenyra's eyes brighten and she runs up to her uncle, and Daelyra takes no small amount of glee in the fact that he looks at her first before interacting with her cousin. She only waves him away; as his daughter, she can spend time with him anytime she pleases. Rhaenyra, despite what she thinks, can't. Daemon nods and turns to the older girl as she excitedly chitters at him about dragons.

Alicent sighs. "I can't imagine travelling on a dragon."

"It's a lot like riding a horse," Daelyra says with a shrug. "Just leagues above the ground. It's windy and cold, but nothing beats the feeling. Or the speed."

Alicent looks down at her—and it is a long way down, how is she so tall already?—but flinches, like everyone, when she meets her eyes, and looks away. Daelyra blinks and looks at the ground.

"I apologize, I spent two days with just my father and Caraxes," she says as if it explains anything. To her it does; it's hard to interact with prey after spending time with only fellow predators. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's alright," Alicent says with a strained smile. "Rhae—The Princess does that sometimes, too. I was a little surprised, is all."

Daelyra nods, though she's not sure how her cousin can compare to a true dragon. Oh well, she was certain people would stop mistaking Rhaenyra's stubbornness and lack of self-preservation for dragon instincts soon enough. At least Alicent didn't chance Daemon first; Daelyra fears her heart would've stopped then and there. She at least still has the baby charm that makes her look halfway harmless. Daemon does not.

"Did you want to say something before?" she asks Alicent, and she startles a little.

"What—Oh, not really, no. Just, making small talk, is all."

She nods and leaves it at that, and runs off to save her father from Rhaenyra. The look of utter fury on the older girl's face when Daemon picks her up and turns his attention to her brings her joy, and she sees more than hears the snort Alicent lets out in the uptick of her lips and rise of her shoulders before the older girl composes herself again. Rhaenyra, bless her indignant nine-year-old self's complete lack of situational awareness, notices nothing.

Daemon teases, and it's Daelyra's turn to snort.

she says with faux-innocence and he laughs.

he admits, and she shrugs.

she tells him simply, as if it explains everything. To them at least, it does.

○

Daemon realizes that it's the first time in moons, maybe even over a year, that he's seeing Daelyra wear a dress. It's a nice black one with their house crest embroidered at the right collarbone in red thread, the whole thing chased with gold thread. It's Rhaenyra's old dress she's long since grown out of that Aemma found somewhere on the fly when they realized that Daelyra didn't actually have a proper Targaryen dress for the coronation, and it fits her perfectly.

(Which is why they're in Rhaenyra's dressing room. Its opulent and there's much too many clothes in both Daemon and Daelyra's taste; all the items barely fit in one garderobe room.)

With the braids coiling about her hair that Daemon braided himself, she looks like a real Targaryen Princess. Though she isn't one, or even wants to be one, it is nice to fit in with the family. Aemma certainly gave her an appreciative glance and then proceeded to try to wrangle Rhaenyra into a similar official getup.

While Daelyra merely grumbled and made unhappy faces about the dress, Rhaenyra threw a proper fit. She didn't like this particular dress, the jewellery wasn't shiny enough, and also why was Daelyra wearing her old dress? Ignore the fact she'd never fit into that dress again, that was hers. Daemon shot Aemma and her maids a commiserating look and the Queen-to-be didn't even hide her jealousy looking at his well-behaved daughter.

As if to underline her point, Daelyra gives her aunt an absolutely angelic smile from where she's kicking her legs in the air on a cushioned couch. Daemon snorts.

Privately, though, he's beyond relieved. Daelyra may scrunch her nose and make noises of complaint, but he simply cannot imagine her throwing a fit like that. Spoiled as he's raised her, she always knew how and when to behave.

Hells, sometimes she'd be the one to correct him instead.

As he's thinking it, she hops of the couch and dusts her skirt.

is all she says before she trots over to Rhaenyra, no doubt to taunt her into behaving properly.

Well—as long as it works.

○

She very carefully never mentions anything about what feels like years and years' worth of memories and mannerisms that guide her through life.

It gives her unfair advantage on top of already being a magical demi-human half-dragon royalty.

At the cost of remembering her—

What was that?

Cold steel in her lungs, blood, so much blood—

She rubs her eyes and goes about her days, and tries to ignore the burning in her lungs and the prickle at her neck.

She'll be fine.

○

The coronation comes and goes. It drags; first the Septon drones on the blessings they don't need—not their culture, not their faith, Daemon will never understand why his family bends backwards to accommodate for the Citadel, just raze the thing to the ground and be done with it—and the Lords keep kneeling and swearing fealty.

Daemon thinks back to what Daelyra said, and he can't help but agree.

The whole performance is bothersome.

But Daemon is a good brother—he tries to be a good brother, for Viserys if no other reason, so he stays and tries not to step from foot to foot. Aemma sends him a commiserating look. She's visibly pregnant again, so she neds to contend with additional weight.

Daemon can't imagine it's remotely pleasant. He lends her an arm when she sways, and she sends him a thankful smile. She's his family, after all.

○

"Annul my marriage to Rhea Royce."

Viserys stops, his fingers twitching above his head as he halts in reaching for his crown. He turns to Daemon, looking almost aghast.

"What?"

"You're king now, so I'm asking you to annul my marriage. Here, I even wrote up an official petition."

