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Chapter Text

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I was drifting in and out of consciousness.

It all started with an online discussion about how the Targaryens screwed up. Yes, they screwed up epically—anyone who watched the show or read the books would agree.

But the thing is, I didn't watch the show or read the books.

I only read fanfiction.

And when it came to fanfics, I mostly read two types—either pro-Targaryen or pro-Stark.

It was common sense: you had to respect a family that held land continuously for 8,000 years without getting completely wiped out.

That was a massive feat.

As for the Targaryens? The only ones I respected were Visenya and her son, Maegor. The rest? Overrated.

People wrote about them as if they were great rulers, but I never saw it.

They were terrible at ruling. Look at the first so-called "good" king after Aegon's Conquest—Jaehaerys. He was an usurper, and he knew it.

He could have just married his older sibling as a token of legitimacy and moved on, but no, he had to mess things up.

And when he ruled, that was all he did—rule.

He didn't care about his children beyond what they could do for his family's power.

Worse, he never even suspected what the Citadel was up to.

He let the Faith of the Seven regain power, the same faith that had led to his father and brother getting screwed over in the first place.

Then there was the matter of succession.

His eldest living son had a daughter, his clear heir, and yet Jaehaerys refused to formalize a proper line of inheritance.

He was a dragonlord, his entire family was, but he didn't give a damn.

When his son died, he should have made his granddaughter heir and placed Baelon as Hand of the King, training them both.

But no, he named Baelon his heir instead.

He treated his daughters like prisoners, keeping them locked away in a single castle and ensuring they didn't have dragons of their own.

The only reason Alyssa Targaryen was not so easily cowed was that she became a dragonlord of her own, and hence her relationship with Baelon was encouraged. The remaining princesses were just locked away from dragons.

If he didn't want other families to have dragons, he should have made a succession law where a Targaryen princess's husband became her consort, was granted appropriate dowries and holdings, and was tied to the royal court. But no—he delved so deep into the Faith of the Seven that he sent one of his own daughters to a sept.

He held a Great Council once, choosing an heir who wasn't even qualified to rule over an heir who was. With that, he sent a clear message to the realm: women were not fit to lead.

The more I debated about all this Targaryen nonsense, the more irritated the guy I was arguing with became.

Eventually, he just snapped and cursed me out.

"Oh yeah? If you're so smart, let's see what you'd do if you were in one of their places."

Then everything went black.

My eyes were blurry and I felt very disoriented.

As I regained my wits, my thoughts felt strange—formal, precise, unlike my usual way of thinking.

It was an opulent chamber with silk drapings and various dragon motifs in red and black.

My skin prickled against smooth silk sheets, a fabric far too fine for my normal life. My head throbbed—no, pounded—with a migraine so intense it felt like my skull was splitting in two.

I barely had time to turn before I vomited onto the polished stone floor beside the bed.

The room was dimly lit, but I could still make out its grandeur. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting scenes of dragons soaring over burning fields, their woven flames almost flickering in the candlelight.

A massive fireplace sat against the far wall, embers glowing faintly in the hearth, the scent of charred wood lingering in the air.

Heavy, dark wooden beams framed the ceiling, reinforcing the fortress-like structure of the holdfast. Maegor's Holdfast—fortified within the very heart of the Red Keep—felt oppressive, its thick walls designed to withstand siege and betrayal alike.

And then, the memories hit me.

It was not gradual but instant.

The memories were forced into me as I relived this new life.

I could remember my mother—her love, strong and fierce, a mother dragon protecting her younglings. Our father, Baelon the Brave, the Spring Prince—always jovial and reassuring, yet a silent, steady presence when needed.

Uncle Aemon, the Crown Prince—when he passed away, it was a very bad time for me. He loved me like his own, always taking me up on Caraxes after Mother passed away and Rhaenys took Meleys, the Red Queen.

The Red Queen and the rides I had with Mother—the rejection after Mother’s death where she expressed grief through distance.

How I tried to spend time with her even after she became Rhaenys’ dragon while offering cattle as a peace offering.

My recent ascent to a knight’s level of prowess, and Dark Sister—the sword Father had given me.

Queen Alysanne, in a bid to strike at her husband and son, tying me to a Vale house to Rhea Royce out of spite.

I had just returned to this room after a night of debauchery.

My betrothal had been announced, to which I protested very vehemently.

I had ridden Caraxes to clear my head afterward and later went to a brothel to drown my sorrows.

I could feel the fire in my chest—wild, untamed, hungry and fierce. It urged the blood in my veins to burn hotter.

And I could feel him too. Caraxes.

He was irritated, our connection humming with his restless energy.

I took a slow, unsteady breath, staring at the golden dragon sigil embroidered onto the black sheets beneath me.

Now… how the fuck do I get out of this stupid realm?

The Seven Kingdoms, for that matter. Should I just go to Essos? Maybe.

We’ll see.

Now… how the fuck do I get out of this stupid realm? the seven kingdoms for that matter should i just go to Essos maybe we will see

I will be the type of Targaryen the world would think thrice before they can to piss me off.

Chapter Text

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96 AC

It took a while for the world to stop spinning. My palms pressed against the cold metal of the bronze mirror, breath fogging the surface. The face staring back wasn’t that of some man reborn through cheap sorcery. Whoever—or whatever—had done this had molded my soul from birth, let me live as Daemon Targaryen, then peeled away the layer as if it were paper.

The memories came like a sledgehammer to my head—painful both physically and emotionally.

After Grandfather’s decision, when Rhaenys was passed over, she left without a glance. That cut deeper than I admitted.
Gael had been the only one with me during those times—when our cousin left, when the family grew colder. She laughed with me without fear. Now Alysanne, fearing our closeness, kept her locked away from me like a songbird in a gilded cage.

So I did what a lonely Targaryen boy with a man’s body does.
I drowned in vice.
Blood, wine, whores—soft mouths, bruised lips, sweat and laughter tangled in the dark. I took what I could get, because affection here came only at a price, and I could afford it.

Now, with my memories back, I understood why Daemon became who he was.
He loved fiercely, and every love was turned against him. He served, and every service was spat on.
Viserys would use me until I overshadowed him, then cast me aside. It’s the way of weak men with power—they fear reflection.

I smirked at that thought, watching my body in the mirror. The cut of muscle, the faint scars along my ribs—marks of training and temper. This, at least, was mine.

The door opened.
“Prince Baelon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne.”
“And King Jaehaerys, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Seven, when six obey. The irony almost made me laugh.

A snort still escaped me.

They both looked at me as if they’d caught me doing something unholy. In a way, they had—I was thinking for myself.

Jaehaerys spoke first. “Share the jest with us, Daemon. We would also laugh.”

“Your Grace,” I said, combing a hand through my hair, “you would not find it… appropriate.”

His eyes narrowed. Baelon shifted, uncertain. The air between us grew sharp.

“Daemon, you will cease this debauchery and start behaving. That is final.”

I turned slightly, smirk still curling my lips. “Zȳhon Grace, nyke issa daor ao buzdari.”
(Your Grace, I am not your slave.)

His composure cracked. Baelon’s face tightened.

“Daemon,” he said quietly, “must you always test patience? This rebellion—”

“Rebellion?” I laughed once, bitterly. “No. I’ve simply learned not to mistake obedience for loyalty. Everyone who did their duty in this family ended up dead or miserable. Forgive me if I choose not to die by obedience.”

My father flinched, but I wasn’t done.

“And what use is marriage to some Vale girl when Viserys already plays at being king? He lies with a girl of thirteen and you call it duty. At least my whores are grown women. I make no bastards, and I don’t kill girls who should be playing at childhood instead of being forced into beds.”

The silence that followed burned hotter than dragonflame.

“Queen Alysanne’s matches have been disasters, and she did this because she loathes your Father's decision to make you heir. You know it. Yet you’d gladly watch me drown just so you can’t oppose your father’s will. For what? To make me more respectable—or more lordly? Sorry, my Crown Prince, I’ve no idea what else you need from me.”