And he has, handing his brother a sheet of parchment. He ensured it looked and was worded officially.

Viserys gives him a look Daemon doesn't know how to interpret.

"You have a child together."

"Oh, I'm taking Daelyra."

"You cannot deny a girl her mother—"

"But she hates Rhea! Rhea can't even look at her either."

Viserys takes a deep breath. Then: "no."

"No?"

"No. It was grandmother's will that bound you to Rhea, and the Royces are an old and powerful house. They will not be insulted like this, and neither be Good Queen Alysanne's memory. And don't bring it up again."

It leaves sour taste in Daemon's mouth.

Fuck the Good Queen, senile with age. Fuck Royces, the bane of his existence; they didn't even have the decency to lean into their First Men roots, embracing the Andal filth wholly.

○

"Annul kepa's marriage," Daelyra tells him not even an hour later. Viserys almost trips where he's walking to his chamber, and looks at the girl who seems to have sprouted from the ground. She's since changed into clothes boys would wear and her hair was re-twined into two casual braids hanging down her back. She's looking up at him with those big black eyes.

"What."

Daelyra blinks up at him, eyes wide. "Kepa said you didn't listen to him, so I'm trying. I really hate my mother. Pretty please uncle, annul kepa's marriage?"

Viserys almost says yes on the spot, looking into those big wide eyes—she's doing that on purpose, entirely on purpose, he'll realize later—but catches himself last moment.

"Absolutely not! I already told Daemon as much and the matter is closed." he says instead. "And you shouldn't listen to your father!"

Daelyra cocks her head in confusion. He really wants to pinch her cheeks, but the downtick to her lip and the displeased crinkle to her eyes tells him that she will bite if he tries.

○

"Daemon, no means no. Don't send your daughter to convince me."

"What are you on about this time?"

"Daelyra asked me to annul your marriage."

"She did? Huh. I need to bring her more treats later."

"More—Don't enable her, Daemon! Wait—You didn't put her up to it?"

"No? I only told her you said no when she asked. I told you; she hates Rhea."

"I doubt she even knows what annulment means!"

"She knows it means she won't have to see Rhea ever again. I think that's quite enough for her, brother. And I'm being serious. We're both miserable in the Vale."

"My decision is final, Daemon, and I told you why. Do not push or I'll send you back off to your lady wife at the earliest convenience."

"Tsk."

"And who knows? Maybe you'll eventually be blessed with another child. Wouldn't Daelyra like a sibling?"

"I wouldn't fuck Rhea again if you held me at sword-point. Or gave me all the realms to rule in return."

"Your loss, Daemon."

"It really, truly isn't."

○

Viserys doesn't—Daemon isn't sure what he doesn't. Value him? Trust him? Want him around?

Point is; after graciously allowing Daemon and Daelyra to remain in King's Landing, Viserys does little else. Daemon is… He is. He wanders about, doing nothing of consequence. He doesn't quite mind, exactly, it helps him settle at the new place with Daelyra, and they both complain about the smell because it is horrid. He spends his time with Aemma and Rhaenyra and Rhaenyra's little Hightower friend who seems afraid of him, he frequents the training grounds and at night when he can't find any sleep—more and more often—he sneaks out to either Street of Silk or Fleabottom. Most nights he goes, he makes it back before sunrise and catches up on sleep a bit, some nights, he doesn't.

Every morning he leaves, though, Daelyra has a bath and breakfast waiting for him.

Depending on how sober he is, and how many new cuts and bruises he carries, sometimes also a scolding.

She scolds him often.

He's not sure how they ended up this way, his daughter effectively parenting him, but it is keeping him afloat and he clings to it. The nights he has no energy to go anywhere, he coils around her like a dragon around a treasure, and waits until her soft breaths lull him to sleep.

But the Viserys issue.

He understands his brother is busy but supposes that is also half the problem.

He should be busy too, with something. Anything. Being Heir, being the Hand—and if that's asking to much, at least being part of Viserys' ruling body. Being his brother's confidant and support and most of all, his protector.

This is what he was born for. This is what their father raised him for, in no uncertain terms told him that. When Baelor would be king and Viserys the heir, Daemon was to be his shield and guard and retainer—

Except Baelor was never king. And Daemon was sold off to the Vale the moment he reached adulthood. And he wasn't even sure he knew his brother anymore. If he were honest, he hasn't known his brother for years, now; he was a dragon once, just like Daemon, but—Balerion's death defanged him, smothered all that fire that Daemon loved his brother for so fiercely, made him soft and round and complacent.

Made him so utterly, uselessly, disgustingly human.

And it was a tragedy, yes, but… But dragons bond to new riders after their old one passes. His mother's Meleys was with cousin Rhaenys now, Caraxes used to be his uncle Aemon's dragon. There were dragons available to try to bond, and many eggs turned to stone but some were viable still.

Viserys simply refused to even try.

And now Daemon was listless and angry and hollow because nothing was as it was supposed to be, because he was supposed to be at his brother's side, helping him with anything that needed help, and he was not.

It left him confused and blindsided

Father said—

Father—

Father's dead.

○

Instead, Viserys keeps the Hightower cunt as his Hand. Daemon doesn't like him much.

○

Viserys names him Master of Coin. It's—something.

Viserys also knows Daemon loathes numbers, especially repetitive and at that scale of calculations. Daemon still tries, does his best, really, because finally, finally his brother entrusted him with something and it almost makes him sob.

He falls asleep at the desk, the numbers blurring together and making his head heavy as the weeks of sleepless nights, alcohol, fights and whores catch up to him.

He wakes up tucked in bed with Daelyra in her customary spot under his right arm.

When he reaches the desk, the accounts are all sorted, labelled, and a spare page of parchment with all the tallied numbers at the top of the stack, with a little note at the bottom.

It reads: 'I know you hate numbers more than me. You can copy it, or throw it away and do it all over yourself.'

That's Daelyra's handwriting, careful big letters written by small hands unused to a quill just yet.

This time, he's the one to wake her up with breakfast, and takes her to fly on Caraxes after presenting Viserys with the tallied accounts. The Hightower cunt is displeased that there's no mistakes in the ledgers to complain about.

○

He meets a woman in Flea Bottom, Mysaria. She's a bit of a special case, he realizes quickly; she catches his attention, which is rather easy to do, because she's pretty.

She manages to keep it, which, for a whore from Flea Bottom is nearly impossible, because of her shrewdness and wit.

Sometimes he goes to her just to talk but pays for her time all the same.

She seems to know everything that's going on in the bowels of the city.

○

The elation of having something to do for Viserys is short-lived. Books and keeping of records are not what Daemon was made for; he's meant for action, not sitting slouched over a desk mulling over numbers for hours. Alas, he bites his teeth and does the work assigned to him.

Daelyra, as always, makes it all the more bearable with her presence and help, but she also stopped him whenever he wanted to use the treasury funds for something more fun. Viserys was fond of his tourneys, balls and feats, and often hosted them, so why couldn't Daemon have some fun?

He wasn't even going to spend it all on whores! Just some. Less than half.

More importantly than the whores, though, he was more interested in finding a good blacksmith and pouring some gold in his hands—Daelyra was nearing her sixth name day, and it was about time she got some proper blades of her own, after all.

○

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.

○

"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—"

He'll fucking see for himself what the problem is about, and then he'll fix it—

"There will be no need," Viserys says, and looks at him with disappointment. It's enough to make Daemon still. "They're proof enough. I'm relieving you of your position as Master of Coin and reinstating Lord Beesbury, effective immediately."

Daemon slams his fists on the table, and leaves before he does something Viserys will deeply regret. His throat is constricting, a scratching heat clawing at his lungs and the back of his neck and he feels as if he might just breathe fire himself. He notices the self-satisfied smirk on the Hightower cunt, and almost turns around to cut him down, but decides against it.

He never sees those reports in the end.

○

He barges in on Daelyra's lesson. The septa sends him a nasty look, but his daughter brightens up from her bored-to-tears look when she sees him. It helps that hot-ugly-clawing something settle when she runs into his arms and he picks her up. It's the warmth, the trust, and the smell that always carries a note of ash and brimstone, he thinks.

he says when he thinks he can trust his voice, but it still comes out as enough of a snarl for the septa to recoil.

"My Prince, the Lady—"

"This lesson is over," Daemon tells the woman, and she flinches again. Looking at their books, Daelyra's been learning about the Faith of the Seven. It puts a bad taste in his mouth, but she insisted she needs to know the enemy, and who was he to deny her?

"I need a different septa," Daelyra says instead. "Nothing wrong with Bredgit but the way she teaches things is so boring I can't focus at all and I need to read everything all over anyway if I want to learn anything! Like—all she does is just read things back at me! I can do that myself! And faster!"

Bredgit, who's still standing by the desk, colours and ugly shade of puce. Daemon laughs.

"I'll find you a better one."

○

Viserys makes him the Master of Laws.

But what of it, when Otto Cunttower blocks him every time he tries to do anything on that front?

He's too bloodthirsty. He's too vicious, too violent, to cruel with his laws.

How dare he make the same laws that apply to smallfolk apply to the highborn.

This time he quits himself.

Cunttower smirks when he does, and this time Daemon punches him.

○

Feeling my way through the darkness

Guided by a beating heart

I can't tell where the journey will end

But I know where to start

They tell me I'm too young to understand

They say I'm caught up in a dream

Well life will pass me by if I don't open up my eyes

Well that's fine by me

○

She stands on stars and ocean ripples above her, and she can hear a distant yet haunting whalesong.

Her eyes are open, but she doesn't see. The air presses against her unpleasantly, her lungs burn as if she's drowning, green flames lick at her feet—

[You—]

She wakes up gasping.

Her lungs burn. It's a familiar pain.

Cold steel in your chest, blood, so much blood—

This is a curse gift.

Arms wrap around her, and Daemon pulls her into his lap as he sits up, and—

Cold steel in lungs, blood pooling under, the cold, you're—

Oh, right, she's hyperventilating.

He speaks to her in a low sleep-laden voice and keeps his hand between her shoulder blades. She doesn't understand a word he says and doesn't remember anything she said. It feels important, this dream she keeps chasing. Stars under her feet, ocean above her head, cold steel burning her lungs.

It feels like she shouldn't.

She feels wrung out when she calms down, too tired to move but unable to fall asleep, and Daemon doesn't seem in a hurry to sleep either. Instead, he gets them both dressed and takes a horse to the Dragonpit.