I fastened my belt, movements calm but deliberate. “Respect is a mask. I’d rather wear my sins openly than paint them gold.”

I met Baelon’s gaze. “If being your son means bowing to every whim, then perhaps it’s time you disown me. You’d sleep easier—and I’d feel freer, wouldn’t I?”

When I left, they didn’t follow.
Jaehaerys’s hand twitched; Baelon’s mouth opened and closed like a man half-drowned in regret. I could feel the weight of what I’d just done—but the truth was liberating.

Outside, the Red Keep seemed colder, smaller. The city below pulsed with life and stench—real life, not the perfumed rot of court.

At the Dragonpit, I called to the keepers.
“Naejot jorrāelagon Caraxes’s saddlon.”
(Prepare Caraxes’s saddle.)

When he came forth, his crimson scales glistened in the sun. His snout brushed my chest, warm and alive.
“Valzȳrys,” I whispered. “Hāedroma sȳz. Ñuha valzȳrys, nyke gōntan nīþir tymagon hen bisy dōrī gūrēñagon.”
(Brother. Let us fly well. I’ve grown weary of this petty world.)

He roared, shaking the pit’s walls.

When we took to the air, I laughed—genuinely this time. The city shrank, the wind tore at my hair, and every drop of blood in me sang.

Being in the air—flying atop a dragon. What kid in his life didn’t dream of it?

Such exhilaration and rush—what a rush.

And the connection—Gods, he is mine and I am his. We are one being.

For hours, we chased the wind and dove through clouds. Below us lay forests, rivers, the edge of the Kingswood. When he landed to hunt, I took a strip of meat, raw and warm, cooked it over the fire, and chewed while Caraxes devoured his kill. The taste was bland but grounding.

When we returned, I gave the keepers a command they didn’t dare question.

“Naejot ivestragī. Hen bisy tolvie, ziry ēza jelmazmo.”
(Do not chain him. From this day forth, he shall be free.)

I placed my hand on Caraxes’s snout one last time.
“Ābrar se se hāedrȳ, kostilus syt daor ēza vali arlī pȳdas. Soves sȳz, ñuha jorrāelagon.”
(Find a home near the city, where no men will disturb you. Fly freely, my friend.)

When he lifted off again, the ground shook.
I watched him disappear into the crimson dusk and realized—for the first time—I owned something no Targaryen could ever take from me.

Freedom.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer : I Own Nothing

Jaehaerys POV
The chamber was dim, quiet but for the faint hiss of the hearth. The years weighed heavier on Jaehaerys tonight than they had in a long time. He sat still, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying age more than emotion — though emotion, he realized, was not absent.

Daemon's voice still rang in his ears — sharp, young, raw, and honest in a way that only youth could afford to be. Insolence was one thing; truth, spoken without fear, was another matter entirely. And gods, the boy had spoken truth.

He rubbed his thumb against his temple, as if he could scrape the words off his mind.

Alysanne sat across from him, her back straight, every line of her body controlled, yet he could read the tension in her stillness. The faint tap of her finger against the armrest gave her away.

To her left sat Barth, his expression thoughtful, the flicker of candlelight playing across his patient face. The man looked like he had seen this coming long before Jaehaerys had.

Baelon stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight — every inch the dutiful son and weary father.

"He is out of control," Baelon said, his tone disciplined but bleeding frustration. "Drunkenness, whoring, insolence — he wears his disobedience like armor."

Barth's eyes flicked up, calm but piercing. "Or perhaps because he sees no honor elsewhere, my prince."

The words hung in the air, quiet but cutting.

Jaehaerys let out a low breath, slow and deliberate. "Abandoned? He is my blood. Raised in this very keep, tutored, fed, armored, educated — blessed by fire and name both. He has everything a Targaryen could ask for."

Barth inclined his head slightly. "Everything, except affection that means something."

The king's eyes flickered toward his son. Baelon looked insulted — wounded, even — but said nothing.

"Father," Baelon finally muttered, his voice like iron against gravel, "I have had it with this family feud. There must be something that can be done. You are pushing Daemon dangerously close to self-exile."

Alysanne's voice, when it came, was soft — but it carried a sharpness that made the other three fall silent. "And pray tell why should such concession be made," she said. "The betrothal has been agreed upon and sanctioned by your father. There is nothing else to be done."

The old king's breath caught. He had not heard that tone from her in years — not since Aemon's death; she was still punishing Baelon for being the one who named him heir instead of Rhaenys.

The silence that followed was heavy, almost sacred.

He stared at the candlelight, the way it quivered against the stone wall, and thought of Daemon's words again: Everyone in this family who tried to do their duty has either died or been exiled.

A cruel line — because it was true.

Aemon. Alyssa. Rhaena. Aerea. Even Rhaenys, spirited away by pride and disappointment. Duty had cost them all something.

Baelon broke the silence first. "He is a boy with too much fire and too little restraint. I will not let him destroy or exile himself."

Barth's voice was calm, but the conviction underneath it was solid stone. "Then give him something to burn for, rather than against."

Baelon frowned. "You mean to use him as a weapon?"

"I mean to let him become one properly," Barth replied. "The Stepstones have once again started to bleed our ships dry. Lord Tarth has begged for aid. Prince Daemon is young, yes, but he is no longer a child. Let him prove himself where it matters. Let him matter."

"No." Baelon's answer came instantly, sharp enough to slice the thought clean in two. "He is fifteen. You would have me send my son to war? To pirates and cutthroats?"

Jaehaerys did not answer immediately. His eyes were far away — somewhere between memory and calculation. He saw again the fire in Daemon's eyes when the boy spoke to him earlier, that mixture of pride and wounded yearning. A wildfire left untended.

And Alysanne — gods bless her perceptiveness — saw it too. "Do not send him, Jaehaerys. He will think this has been a tacitly approved exile and he will not return even for our deaths," she warned. "He expects to be cast aside. That is why he mocks us — he's already made his peace with it."

Baelon exhaled, tired, furious. "Then what do you propose? Let him rot in taverns while whores sing his name? While our sigil becomes a jest among the smallfolk?"

Barth looked to the king. "There is a difference between indulgence and direction, Your Grace. Prince Daemon's hunger is not for wine or flesh — those are simply the things he uses to fill what you have left empty. Give him a purpose, or he'll make one for himself and we may not be ready for it."

Jaehaerys' hands steepled before his lips. For a long moment, only the crackle of the hearth spoke. When he did answer, it was quiet — the quiet of a man who already knew the shape of the future, and did not like it.

"No," he said softly. "We will not send him to Tarth. Not yet. But my Hand is right. He needs a place. A reason to stay."

He closed his eyes briefly, and in that breath, he felt the shadow of prophecy — not the divine kind, but the simple inevitability of fire meeting wind. "If we do not give him a place," he said finally, "he will make one for himself — but not amongst us."

And that, he thought grimly, would be the day the realm remembers his name forever.

Daemon POV
Caraxes coiled in the torchlight like a living storm. His red scales glistened under the dim light of the Dragonpit, steam curling from his nostrils. I placed my hand along the warm ridge of his snout, feeling the faint vibration of a growl rumbling beneath the surface.

He looked at me — not like a pet or a mount, but as something equal. That was the only kind of bond worth having.

"Valzȳrys," I whispered, pressing my forehead against him.
(Brother.)

The word hung in the still air before I turned away.

My black courser waited outside. The reins were cool against my palms, the air thick with the smell of salt and smoke. The ride through the city was familiar — the kind of familiarity that sank into your bones after years of wandering these streets.

The city stank of sweat and fish and burning oil — real smells, unperfumed and honest.

The tavern wasn't much to look at, but it welcomed me like an old scar. The moment I entered, voices rose — laughter, shouts, the sound of tankards striking wood.

Here, I was not the second son or the forgotten prince.
Here, I was Prince of the city, Daemon Targaryen.

I tossed a few silver stags on the counter. "Drinks for everyone," I said, and the roar that followed was genuine, unpolished, and hungry.