She feels cold, like all the blood left her body, and Daemon is shaking ever so slightly when he carries her, but he refuses to let go. His warmth would be enough, but he's cold to, and his heart has yet to calm as he holds her ever so tighter when they ride on horseback in the middle of the night.

They curl up against Caraxes' flank bundled in furs and blankets, in silence that's almost comfortable. By the first light, Lyra's warm again, and her father's heart has calmed.

Wait, has she ever shortened her name before—?

○

It stirs in the dark where it made its home, this thing of shadow and bone and violence.

Soon, it thinks. Soon I will be complete.

But not just yet.

No. Not just yet.

It waited so long. This, in comparison, is nothing.

○

<…>

He holds her close and doesn't let go, and when his hands grip her and press her tightly against his chest, the dread fails to.

○

[Are you certain she can handle it?]

[She must.]

[With that reaction?]

[It was too early—it still might be. We must believe that she'll be able to handle it.]

[Again with your faith, Shrykos! I'm starting to get sick of it.]

[…she will remember it all, and it will break or make her. We can only watch, and hope.]

[There's a reason not even the souls in the Afterworld remember how they died—!]

[And what can we do about it?]

[…if the Freehold hasn't blown itself up, we could have—]

[If the Freehold didn't blow itself up, we wouldn't be desperately grasping at straws to be able to stand against Them. But the Freehold was fundamentally flawed.]

[Valyrians are fundamentally flawed. Both too human and too inhuman at once, and finding that perfect balance is damn near impossible—]

[You know what I mean, Balerion. A civilization built on slavery and blood magic was doomed to fall the moment it was established. No matter how much we artificially extended its lifespan, no matter how much we aided it…]

[We should have just let it die when it first started unravelling, you know. Nobody needs city-sized dragons and legions of artificial beastfolk.]

[But we can only say that with certainty because of hindsight, can't we?]

[Sadly.]

○

"You were supposed to go see Syrax with me today!" Rhaenyra screeches and stops her foot. She's already kilted out in her riding leathers, and has found particular offense to Daemon, who only now managed to make his way back to the Red Keep. Daelyra is still in his arms, and she feels smaller than ever, and neither of them is in much of a hurry to let go.

Viserys and Aemma are there too to see her off in the morning, both barely awake, but Aemma notices the absolute state they're both in first.

"Daemon, what happened?" she asks concerned and takes a step forward.

Danger, Daemon's mind screams and he takes a step back, a growl bubbling at the back of his throat. Aemma stops and looks at him with confusion and a bit of fear. Viserys looks between the two and ever so slowly, his eyes clear of sleep and widen with the realization. When Rhaenyra, unbothered by the growl, makes to stomp over to Daemon anyway, Viserys grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her back, maybe a tad too harshly.

"Father?!"

Viserys kneels down next to her. "I know your uncle promised to take you flying today, but you'll need to postpone it."

"What? No! He promised! We're going flying, now!"

Aemma and Viserys seem to have a whole conversation over the top of their daughter's head, and then Aemma puts her hand on Rhaenyra's shoulder too.

"I'm sorry darling, but Daemon is very tired now," she says. Rhaenyra looks at her with a grimace, and then at Daemon—no, at Daelyra. She stomps her foot again.

"He promised! Uncle, you promised!"

"Adults break promises," Daemon tells her curtly. Viserys flinches at the tone, and because Daemon looks right at him, as if he means something else.

Rhaenyra's lip wobbles and tears well in her eyes. Daemon pushes past them.

Viserys calls after him, maybe in concern, but it falls on deaf ears.

○

So wake me up when it's all over

When I'm wiser and I'm older

All this time I was finding myself, and I

Didn't know I was lost

○

"You haven't visited here in a long time, my prince," Mysaria says a bit breathless once he's done with her. He merely hums, reclining on the bed of the semi-private room.

"My daughter has been having nightmares recently," he says, and Mysaria looks at him curiously.

"The Lady Daelyra?"

"Mhm."

"…I never really took you for a family man, you know?" she says and sits up. Daemon scoffs.

"She's a bit special," he says. "She's not as needy as other children her age, she understands that sometimes, I just have to go have some fun before I turn violent."

She raises an eyebrow at him. Daemon coughs.

"She was very upset I beat up a guard to a pulp once, in Runestone. I had no idea a four-year-old could look this deeply disappointed. She stepped on a stool, grabbed my face and—"

"And?" Mysaria prompts, small indulgent smile on her lips as Daemon collects his words.

"She—She scolded me! She just—I got scolded by a four-year-old child for beating up her mean guard!"

Mysaria laughs at him, well and truly laughs. "Oh, I can't believe this, the great Rogue Prince bested by his tiny child. I'd pay to see that."

"I don't recall paying you to laugh at me," Daemon bites back, and she only shakes her head and sits up.

"You pay me for my time," she says with a shrug. "Though I must admit, it's quite endearing when you talk about your daughter. Your eyes get a lot brighter."

"Hm."

"Though I wonder, if you are such a great father and she's been having bad nights, why are you here tonight?"

"She went to bother Aemma tonight."

"The queen?"

"Mhm."

"Oh my. She truly does whatever she pleases, doesn't she?"

"I would expect nothing less."

"I think I'd like to meet her."

"Hmm, maybe someday. And certainly not here."