Hands clapped my shoulders, women whispered promises against my ear, men called my name with drunken loyalty. It wasn't love, but it was something that filled the hollow.

But beneath the laughter, I heard the whisper — soft, cautious.
"Your Grace… it's not safe for you. The watch has abandoned their rounds. Thieves rule the streets. The guards haven't been paid in moons."

The words snapped through the haze like cold water. I drained my cup, slammed it down, and stood. The noise around me died almost instantly.

I wanted to laugh; all I could manage was a hollow sigh.

If the crown wouldn't protect the city, then I would.

The barracks of the City Watch were a disgrace. Half the men were drunk, the rest asleep or pretending not to see me. I could smell the piss and spilled ale before I reached the doorway.

"Gather every man," I ordered, voice cutting through the rot. The sound of command made them stir, confused and wary.

As they assembled, I paced before them — the old wood creaking beneath my boots. "You shame yourselves," I said. "You shame this city. You shame the name of the Watch."

Murmurs. Fear. A few angry stares.

"I've heard you're not paid," I continued. "Fine. From this night forward, you'll be paid double. By me. You will have proper armor, cudgels, and daggers forged at my expense. You will walk the streets again — and the people will sleep without fear."

They were silent. No one dared move.

"Any man who doesn't want this can leave. Give your name to the scribes. You'll go without punishment."

No one moved.

"Good," I said. "Because those who stay will answer to me. I will train with you at dawn. I will fight beside you. You will not steal from the people, nor harm them. But if I find out any of you try—"

A roar cut through the air, deep and primal. Caraxes. The walls trembled. A few men flinched.

"I'm sure we understand each other now," I said with a cold smile.

"YES, MY PRINCE!" the Watch bellowed back, the words half fear, half devotion.

"Good. Tomorrow we begin."

When I left, the night was quieter. Ser Harold Westerling rode beside me, hesitant. "Is this wise, my prince?"

"No, Ser," I said simply. "But it's necessary. The people of this city still call me their prince, and when they have to warn me for my own safety, how safe can they be?"

My voice hardened, not from pride but from something sharper, heavier. "They still look at me and see something worth following. The rest of them—Father, the King and his precious council—don't see the rot beneath the marble. They talk of peace while the streets decay. But I see it."

Ser Harold said nothing for a long moment. Then quietly, "And if the council disapproves?"

I let a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. "Then they'll finally have a reason to fear me."

The wind bit against my face as we rode, cold and clean, carrying the smell of smoke and the sea. Far off, Caraxes roared — a low, rolling thunder across the dark.

I looked toward the sound, feeling something old and fierce stir inside me.

It's been a while since I set something ablaze.

Chapter Text

Daemon had spent the past few days drilling the City Guard into something resembling an army. He commissioned new armor from the smiths and leatherworkers—simple chainmail and plate enough to give them weight and presence—and made certain every man carried both dagger and cudgel.

He trained them without mercy, breaking their sloppiness through repetition and exhaustion. His voice carried like a whip through the yard, every command obeyed without question. They learned quickly that the only orders they were to heed came from him or those of royal blood. No lord, merchant, or gold-bearing fool would command the Watch again.

Daemon stood in the training yard with a blunt sword and asked three men to come at him. He parried the first—an over-eager blow met with a shoulder push that sent the man down—and glanced around to see the others trying to surround him. They were trying, the key word. He advanced toward another and swung his sword, expecting to be parried; he feigned with his arm toward the gap, then turned toward the other man as he charged. He slid aside while delivering a kick to the side.

After that session, the guards who had been born in the city were more than thrilled to serve under the prince.

As for the commander and the other highborns in the Watch, Daemon didn’t give a thought. He watched them squander the wages on drink and whores, thinking this was a flight of fancy for Daemon and that things would soon return to normal.

Their duty was simple in words but heavy in expectation—to protect the people of King's Landing, maintain order, and uphold the King's law.

Even as Daemon reacquainted himself with instincts dulled by another lifetime, his reforms took shape. Patrols were no longer aimless wanderings. He enforced a rule that no man would walk the streets alone: every patrol had at least three members. Formations were practiced until they became habit. He pushed them to their limits—running circles in the yard until legs gave out, then forcing them to rise, slow the pace, and begin again.

By afternoon, their exhaustion gave way to a different kind of training—literacy. Daemon had them learn letters and numbers, their calloused hands awkward around quills. Reports, records, city accounts—he intended the Watch to serve the realm with more than brute strength.

From dawn until dusk, Daemon worked. He rarely saw his family now, preferring the company of steel, parchment, and dragonfire. When not overseeing the Watch, he studied histories and treatises on law and economics, or took Caraxes to the skies to clear his mind. The secret passages of the Red Keep became his refuge; through them, he could avoid the endless corridors of courtly politics.

A week passed, and the transformation of the Watch was visible even to the city's drunks and beggars. Their new armor glimmered faintly under torchlight, earning them a name Daemon himself had coined—the Gold Cloaks, a tribute to canon.

He organized them into squads of five, each under a leader. Ten such squads formed a unit under a captain. Every day, half patrolled the streets at dawn, the other half at dusk. The shifts rotated, ensuring none grew complacent. The city began to notice.

But luck never lasted long. Today, Daemon could not escape duty in its most suffocating form: family dinner.

The summons had come that morning, carrying the weight of command. He obeyed.

The great doors of the dining hall opened with a quiet groan. The scent of roasted fowl and spiced wine filled the air. At the high table sat King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, with Prince Baelon and Viserys beside them. Aemma Arryn and young Gael completed the gathering, softening the atmosphere just enough to make it tolerable.

Daemon entered, bowing his head slightly—courtesy by habit, not devotion. His greeting was clipped, polite enough to avoid reproach. Yet when he turned to Aemma and Gael, his tone warmed; there was something almost human in it.

Throughout the meal, he spoke mostly to them, his voice measured but intent. He told Aemma of the midwives and Essosi healers he had gathered to his service—experienced women who had seen countless births and losses, who understood the body better than any maester's book.

"They'll see to your health," he said quietly, "and to the child's. Every tonic, every draught the Maesters give you—they'll test it first."

He spoke not as a prince performing duty, but as a man ensuring the safety of his kin.

It was then that Jaehaerys's voice cut through the table like steel.

"At last," the King said, "you are doing your duty as a prince. Perhaps now you might write to your betrothed."

Daemon laughed. The sound was short, sharp, without mirth.

"Do not delude yourself, Your Grace," he said evenly. "The City Watch was not duty—it was survival. The smallfolk warned me to be careful for my own life on the streets. When even a prince cannot walk his own streets unmolested, what hope do they have?"

He leaned back slightly, eyes glinting. "I trained them, I armed them. Not for glory, but necessity. As for betrothal—" his lips curled in a faint smirk, "—I was unaware I'd accepted one. Or that there was a woman I'd care to marry or fuck, as you so kindly suggest."

A silence followed, the kind that thickened the air.

Jaehaerys's expression darkened, the room seeming smaller under his gaze. With a gesture, he summoned the guards.

"Viserys," he said quietly, "escort Aemma and Gael to their chambers. Let them have some sweets and fruit."

He turned his eyes back to Daemon. "The Prince and I have a discussion to finish—in my quarters. Baelon, Alysanne—you will join us."

Daemon rose smoothly, unhurried. "As you wish, Your Grace," he replied, tone neither defiant nor deferential—merely steady.

Inside the King's quarters, Jaehaerys sat with the habitual gravity of his office, Baelon beside him like a steadying counterweight. Daemon sat opposite, composed, one leg crossed over the other, posture loose as a man who trusts neither formality nor flattery. The room smelled faintly of tallow and old leather; the tapestries muffled sound until voices landed with more weight.

"So, what do you wish to discuss, Your Grace?" Daemon asked, the question flat.

Around them, Baelon and the attendants listened in the brittle silence that follows trouble too long ignored. Jaehaerys's eyes narrowed. "Enough of this disrespect. I am your King."

Daemon tilted his head as if considering a trivial fact. "Yes, yes, I know. But if that is the case, you should also know that I am a subject and a dragonlord in my own right—not a slave."