○

Third time, as Lyra is fond of saying, is the charm. It seems to hold true. After the fiascos that was putting him in the position of Master of Coin and then Master of Laws, Viserys finally, finally gives Daemon a position that he knows he will do well in.

It's not as close to his brother as he'd like to be, but it's something. It's better than anything so far before, because this time, he can actually make change. He can act, instead of sitting in his chair pooling over papers and ledgers.

Lyra, too, says that being the Commander of the City Watch will suit him just fine.

He's not sure when her approval started to take precedence over Viserys'. No matter.

The issue is, the City Watch is…

"An utter dumpsterfire," Lyra says, her tiny hand in his as she looks critically at the sorry state of the barracks, the mess, the damage, the lack of equipment. "Quite disgraceful, at that. Who was the Commander before you again? And where did all the funding go?"

Good questions. Daemon remembers allocating the funding to the Watch himself some scarce moons ago when he was Master of Coin. Initially he really did think they were merely underfunded. The money he allocated them should have been more than enough.

This? This was so much worse than underfunding. Someone was stealing the money, there was no other explaination.

He looks down at Lyra. Lyra looks up at him.

"Good luck," she says. "You have a lot of work before you."

"I am aware. But it will be worth it. I will make Gods-forsaken city a safe—er, place."

She pats his elbow, because it's about as high as she can reach. "I believe in you."

He smiles. "I know."

She kicks him in the shin. "You're supposed to say 'thanks', not 'I know'!"

"I know," he says like the menace he is, shit-eating grin on his face. She kicks him again, even though he can't even feel it. Damn her six-year-old body.

○

He's tall, a little gangly still in a way still-growing teenage boys usually are, with a mop of fluffy brown hair on his head and dustings of a beard of his chin, dressed in what passes for the City Watch armour.

She almost calls him Jace, but not quite. That's Luke's hair.

Wait, who the fuck are Jace and Luke?

"I'm Harwin Strong, princess."

He gives her an exaggerated bow and she laughs. She likes him, she thinks.

"I'm not a princess," she corrects him. "Just a lady, and that's bothersome plenty enough."

He laughs at that.

○

He finds the morons who were stealing from the City Watch first. He's swift and merciless; thievery is losing a hand, no matter if they're lords and knights. Law is law.

But they blew all the money, and all that he managed to get back were measly leftovers, so he persuades Lord Beesbury to give him some more funding to make up for what was stolen.

("This is harassment," Lyra says with a sigh and shakes her hand, but still helps him draft the documents and tally up exactly how much capital he'll need to start. "Make sure you don't give Beesbury a coronary at least, he's getting there in years."

He presses his forehead against hers, and even thanks Lord Beesbury later, when his project gets approved.)

First order of business is new armour and weapons, and before long the City Watch is once more properly outfitted. Now they can actually do their jobs, instead of standing awkwardly at corners, pretending their swords and maces and axes aren't falling apart in their holsters. Still, something, he feels, is missing.

"Give them cloaks," Lyra says one day when they're in the barracks. She has bullied employed one of the younger Watchmen to be her pony and is now comfortably sitting on his shoulders, following Daemon around the place. He'd carry her himself, but he needs his hands at the moment.

"Cloaks?" he asks, and she nods, fingers laced on the top of young man's head. Harwin, Daemon thinks is his name; he looks a lot like Lord Strong, the new Master of Laws. It might be the son he's been talking about; Daemon remembers him mention the boy was joining City Guard. Barely a man grown, a gangly still but already tall and fit, and likely still growing. A little goofy but honest, and Daemon had no doubt he'll soon grow into a very fine man.

He didn't miss how Lyra zoned in on him either, picking him over all the others, and it was more than enough to get the boy Daemon's attention in turn.

"Yeah. Dye them gold, maybe darken the armour they wear if you can."

He blinks at her. This—this is a good idea, actually. He'd probably come up with it himself in few days' time, but that way the can have a head-start at actually implementing it. The guards need standout uniforms anyway, and addition of the cloaks will easily be that. If he standardizes the colour of the armour, too, it will make for a fine, uniform organization that could be easily told apart from the Red Keep guards, mercenaries, and random lordling knights loitering about.

He reaches up—damn, the Strong boy is tall, almost taller than him—and pats Lyra's head.

"Good idea."

She smiles. "I know!"

Daemon makes a face. "Now you're just being petty."

Her smile turns into a smirk. "I know."

He squishes her cheeks. Harwin, bless him, actually bends down on his knees to make it easier for Daemon. He finds he already likes him, even when Lyra cries 'traitor!' in offense.

○

I tried carrying the weight of the world

But I only have two hands

Hope I get the chance to travel the world

But I don't have any plans

Wish that I could stay forever this young

Not afraid to close my eyes

Life's a game made for everyone

And love is a prize

○

Static in the darkness, like an old radio you didn't quite turn off.

[…ra, you mu…ake up—!]

Glint of steel aimed at her, wild bloodshot eyes.

Her own fucking kitchen knife. How dare he.

Pain. Cold. Eventually, nothing.

He ruined his life with it, at the very least.

○

She died, didn't she.

And yet—

wake up

w̸a̴k̶e̸ ̵u̵p̶

̸W̵A̴K̴E̴ ̴U̸P̷

—she wakes up.