The King's voice hardened. "What is this insolence? Have I ever treated you as a slave?"

Daemon laughed, but it was a laugh without warmth. "Am I not? Your wife cannot get over the fact that you and your small council passed over Rhaenys. Now, she has only one daughter left, and the only eligible Valyrian match is me. My father loves me the most, so Alysanne proposed a marriage to a lady from the Vale—someone older than me, who has her own ambitions of ruling her castle. I would have to scrape and beg for her favor, all so you can placate your wife. And you think I will agree? You think I don't see the plan? That after she gives birth, she will conveniently die, leaving me to claim the Vale for you? Is that your most optimal outcome? And my father, ever the dutiful son, accepted this farce, just as his parents destroyed his siblings. Now, they turn their eyes to their grandchildren. Why should I give more respect than I already give when there is none for me? I repeat: I am not you or your wife's slave."

Daemon's words landed like a blade. Jaehaerys clenched his jaw; the lines at his eyes deepened. Baelon shifted, a small, controlled movement, his lips pressed thin—panic and helplessness both there. Alysanne watched with a mind that catalogued and weighed everything; her silence was assessment.

"And you keep speaking of 'the realm,' yet our house is weaker than ever—more than in your father's reign. You made the realm strong but failed to weed out the families and forces that led to your father's weak rule and later to your uncle's downfall. I am certain he was at least poisoned or bewitched into madness. Worse still, you allowed a child to be bedded in this castle, exiled or killed your daughters, and let the lords call us 'dragonless' because you denied them their birthright."

Daemon's voice dropped until it was almost a private thing—less shout than promise. "And on top of all this, I have to restrain myself from burning Oldtown to the ground when I hear the septons gloat over my uncle's death and say an abomination won't rule over them. So, tell me, Your Grace—what insolence have I truly committed?"

Jaehaerys's knuckles whitened on the armrest. Outside the chamber, servants moved like shadows; within, the air seemed to tighten. "You speak with the tongue of a viper and words like a blade, boy," the King said at last, flat and cold as the Void. "And like a viper, you will find that snapping at dragons leads only to fire."

Daemon leaned forward, the candlelight catching violet in his eyes. His smirk never faded. "Where I don't see any, then burn me, Your Grace." He held the look until it tested the King. "Or is it that you know I speak the truth? That your reign, for all its wisdom, has left our house brittle?"

Baelon cut in, measured, the voice of a son who has learned to steer between rebellion and reason. "Daemon, you go too far."

"Do I?" Daemon turned that small, mocking question to his father. "Tell me, then—am I lying? Will I not be shackled to some ambitious noblewoman to secure your mother's acceptance? Will I not be expected to dance like a puppet, just as you did?" He scoffed, the sound sharp as flint. "You think I do not see? You are the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the throne, yet you are nothing more than the sharpest tool in his arsenal. In fact, if he wanted more heirs shouldn't you marry and do your duty?"

Baelon's jaw tightened; he had no answer that could both defend and avoid betrayal.

Jaehaerys breathed out slowly, the exhalation of a man who has measured the cost of many choices. "You fancy yourself clever, Daemon, but you are young. You do not understand the burden of a king."

"Oh," Daemon said, smooth and cool. "Maybe so. But I understand that you were never meant to rule this long. That you should have abdicated when the cracks began to show. That you fear change more than you fear our enemies."

Alysanne's eyes flashed, a controlled flame. "And what would you have done, then, boy? Seized the throne by force? Married Rhaenys yourself? Hatched a war against the lords?"

Daemon did not blink. "Why would I want the throne if I end up like your husband? I would first think of suicide. No, I would have made Rhaenys marry my father, my brother, or me; then I would name whoever was married as consort and the other left would be slowly joined under the small council for training to learn something and rule effectively—not be this weak man who, when he had the opportunity to remove the teeth of one of our greatest enemies in these kingdoms, instead gave them concession, making them satisfied. Now I have to suffer these affronts against me to placate you. We have never been close, grandmother—yet I didn't know you hated me this deeply. For that, I will make you burn in return, as the loss of your favorite children burned you."

His gaze slid to Jaehaerys, sharp as a prod. "I would not have let my enemies live long enough to call me weak."

Jaehaerys’s hand moved before thought could catch it.
The strike cracked through the chamber — sharp, final.

Daemon’s head jerked to the side from the blow. For a moment, silence held; then he spat a thin line of blood onto the floor, the dark red glinting against stone. His gaze lifted, eyes burning with restrained fury. His hands clenched until the knuckles went white and small lines of blood welled from his palms where his nails bit skin.

Jaehaerys held that look for a long moment, the weight of years and wartime counsel settled into the lines of his face.
"You think you are the first Targaryen to seethe at the chains of duty?" he asked finally.
"The first to curse the necessity of politics? If you were king today, you would only trade one leash for another. And when the realm fractures beneath you, when the dragons begin to die, you will realize—" he leaned forward, voice a whisper that carried steel—"that wisdom is knowing which battles to fight."

Daemon chuckled, a small, sharp sound.
"And yet, Your Grace, you have been fighting the wrong battles all along."

Silence pooled around them. The words had weight; even the tapestries seemed to hold their breath.
Alysanne broke the stillness, voice even, clipped.
"Enough of this. We did not summon you here for a debate on governance."

"No," Daemon said, rising with a movement that was all economy and contempt, "you summoned me to bend. To remind me of my place. But let me save you the trouble—I know my place. And it is not at the feet of Oldtown, nor at the mercy of lords who fear dragons."

He met Jaehaerys’s gaze once more, steady as a drawn sword.
"You once dreamed of a united realm, of peace and prosperity. But peace does not last, Your Grace. And when war comes again, when fire and blood are needed—" he paused, hand on the latch of the door, voice low as a promise—
"do not expect me to clean up the mess you made."

Then he left. The door closed on the echo of his stride; only the dying candlelight and the residue of his words remained.

Jaehaerys remained in his chair, still as carved stone, fingers steepled as if the posture could steady thought. The footsteps faded down the corridor, each one a small indictment.

His youngest grandson had always been a wild thing—unpredictable, rebellious, hungry for something to burn for—but the King felt something new in him that night. The smirks were still there; the barbs, too. But beneath them lay not mere defiance, but conviction with teeth.

At length, the King spoke, voice quieter than it had been in the quarrel.
"Daemon will need direction. Purpose. He has always sought it, and if he does not find it with us, he will find it elsewhere."
His look slid to Baelon, weighted and deliberate. "I intend to create a new position—Master of Defense. It will be his, and through it, he will look outward rather than inward."

Baelon took that in, slow and cautious.
"You should be careful, Father," he said. "Daemon may be young, but he is not reckless. Not in the way you think. He hides his fury behind smirks and sharp words, but he burns hotter than any of us."

Jaehaerys raised an eyebrow, measuring the weight behind the warning.
Baelon continued, voice grave. "He loves our family, but not blindly. If what he says is true—if the Faith, the lords, the maesters, or any others conspired to weaken us—then he will not sit idly by. He will burn them, all of them, down to the stones of their septs and the ashes of their halls. And from what he just told us about Aemon's death being celebrated?" Baelon’s mouth tightened. "I would very much support it."

Alysanne stiffened, a motion that wore caution like armor. "Baelon—" she began, then stopped herself.

"You heard him," Baelon said softly, inexorable as a verdict. "He did not speak as a rebellious prince throwing a tantrum. He spoke as a dragon only just realizing how many snakes coil around his nest. And worse, that his elders have allowed them to remain."

Jaehaerys’s fingers white-knuckled the armrest. The years pressed down on him; the old wound of Aemon’s death—an ache he had never allowed to close—opened afresh. The thought that his son’s end had been welcomed, perhaps aided, by unseen hands was a corruption that ate at the foundations of what he had built.

"And what do you suggest I do, Baelon?" the King asked at last, voice weary but sharpened by fear.

Baelon exhaled and let the answer fall.
"Daemon is not wrong. The Faith has overstepped before, and they will again. You gave them power when you reformed the realm, let them into the highest places, made concessions for peace. But in their hearts, they do not believe we should rule. They have never believed it. And they celebrated Aemon’s death—your heir’s death."

His face hardened.
"If the Septons truly see us as enemies, then we should start seeing them the same way."

Alysanne’s eyes searched the room, mind already weighing consequence.
"The Faith is deeply rooted in Westeros. If we move against them openly, it will be seen as tyranny. And if we act too rashly, we could turn the lords against us. The Faith Militant may have been put down, but we cannot afford another uprising."

Baelon inclined his head.
"Then we do not move rashly. We do as Daemon does—observe, uncover, prepare. And when the time comes, we act before they can."

Jaehaerys sat silent, the slow, bleak arithmetic of rule working in his head. It was not the way of peace he had built; still, perhaps peace had been no more than a reprieve. Perhaps the storm had already come, and he had been too content to notice.

Finally, he said, with the resigned firmness of an aging general,
"Daemon will have his office. He will uncover the threats against our house. And if he finds what he claims is there… we will not hesitate."

Baelon nodded once, slowly, but his eyes remained distant as if peering into a future already laid in ash.
"Just be careful, Father," he said again, softer this time. "Because if Daemon truly believes our house has been weakened from within, then nothing will stop him from purging it. And if he finds out you knew and let it happen…"
He stopped — the rest needed no voice.

They sat in the dim room, each wrapped in the particular loneliness of those who govern.
Daemon remained blood and kin; but a dragon with nothing to lose was the most dangerous thing of all.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer : I Own Nothing

After some time, once tempers cooled and courtly duties resumed, I began to notice a curious pattern. Daemon, though often restless, interacted only with Aemma and Gael. He seemed determined to temper my wife's constant need to coddle our youngest daughter—an impossible task, yet one he pursued with quiet persistence.

As for his service with the City Watch, I had little to reproach. From the reports brought to me, he carried out his duties with unexpected diligence. He trained with the men, patrolled with them, even drank with them at the Street of Silk. Yet, each time, he left after the third round, paying for one and refusing further indulgence. He never stayed to whore or to boast. He simply returned to his quarters, where he read or combed through reports long into the night.

It was… strange. For all his wildness, there was discipline buried beneath. Purpose, perhaps.

I had considered calling him before the full court, to announce the formal creation of his new office—Prince Commander of the City Watch. But I knew my grandson too well. In such a public setting, he would seize the moment to provoke, to demand the dissolution of his betrothal or utter some other sharp-tongued remark to sour the air.

So instead, I summoned him to a private audience.

What is it about him that unsettles me so? Saera, my mind whispered back.

"Prince Daemon Targaryen," the herald announced.

He entered with his usual swagger and pride—shoulders squared, chin high, the flicker of calculation in his burning eyes. His gaze swept the chamber, lingering briefly on Barth before he stopped a few paces short of me, choosing to stand rather than sit.

"Skoros otāpagon isse hārenkon issa, muña?" I asked quietly. (Why, grandson, I thought you were not someone who needed permission?)

His mouth twitched, eyes narrowed and spitting flames. "Why, Your Grace, have I ever not given your throne the respect it deserves?"

I narrowed my eyes. "So I am never to be your grandfather, then?"

"Why torment me, Your Grace, with false promises of affection when I am neither loved nor wanted in this keep?"

His exhaustion was plain—not the fatigue of labor, but the weariness that festers in the heart.

"Sit down," I said.

"No."

"Tell me, Daemon—why this continued prodding at my heels? These accusations, this defiance since your betrothal was announced?"

Daemon's jaw tightened, his tone clipped but steady. "Your Grace, your wife—mind you, I mean no disrespect—has a history of making poor matches. Let us not forget the last marriage consummated in this keep, when the bride was but ten-and-three. She was and is my friend. My cousin. And she was subjected to an atrocity I could not fathom—especially after I learned what such a 'union' truly means."

His voice roughened as he went on. "I have to restrain myself every time I see Viserys, resisting the urge to beat him bloody or geld him outright."

I held my tongue. There was venom in his words, but also truth. Even I was against this, but it was pushed by all those idiots. Being a king is not what it should mean—my blood being disrespected in my keep and me not being able to do anything, and the boy Viserys jumping on the girl and making sure she was always pregnant. Even I do not agree with this idiocy, and now it became a matter of their marriage.

"And now," he continued, "Her Grace expects me to marry a woman older than I am, simply to please herself with landing a blow on my father—a man who fought for his niece but is still being punished because of your decision. I am to be sent away because I am an inconvenience and am looking to have more prospects in life. That is the truth of it."

His temper flickered, but his voice never broke. "I pulled Gael from her mother’s clutches; she still smothers my aunt with affection until nothing of her is left but obedience. The courtiers mock her—call her a 'sheep in dragon's skin.' She hears them, cries in silence, and her mother turns away, pretending not to notice. But I can't. Whatever the reason for that particular behavior to which you don’t meddle—where your daughter is being made into a doll."

For a moment, he looked less like a prince and more like a man fighting ghosts he could not banish—with contempt and exhaustion in his eyes. Then the steel returned.

"And finally," he said, quieter now, "the greatest reason of all—you intend for Viserys to be king. A dragonless king." His eyes met mine, sharp as glass. "And if he is to be king, then I…" He paused, the words catching in his throat. "Skoriot syt īlvon naejot vestragon?" (For what reason must I bow to him?)

He swallowed, and for the first time, I saw the wound beneath the anger.

"He flaunts my place as a second son in my face," Daemon said angrily, restless, starting to move around. "For which I have no opinion on—I am the second son of Prince Baelon the Brave and never cared for the throne. On top of it, he has achieved nothing but being born before me. He drifts from feast to feast, praised as the realm's future by those Andal Seven-worshipping cunts as if he is the Crown Prince—not our father—when he doesn’t have any qualities to be king. Instead of learning, he cannot even best a squire in arms. He has no mind for rule, no understanding of power—only the comfort of knowing you favor him because he is easy, and expects loyalty from me but talks down to me when I offered my life and loyalty to him freely."

His next words struck like iron. "And you, Your Grace—I will tell you plainly. If I could leave this family now, I would. I would cut all ties, take my dragon, and never look back. The Free Cities would welcome a dragonlord far more readily than his own kin have."

He inhaled slowly, his voice lowering. "But I remain for my blood, for the blood of the dragon is thick. I need nothing from you. I have never been interested in the throne. I have seen what it does to men—it devours them. I have watched you my entire life, sacrificing kin for peace, peace for pride, pride for the realm. I despise that. I would see the throne burn before I let it rule me."

He stood straighter, a ghost of that familiar arrogance creeping back, though it now felt like armor. "My children, if and when I have them, they will inherit nothing but what they earn. No crown, no lands bought with blood not their own. I will see them educated, capable, and free from this endless cycle of duty and disappointment."

His voice softened then, not with submission, but with fatigue. "That is all, Your Grace."

I did not answer at once. In truth, I did not know what to say. I saw before me not merely a defiant youth, but the reflection of every dragon this family had ever tamed—and perhaps, in doing so, broken.

Daemon stepped closer, his frustration tempered now by thoughtfulness.

"Then let me offer a solution rather than just complaints."

I raised a brow, intrigued despite myself, and gestured for him to continue.

"Call Rhaenys back," he said firmly. "Make her Hand in training. She deserves it. She has the mind for it. And if you truly wish to ensure no other daughter of House Targaryen is passed over again, then give her the power to learn."

I studied him carefully. "And what of Viserys?"

"He will learn as well," Daemon replied without hesitation. "Place him under the Master of Coin. Let him understand governance, wealth, and trade. If he is to be king, let him be a ruler who wields wisdom—not one who relies on leeches."

It was not an unwise suggestion.

"And you?" I asked.

Daemon smirked faintly, though there was little humor in it. "I will learn with them. Let each of us take on the duties of different councilors so that, in the future, there is no ignorance among us. You have always ruled with knowledge, grandsire. Why not ensure your successors do the same?"