○

Her name was Lyra Clark, thirty-two years old at the time. She had her own flat, an okay-paying job, and a hobby for music she hoped to eventually turn into a career. Rascal, the cat she had since she was eleven years, passed away two months prior, two weeks after turning twenty-one.

And when she was grieving for her best friend, Warren Slater, her boyfriend of then-eight-months finally crossed the line for the last time, so she broke up with him and kicked him out; he had been shifty about his job and income ever since she let him move in, after all, and she wasn't willing to support him, especially when his comments started to get unpleasantly snippy.

You're too tall. Too muscular. I don't like your piercings.

Why is your makeup so dark.

You should remove your tattoos, not get more.

When will you stop fucking around with that guitar.

Why can't you be more feminine. Wear a dress for once.

She kept him because he was pretty, but when his mouth turned foul not even his sparkling eyes and pouty lips could stop her from showing him the door.

He kept calling, insisting that it was all am misunderstanding, saying he was sorry and can she please take him back. She didn't.

One week, two, a month—

And just when the blessed silence finally reigned, she came back from work to find him in her kitchen. There was an argument, a screaming match, really, him trying to guilt her into taking him back. She was just about to grab him by the throat and throw him onto the hallway—

There was a knife on the counter. She didn't put it there, she always kept tidy, so the only explanation was that he prepared it. Put it within his reach.

Premeditated fucker.

Forty-three stabs, she thinks hysterically. She counted.

Forty-three premeditated stabs, and while she wouldn't have much problems overpowering him otherwise, a knife to the lungs really does knock the wind out of you.

She dies, not quite upset about it but not quite happy about it either. She just met a nice and interested girl at the club yesterday and got her number and wondered if that'd go anywhere. But with Rascal gone and her not being on speaking terms with her parents, and her lack of closer friends… She wasn't that upset about it. She was only really upset about not being able to do music anymore.

She found glee in the fact that Warren wouldn't be getting out of it. Her next-door-neighbour was full-on renovating his flat, he and his workers wouldn't miss Warren. They probably noticed the yelling and the scuffle, too. Someone might've gone to check up on her, and she's a little sorry for the traumatizing sight.

She died, she figures, the way she lived—not terribly upset about it, but far from happy about it, her energy drained from her by someone else.

○

The world, it seems, wasn't quite as done with her as she was with it, though.

○

Remembering your death in high definition is a decidedly unpleasant sensation, Lyra decides as she opens her eyes to gaze at—

The ocean?

She sits up startled and looks around frantically, and this is not her room, not her bed, Daemon is nowhere to be found, here is—

She's standing among konpeitō-shaped glowing pebbles of multiple colours ranging in size from smaller than her nail to as big as her fist, her bare feet on the veritable sea of silky glittering sand the colour of the night sky. Wherever she turns around, she's met with trees at every side, crystal and bent and far enough away that it would take a longer trek to reach them. Pink glow of the half-hidden sun glows above the trees.

And above her head…

Ocean ripples, water moving naturally as if it weren't hanging impossibly upside down, taunting her. She thinks she hears a whale sing, but she can't see any.

Her hands are translucent, so are her feet.

[Hello, Lyra.]

She turns to the side, and then looks up, and up, and up—there, higher than anyone had any business being, two red eyes were peering down at her. Dark eyelashes, cheekbones that could cut glass, glossy black hair, straight and reaching almost to the hips; black-and-red robes, the whole design brought together with silver jewellery in a style that was oddly familiar to her. Vaguely historically East-Asian in cut, but she can't for shit actually place it geographically—those are ceremonial Valyrian robes, she realizes. Figures; Valyria was on Planetos, not Earth, and it was its own thing.

Human, almost, if not for the black scales on his cheekbones, nose and forehead, vanishing into the hairline or transitioning into black, bony horns curving back, crowning him, and the long, black, ridged tail swishing lazily in the sand. The claws, the slit pupils, black veins on pallid skin, black lips and eyelids.

And the fact that he's inhumanly tall. Over nine feet, in her estimate. Maybe closer to ten, she has to crane her neck to look at him.

[Do I know you?] she asks though she doesn't know the language, she doesn't know if they're even speaking at all. It feels more like they're sharing thoughts.

He smiles, his impossible perfect features—doll-like, almost, she's pretty sure she's seen a ball-jointed-doll looking like that once, the expensive kind—softening with it.

[I wouldn't say you know me, exactly,] he allows with a dip of his head. [We never truly met until now.]

She narrows her eyes at him. [You know my name. I don't know yours, though.]

[You do. I am Balerion,] he says easily. Lyra blinks at him.

And sure, he did carry the exact coloration that Balerion-the-Dragon was said to have, black scales chased with red, glowing red eyes, curving horns of black bone, a perfect mixture of human and dragon, but—but as far as Lyra's concerned, dragons cannot shapeshift, and Balerion-the-Dragon is dead.

But there is another Balerion, one that her father told her about, back in Runestone, curled under Caraxes' wing.

[You're the Valyrian God of Death,] she says, a little awed. [You're… Tall.]

[Well, maybe you're just very short?] he asks, and his smile takes on a cocky edge. Lyra grabs the first next konpeitō-shaped glowing rock and chucks it at the god. He merely ducks away with a chuckle.

[I am normal height, thank you very much!]