I exhaled slowly, studying him. There was more to this than good intentions; Daemon never spoke without a hidden edge.

He did not disappoint.

"Nyke ūndegon se jorrāelagon hen ñuha lenton." (I understand the love of my house.)

"I know why you rejected Rhaenys," he continued. "I see the reasoning behind it—I even agree with it. You should have married her to my father or Viserys, for that matter. But I understand your logic. Corlys Velaryon would never have left the throne alone had Rhaenys ascended. He would have turned it into a Velaryon dynasty and bound it there. You were right to prevent that. But if you do not want this same situation to persist, then write succession laws that ensure it never happens again."

I leaned forward, intrigued despite myself. "And what would you propose?"

"Ensure that any man who seeks to wed a Targaryen princess comes with no lands of his own—only wealth enough to care for her." His tone gained conviction as he spoke. "Let him court the princess for six moons. If she accepts, they may wed, and he will be named Prince Consort. No political games, no houses gaining power through our women. Only her will deciding her match."

A bold idea. Clever, even.

"Further," he continued, "we build castles for the princesses and their consorts—strongholds loyal to the Crown, not their husbands' families. Their children will marry back into our line, ensuring no other house ever claims dragons or Valyrian blood."

I let out a quiet chuckle, shaking my head. "So, you would keep our blood pure while preventing others from reaching for power through our women?"

Daemon's smirk returned, sharper now. "You always say our blood shouldn’t be disrespected. Shouldn’t we then let them get that respect properly?"

Before I could respond, the herald's voice broke through the chamber.

"Prince Baelon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne. Prince Viserys Targaryen."

The great doors swung open. In strode Viserys, his expression drawn tight with irritation, his father beside him—a silent warning at his shoulder. The younger prince bore himself as though his title were a burden he wished to look heavier than it was.

Before any courtesies could be exchanged, Viserys spoke, his tone taut. "I hear talk of canceling the betrothal between Daemon and Lady Rhea Royce." His eyes flicked toward me. "Surely you are not entertaining such foolishness, Grandfather? Aemma is distressed over this."

Daemon's lip curled. "Foolishness, you say?" He leaned forward slightly, his voice edged like a blade honed on old resentment. "How could Aemma be distressed when we all know what truly troubles her? She is ten-and-four, and pregnant again after losing her first child. And now she must endure another so soon. Shall I tell you what truly distresses her?"

Viserys stiffened, fists clenching at his sides.

Daemon did not wait for permission. "'I must procure an heir for the throne,' you prattle everywhere when you are not even the heir—you are the heir’s heir." He mimicked his brother's tone with cruel precision before glaring up at him. "So tell me, brother, why do you need an heir so desperately? We have a great king and his queen—who may yet give us another aunt or uncle at the rate they go."

Baelon exhaled sharply, warning in his gaze, but I felt my face warm. Daemon's smirk widened at my discomfort, with amusement dancing in his eyes.

"We have our father. Then you. Then me. And not to mention Rhaenys, who was the rightful heir of our uncle, Prince Aemon." Daemon's voice hardened, eyes gleaming. "So tell me, Viserys—what drives this frantic need for a son? What compels you to keep that poor girl beneath you whenever she is not with child?"

The silence that followed was a blade pressed to the throat.

Viserys' face flushed red—whether from shame or fury, even he might not have known. "Aemma knows her duty," he said at last, though his voice trembled slightly.

"Ah, duty," Daemon sneered. "As if I do not know her duty." He leaned forward, his tone dripping with mockery, his eyes looking at something like he was talking to a worm. "Then tell me, what is this duty that makes you so desperate? Even our grandfather, in all his wisdom, did not hound his queen when there was no heir at the start of his reign. Except, of course—" he smiled thinly "—for two women."

He let the implication hang.

"Go on, brother. Enlighten me."

Viserys' lips pressed into a line, his chest rising with restrained breath.

Daemon's voice lowered to a coaxing murmur. "Well?"

Viserys's composure cracked just slightly as he exhaled. "I had a dream."

Daemon went still. The air thickened—his muscles became taut, his breathing stopped, and his eyes burned, locked onto Viserys.

"I saw my son," Viserys said, his tone heavy with belief, "wearing a crown of black iron—Aegon the Conqueror's crown—seated upon the Iron Throne. The realm prospered beneath him. I would be the father of the Prince Who Was Promised."

The words fell like iron in water—silent, heavy, irreversible.

A long moment passed.

Then Daemon laughed.

It was not the charming laugh he used at court, nor the sardonic one he wielded as a weapon. This one was raw, jagged, almost wild. It echoed in the chamber like a thing unbound.

"Enough," I ordered sharply.

But Daemon only laughed harder before wiping his eyes, breath unsteady. "Tell me, Viserys," he wheezed, "do you even know High Valyrian? Or your histories?"

Viserys' nostrils flared. "Of course I do."

"Then you'd know there is no word for prince or princess in High Valyrian." Daemon's smirk was razor-thin. "And yet here you are, breeding a child for a prophecy you cannot even translate." His voice turned sharp. "Aegon's crown is made of Valyrian steel, not steel, you imbecile—even the word should feel shame to be used on you."

The laughter faded, leaving only disdain.

Viserys' face darkened, hands trembling at his sides. "You mock what you do not understand."

"No," Daemon said softly. "I mock fools who kill their wives with dreams."

"Enough, both of you," Baelon interjected, voice firm, cutting clean through the air. His gaze lingered on his elder son. "Viserys, we will be speaking of this later."

Viserys said nothing. He turned on his heel and strode from the chamber, anger and shame trailing in his wake.

Daemon leaned back, smirking faintly. "Well, that was fun."

I rubbed at my temple. "You are a menace, boy."

He grinned. "And yet, you keep me close."

Baelon exhaled through his nose, patience thinning and slumping in his chair. "Daemon, you push too far and fast, my son."

Daemon only shrugged, languid and self-satisfied. "Someone had to say it, Father. Viserys really thinks himself correct on every thought he has."

"And it had to be you, of course," I replied dryly. There was no true reprimand in it; there never was. He was a dragon—he could not help but burn.

Baelon rubbed at his temples, as though warding off an ache. "Your brother bears the weight of a crown, and the fear of failing it."

Daemon snorted. "Viserys wears a crown, aye — but does it truly weigh? When has he ever borne a burden without finding another to carry it for him? He clings to dreams he doesn't even understand. Our forebears had dragon dreams not to chase prophecy, but to fear it. They were warnings, not promises — and yet my brother mistakes them for destiny."

I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "This division serves no one, Daemon. Least of all our house."

His smirk faded, but his eyes still burned with that restless light. "House Targaryen will endure, as it always has. Even when its kings and heirs lose themselves chasing ghosts."

Baelon fixed him with a steady stare. "And if that ghost is real? If Viserys is right?"

Daemon barked a short, humorless laugh. "Then the gods must have a wicked sense of humor." He glanced toward the door his brother had stormed through. "He is not Aegon the Conqueror. He is not Maegor. He is not you. And he is certainly no dragon dreamer like Daenys. He has one dream and crowns himself a prophet."

Baelon's silence was thoughtful, not defensive.

Finally, he asked, his voice quieter now, steady and searching:
"You say he is not Aegon, nor Maegor, nor Jaehaerys. Then tell me, Daemon—if your brother is unworthy of his dreams… what is it you dream of?"

For once, Daemon had no immediate retort. His smirk faltered, and his eyes darkened — something shadowed flickered beneath his gaze, half-buried, half-formed.

"I dream of a simple life, roaming on Caraxes, touring the world, living with family. If I marry someone, then taking them with me. And if I have children, making sure they are not in even the vicinity of their uncles’ clutches."

I watched him carefully. Daemon was many things — brash, proud, irreverent — but at his core, he was a man searching for something beyond the confines of his brother's future rule.

Baelon sighed, pushing himself to his feet. "I will speak with Viserys. You—" he pointed at Daemon "—will keep your tongue in check. There is already too much division in this family. Do not add to it."