She's about to say something more, but there's a chime and suddenly another dragonoid faceplants into the stary sand, right next to Lyra. This one is mostly pale gold and platinum, their skin a hueless coal-black in stark contrast to Balerion's creamy porcelain. They get up, dust their white robes off, and look at Lyra; their eyes are glowing orange, like coals aglow in the fireplace, and their skin is littered with golden cracks.

They're also infuriatingly tall, and with obvious dragon features.

[You actually made it!] they say and brighten up, and Lyra instinctively takes a step back. Their colouring is friendlier than Balerion, but their edges are sharper. Ridged horns, longer claws.

[Um.]

Balerion grabs the newcomer by the scruff and dusts them off. [Peace. I know you're ecstatic but you're overwhelming her.]

They blink at him, and sigh. [Right, yes, that's… Ahem. I am Shrykos, and it's really nice to finally meet you!]

Lyra blinks up at them, searching her memory. This is definitely one of the fourteen flames, but it takes her few seconds to come up with the domain; beginnings and endings, transitions, doorways. Passages of all kind, really.

[Likewise,] she says a little awkwardly. It's mostly their height, she realizes, as they loom above her. She's—

Oh yeah, she's back in her original form, but her standing at almost six feet is still nothing when she doesn't even reach Balerion's elbow.

[Can you guys crouch down,] she asks them as she puts her hands on the hips. They look between themselves and chuckle, but they actually do. Shrykos gets on their knees and sits on the heels of their feet in a proper seiza, and Balerion, the utter fucking madlad, does a slav squat. A proper one, with his feet fully on the ground. It's surreal. But they are on eye-level with her now.

[Better?] he asks.

[Yes, thank you.]

Awkward silence reigns as they both look at her and she tries to make sense of it all.

And it's not that hard to make sense of it. She does have all the pieces, after all. She died, and yet she lives, in another world. Balerion is the God of Death, Shrykos is the God of—well, all kinds of transitions, really.

The conclusion writes itself. She died, dimension-hopped, and was born again, and it's their doing.

[I'm reincarnated as a Targaryen and I don't even have a dragon,] she says, breaking the silence, and she absolutely does not sulk. [It's your doing, isn't it? It makes too much sense for it not to be. Is that why we're all here now? To—talk it out? My… Well, whyever I'm alive again?]

[Oh thank fuck you can think,] Shrykos says with obvious relief and Lyra startles a little at their wording. [This makes this whole undertaking a whole lot easier.]

[The—uh—Thanks? But also, now that I, you know, remember stuff, it's a simple conclusion.]

Balerion sighs and pokes Shrykos' cheek. [Truth to be told, we did not choose you to be reborn. We may be gods, but no power is unlimited, and dragging a whole intact soul through dimensions is no small feat. We could only do it once, and it was impossible to choose. All we could do was cast a net, and hope for the best.]

[That's… Awfully irresponsible.]

[We know,] Shrykos says with a sigh. [But we were running out of options.]

[Running out of options? Wait, this—Wait. Is this some—That—Is this not your first timeline doing this?]

They exchange looks. Balerion shrugs, Shrykos sighs again, despondently this time.

[No,] Balerion says. [But that is irrelevant. Though your existence disrupted our ability to foresee certain events, as you or anyone like you has existed prior. I am, however, starting to think that it is exactly what we have needed.]

Lyra shrugs and nods. [Fair enough.]

[We did need to ask Meleys for help, though,] Shrykos says with a shudder. [She was very upset with us.]

Meleys. Her domains, Lyra thinks, are motherhood and general reproduction. That does make sense, if they needed a baby to shove a soul into. She's not very interested in the mechanics of her reincarnation, though; she gets to live again and she doesn't need to know how.

She would like to know why, though. So, she asks: [Why did you need someone?] She thinks for a moment. The most obvious thing she would be born in time to fuck with would be— [Do you need me to stop the Dance?]

[Close, but no,] Balerion says, and she startles. That is not what she was expecting. [No, we don't care much for humans and their little civil wars, we don't even need a Targaryen on the throne, that was all Aegon's fancy. We don't care where they are or what are they doing, as long as there are those carrying enough of Valyrian blood still. We need—]

[Dragons,] Lyra breathes, because that's the next best thing. [You want me to save the dragons from extinction.]

[—precisely,] Balerion agrees, unbothered by the interruption. [We don't care much for how you will achieve it either, stop the civil war if you feel like it or spearhead it yourself, Hells, grab the crown yourself if you want it; do whatever. It doesn't matter as long as dragons survive this pivotal moment and thrive after. That is all we need.]

[And if I fail?]

[Two centuries into the future, this world ends.]

[Gee, no pressure, huh?] she groans and rubs her eyes. [You know, for someone set to save dragons, I'm awfully dragonless myself.]

[Yet,] Shrykos chirps. [He's waiting for you, though.]

She blinks up at them, as Balerion elbows them in the ribs.

[No spoilers?] she asks with a crooked smile.

[No spoilers,] Balerion says with a small smirk. [I want to see your reaction.]

Lyra has a sassy comeback on the tip of her tongue, but the world around them ripples, the konpeitō-stars blinking wildly and the ocean above growing violent as the whole dreamscape bleeds color.