Daemon waved a lazy hand, as though dismissing the very concept of restraint. "Yes, yes, I'll be on my best behavior."

The glint in his eyes betrayed the lie.

Baelon saw it too, but chose silence with a slump of his shoulders and a sigh. He turned and left the chamber with the purposeful stride of a man already weary of mending wounds no one else wanted healed.

Daemon leaned back, stretching out his legs, the picture of unbothered satisfaction. A man who had said his piece — and, in his mind, won.

I sighed, rubbing at my temple. "You truly enjoy setting things aflame, don't you?"

He grinned, teeth flashing like a wolf's. "What's the point of having dragons if we don't?"

Later, I watched my grandson's crimson cloak disappear down the corridor after his obligatory farewells. When the doors shut, silence returned to the chamber — heavy, almost reverent.

Baelon sank into the chair beside me. The flicker of the hearth painted his face in lines of gold and shadow. The silence that stretched between us was the kind born not of peace, but of exhaustion.

Then the herald's voice echoed through the hall.

"Her Grace, Queen Alysanne."

Alysanne entered with the composed confidence of a woman who had ruled beside me for half a century. Her gaze swept the room before settling on us both, sharp and assessing. She read tension the way others read scrolls.

"You sent for me?" she asked, tone measured but carrying the faintest edge of curiosity.

I gestured for her to sit. "Yes, my dear. We have spoken at length about Daemon's… predicament."

"His predicament?" she repeated, arching a brow.

"His betrothal," Baelon clarified, his voice firm. "It has gone on long enough. I have decided that it must be annulled."

Alysanne stiffened. Her hands curled against the armrest of her chair, though her tone remained calm. "You would undo a betrothal sanctioned by me? One that we agreed upon? One that you promised me would be upheld?"

"Yes," I said before Baelon could reply. "We have both come to the conclusion that forcing this match upon him will only widen the divide within our family. It serves no purpose now."

Alysanne's gaze darted between us — angry and smoldering, clamping it down smoothly, she asked,
"He must be married? Who will it be then? Where will he be settled?"

Baelon scoffed lightly. "Settled? The boy is miserable, Mother. He's made his hatred of the match clear. If we force it, the marriage will rot before it begins."

I leaned forward, steepling my fingers. "I have watched him closely these past months, Alysanne. He has not given himself to excess — no whoring, no reckless brawls, no wasteful pursuits. He spends his time with Aemma and Gael, and with the Watch. He reads, he trains, he learns. This is not the conduct of a feckless rogue. He is trying, in his own way, to build something resembling purpose."

Alysanne's lips thinned, still trying to push for the match. "And what purpose will he have without a wife? He is a prince, Jaehaerys. He must wed. He must secure the line."

Baelon exhaled sharply through his nose. "He is not the heir, Mother. That burden does not rest upon him — and yet you would press it upon him as though it did. Enough."

Her eyes narrowed. "And you think indulging him will bring him closer to us? That leniency will breed loyalty? That, suddenly, he will not insist on a Valyrian bride — the only match being Gael?"

I met her gaze evenly. "If we force this, we will drive him further away. He may still leave, yes — but better he leave on his own terms than in resentment. Not as a man bound to a fate he despises."

Alysanne's jaw tightened. "If he leaves, he will not return."

I sighed softly. "Then let him leave as a dragon by choice, not as one chained who burns his kin behind him."

Her lips parted, ready to argue, but she faltered when she saw the resolve in both our faces. This was not a debate — the decision had already been made. The queen's posture eased, the steel in her spine giving way to reluctant understanding.

"And what do you propose instead?" she asked quietly.

Baelon and I exchanged a brief glance before he spoke. "We let him find his own path. He's proposed something... constructive. Structured education for the royal line. Rhaenys to serve as Hand-in-training. Viserys under the Master of Coin. And Daemon himself will rotate among the Small Council, learning each post."

Surprise flickered across Alysanne's face. "And you believe that will satisfy him?"

"Not satisfy," I replied with a faint smile. "But occupy. And with Daemon, that is victory enough."

She huffed — not in amusement, but in resignation. "And if it fails?"

Baelon's expression hardened. "Then we meet that storm when it comes. But forcing his hand now will ensure we lose him for good."

I reached across the table, taking her hand in mine. Her skin was warm, her pulse steady. "We have already lost too many of our children to pride, to grief, to duty. Let us not lose another because we refused to bend."

For a long moment, she held my gaze. Then she sighed — the fight leaving her shoulders. "Very well," she murmured. "Let it be done."

I gave her hand a soft squeeze before releasing it. Baelon leaned back, the tension in his frame easing just slightly.

Chapter Text

Jaehaerys’ POV

The next morning, I summoned Daemon to my private council chamber.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, spilling warmth over the marble floor and glinting along the dragon-carved arms of my chair. The chamber was still — oppressively still — as though the air itself waited to see which way the wind would turn.

He entered with that infuriating composure of his — head high, shoulders squared, violet eyes catching the light like burnished glass. He bowed, a movement so brief it barely counted as courtesy.

“Your Grace,” he said, tone clipped, perfectly measured.

“Daemon,” I replied evenly, “sit.”

He did not. Of course not. He preferred to stand, to loom — to meet my gaze as though daring me to flinch.

“After much consideration,” I began, keeping my voice steady, “I have decided to annul your betrothal to Lady Rhea Royce.”

His brows flicked upward. For once, something pierced his mask. The surprise was enormous; later, his face slowly replaced it with a happy smile — teeth bared and full.

“Well,” he drawled softly, “will wonders never cease.”

I folded my hands. “As the matter comes to an end, this marks a new beginning for you, Daemon.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly. “A beginning of what, Your Grace?”

“Your command,” I said simply. “From this day forth, you are named Prince Commander of the City Watch. You will oversee all its ranks, captains, and officers. You will answer to the Crown — and to no one else.”

He blinked once, calculating. “You’re giving me the Watch?” His lips curved. “And I answer to you alone? Not you and the Small Council?”

“I said you answer to me,” I replied, sharper now. “You will be granted a full budget to reform and equip your men. The gold you have already spent will be reimbursed. From this day forward, the Watch will have what it requires — and it will have no excuses.”

Daemon was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, “That’s… generous, Your Grace. Almost suspiciously so.”

My lips twitched. “Do not test my generosity, boy. It has limits.”

He smirked faintly. “Then I’ll try not to find them.”

I exhaled through my nose — a sigh more than anything. “Tell me, Daemon — what do you intend to do with this command?”

His grin thinned, sharpening into something dangerous. “I intend to make the city bleed less, for one. The filth in King’s Landing runs deep — smugglers, cutthroats, corrupt guards, even a few highborns with too many coins in their pockets and not enough conscience to spend them honestly. I mean to remind them that the Crown still rules here.”

“Justice, then?” I said mildly. “You make it sound like a crusade.”

Daemon shrugged. “It may happen that way, Your Grace. Most of the rot festers in the same old corners — Reachmen and Riverlanders who preach of the Seven and fill their coffers with sin. I’ll need the freedom to deal with them properly.”

I leaned back, studying him. “Why this newfound zeal for justice? The last I recall, you didn’t consider the smallfolk much.”

His grin faded, replaced by something quieter. “Because they spoke to me,” he said simply. “They warned me. The fishmongers, the bakers, even the whores. They called me their prince. Their prince, Your Grace.”
He gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Imagine that — a Targaryen of royal blood, warned by peasants to mind his step, lest he be robbed or gutted in his own city.”

I frowned. His words landed harder than I cared to admit. My blood being harmed in my own city set a fire in my veins. Vermithor’s loud roar echoed through the city, feeling my rage.

Daemon’s eyes flicked upward, faint satisfaction and pride glinting in them.

I fixed him with a long stare. “You have your command. But hear me clearly, Daemon — if your justice touches noble blood, there will be proof. Witnesses. Confession. I will not have mobs in gold cloaks dragging men from their beds.”

“Oh, there will be, Your Grace,” he said with an amused tone.