[Our time is almost up,] Shrykos says as their fingertips start fading into gold dust. [We won't be able to meet anytime soon, between this and bringing you here, what was left of out power is mostly gone.]

[And last important advice before you go, then?]

[Old Valyria,] Balerion says immediately. [Knowledge lost there would be a great boon to you, though it is optional. Be very careful if you do go there, though; that place is an absolute death trap.]

[Don't trust any gods you haven't personally met,] Shrykos chirps with a smile. [And trust their followers even less.]

[Organized religion is cancer, I know,] she chuckles as the dreamscape shakes harder. [Tell Meleys I said thank you. Daemon is a pretty good father, really.]

[And trust your judgement!]

[You don't know me, Shrykos. I may be a dumbass.]

[Yes, but you do have a degree of hindsight, and a much differing outlook on life,] Balerion interjects. [If you want to pull this off, you will need to think outside the box in the way only someone in your situation can. Trust yourself.]

She takes a deep breath, and nods. The dreamscape swims and blurs at the edges, vanishing into glitter.

[Best of luck!] Shrykos says—yells—and it sounds distant, now. They're almost gone, and so is Balerion.

[We'll be seeing you sometime in the future,] Balerion says with a nod.

She waves at them as everything turns into static, and then nothing, save for one indignant thought;

It's a fucking isekai.

○

So wake me up when it's all over

When I'm wiser and I'm older

All this time I was finding myself, and I

Didn't know I was lost

I didn't know I was lost.

○

She wakes up.

That fucker, Warren, stabbed her in the chest forty-three times and she died. She remembers exactly how it felt, cold steel in her lungs, and she will have to live with that knowledge forever. It is a price she will be paying forever, because—

Because she wakes up.

She died and yet she's here, breathing, alive, warm, though elsewhere. Six years old and impossibly alive, and finally developed enough to recover enough memory to be aware of what actually happened.

There are gaps of course, there are things she doesn't remember, can't, maybe won't. Memories she lost to defence mechanisms that she doesn't even want back.

But she's alive all the same, in another world, a Targaryen at the eve of the Dance of Dragons, and—she's read the books once, and watched the show then it was coming out, and she barely remembers anything from it. Fuck.

She's always been more of a Tolkien girl to get her fantasy fix, after all.

She rolls onto Daemon's chest with a groan, using the familiar warmth to ground herself as memories settle, and one conversation she had in a dream stands out. And isn't that crazy that Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, is the person she relies on the most? The person she unironically trusts with her life?

He's an asshole. A villain, chaotic evil, or at least selfish—but she doesn't for a second, even with the new-old memories, doubt his love for her. That is a bone-deep kind of certainty. He's the best parent she's ever had in either life and though the bar isn't very high, he's trying his best, and she's finding that his best is not really bad at all. He's not, by any means, the best father to ever live, but—he's good. Attentive, supportive, nurturing, uncharacteristically patient for himself.

He's a good parent, plain and simple, she knows it, especially with hindsight of what her parents used to be a lifetime ago—she cut contact with them for a reason, after all.

Hell, even Rhea was passable in comparison to them, since all she did was severely neglect Lyra out of fear of their Targaryen-ness and dislike for Daemon.

She grabs the book he was reading to her, some tales, and throws it haphazardly on the nightstand. It was on his chest; he must have fallen asleep before putting it down. Daemon startles awake, takes a deep breath, blinks a little, looks at her. His hair is braided loosely and over his shoulder, and he's wearing that soft cotton shirt she likes to cuddle into.

he asks her, voice heavily laden with sleep, and she sighs dramatically.

And just like that he rolls onto his side and gathers her in his arms and presses her against his chest, the softness of his shirt and the heat of his body and the steady beat of his heart so calming and familiar that she starts dozing off immediately.

The best part, she thinks, is that Daemon is still himself. He's still violent, vicious, and exceedingly selfish. He still kills for fun and frequents whorehouses and threatens anyone he can get away with threatening, and flies around on Caraxes and occasionally feeds people to him. But he also reads her bedtime stories and braids her hair and carries her around and gives the best hugs and kisses her forehead and spends the whole night awake with her if she's unwell.

He still, without complaint, cradles her in his arms when the sleep won't come or dreams haunt her, and runs his hand through her hair as a quiet purr rumbles from his chest, and she doesn't think she's ever felt safer, or warmer, or more content.

This side of his, this softness—it's hers, and hers alone, she knows. It's her most precious treasure, just like she is his.

She presses her forehead against his collarbone.

And she might be small and six years old, and she might be alive all over again and she might remember her first death and there is and will me trauma there, she just knows it, and this might be a fucking isekai in another world she barely remembers the plot of, but—

His voice is smooth and quiet, barely above a whisper, but there's a certainty in these words. A promise. A belonging, to somewhere, with someone, freely given. She thinks she should feel bitter that it took her dying to find what she should have always had, but she doesn't care. Past matters little, save for the knowledge it grants her. Past is the road she's already walked, a teacher of lessons of life, and this is now, and she's thankful that she gets to have this in the end.

Enough to be glad to have died for it, even.

Because this, she thinks, this is enough. This is home.

Notes:

I'm aware Harwin only came to KL in 105AC (it's 104 right now) and was made captain of the Gold Cloaks but I find it more poetic if Harwin apprentices under Daemon for a bit, especially given my plans for Harwin later.