Ha. It seems he already has evidence but hasn’t acted yet — either for more proof or to decide whether to act. Well, I’m sure they didn’t touch him; otherwise, it wouldn’t have mattered to wait for him.

“Go, then,” I said finally. “Make something of this charge.”

He bowed — deeper this time, though the smirk lingered at the corners of his mouth. “As you command, Grandsire.”

As he turned to leave, sunlight caught the hilt of Dark Sister at his side — a glint like fire across the marble floor.

There went the youngest dragon of my blood — unleashed upon the city, cloaked in gold and authority.

And I wondered, not for the first time, whether I had granted him command… or permission to set King’s Landing ablaze in the name of order.

 

Ser Harrold Westerling’s POV

Prince Daemon found me in the training yard as I ran through the morning forms.
The clang of steel on steel echoed off the walls; the air smelled of sweat, dust, and oil. Sunlight filtered through the open arches, catching motes of sand kicked up by each step.

He picked up a training sword and strode toward me. “Ser Harrold,” he said, voice light, confident. “You’ve grown slow.”

I raised a brow. “And you’ve grown bold, my prince.”

He grinned, that same wolfish edge to his smile. “I was born bold. You were born cautious. Let’s see which of us the gods favor today.”

I sighed, lowering my visor. “As you wish, my prince.”

He had the stance perfected now — balanced, easy, almost lazy to the untrained eye. The blade hung loose at his side, the weight of it absorbed into the line of his body. It was a deceptive posture; his center of gravity was coiled, his feet ready to spring.

I moved toward him at an angle, testing the distance. He adjusted his stance subtly — a half-step back, the shift of a duelist, not a knight. His eyes were bright, intent, reading every movement.

Then he struck.

The first exchange came fast — faster than I expected. Steel rang out as he met my guard, the jolt running up my arms. His follow-up was a short cut at my ribs, blocked in time, then a kick aimed low. I twisted aside, riposted with a downward slash. He rolled his wrist, caught it, and used the momentum to pivot, coming around behind me.

I turned just in time to parry another blow, sparks flashing where our swords met.

“Quicker,” he taunted, grin widening. “The years are catching you, Ser Harrold.”

“Perhaps,” I said, stepping in close, “but experience counts for something.”

I feinted high and struck low, catching him off-guard — almost. His knee came up sharply, knocking my blade aside before he countered with a horizontal cut that would’ve split me from hip to shoulder had I not twisted away.

The rhythm built — strike, block, counter, disengage. The training yard echoed with the crisp, clean rhythm of two skilled fighters pushing each other further with every exchange. Dust clung to our boots, sweat traced lines through the grime on our faces.

Daemon’s style was different now — less brute force, more control. He had learned to wait for mistakes instead of forcing them. I saw flashes of real discipline in him — the kind that came from blood and battle, not drills.

But he was still reckless.

When I shifted my weight and opened my guard just slightly, he lunged for it — a perfect, precise thrust. I turned my wrist, caught his blade, and used his momentum to knock him off balance. My pommel came up toward his shoulder — but he twisted again, quicker than expected, driving his knee into my thigh and forcing the break.

We separated, both breathing hard.

He grinned, teeth flashing. “Still not too old, I see.”

“Still too impatient,” I replied.

That earned a sharp laugh. “Impatience wins wars.”

“Not when it gets you killed first.”

He circled me again, this time slower — measuring, assessing. Then he feinted left, pivoted on his heel, and swung from the right. I barely caught it on my guard, our blades screeching together before I pushed back hard, the clash of strength echoing across the yard.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved — blades locked, muscles straining. His eyes burned with that fierce, restless spark that never seemed to dim.

Then, with a sudden twist, he dropped low, swept my leg, and brought me down to one knee.

Before he could press the advantage, I surged forward, shoulder-checking him with all my weight. He staggered, but his balance held — and with a flick of his wrist, the flat of his blade tapped my shoulder.

“I yield, Ser,” he said between breaths, smiling despite the sweat running down his neck.

I pushed myself up, letting the tension fade. “You fight better now. Less temper, more thought.”

He shrugged, wiping his brow. “You’ve been saying that for years. Maybe I finally listened.”

We rested on the edge of the yard, the clang of other swords echoing faintly around us. Daemon spoke first, his tone quieter now.

“I’ve been named Prince Commander of the City Watch,” he said. “The appointment was made this morning.”

I looked at him carefully. “Then you’ll have your hands full.”

He smirked faintly. “So I thought. Which is why I’ll need yours as well. I want you to train some of them — teach them the basics. If they’re to serve under me, they’ll fight properly.”

I nodded once. “My loyalty is to the House of the Dragon, my prince. If you’re trying to help this city, I’ll gladly see it done.”

Daemon rose, sheathing the training blade. “Good. Then we begin at dawn.”

He left the yard in that unhurried, confident stride of his — as though every step was part of a plan only he could see. I watched him go, the echo of steel still ringing faintly in my ears.

 

The Barracks of the City Watch

By evening, word of Prince Daemon’s appointment had already reached the barracks of the City Watch. Predictably, the news was not met with enthusiasm.

The Watch’s current commander, Ser Olyvar Buckler — a second son of a Hightower bannerman — ruled the Watch like a tavern gang. His officers lounged, cups in hand, when Daemon arrived.

He entered with two dozen of his chosen — lean, scarred, silent men in mismatched armor. His boots struck the cobbles with purpose.

“To what do we owe this royal intrusion? Come to see real soldiers at work?”

Daemon’s face was unreadable. “You call this work?”

A few of the Reachmen chuckled. One of them — a tall, red-haired bastard from House Beesbury’s lesser line — spat to the side. “We patrol the streets, Your Grace. Not your concern how we do it.”

Prince Daemon tilted his head, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Then allow me to clarify.” He stepped forward, voice low but carrying. “As of this evening, by order of King Jaehaerys, I am the Prince Commander of the City Watch. Ser Olyvar Buckler, you are relieved of duty — effective immediately.”

The laughter died. Olyvar blinked, then barked a short, mocking laugh. “You can’t—”

Daemon’s sword was out before he finished the sentence. Dark Sister’s edge gleamed in the failing light, the point resting lightly against the man’s throat.

“I can,” Daemon said softly. “And I just did.”

Olyvar’s face turned red with fury. “You’ll regret this, boy. The Reach—”

“—will do nothing,” Daemon cut in coldly. “Because the Reach knows better than to challenge the Crown over a drunken fool otherwise fire and blood will be brought upon reach.”

He leaned in closer, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “Take your men and leave King’s Landing. You have until the sun sets. After that, I start hanging deserters and traitors from the city walls.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Olyvar’s eyes darted to the two dozen men standing behind Daemon — their faces hard, expressionless, hands resting on hilts.

Daemon’s smile was faint and terrible.

“Dismissed.”

Next Day

Ser Harrold Westerling’s POV

Dawn found the Watchmen assembled in the yard — a ragged half-company of those who had not fled, not bribed, not bent the knee to other masters. They stood in loose ranks, sun catching the edge of mismatched helms and the dull sheen of worn mail. Daemon rode in like he always did: ease in his seat, purpose in his stride. He dismounted and walked the line himself, boots scuffing the gravel, eyes taking each man in as if measuring weight and soul at once.

“Listen well,” he told them, voice carrying without flourish. “From this day forward, you may accept a bribe. But your loyalty is to the Watch — and to the Throne. Anything you take is to be reported to me.”

He paced slowly, letting the words sink in. “When a man comes with coin, you will bring him before me and state why the bribe was given. If the coin is for protection — some merchant asking for safe passage, some householder paying to keep a gate closed to thieves — you will enforce that protection yourselves. Take the coin, give the promise, and keep your eyes on the man who paid. You serve the Watch; make that service count.”

The men shifted. A few glanced at one another; others kept their faces blank. Daemon did not wait for them to settle.

“If the bribe is meant to subvert the Crown or to harm the people of this city — if it buys a lie, a false guard rota, or the silence needed to kidnap a child — you do not accept it quietly. You tell me. I will send another squad to handle the matter. The man who brought such coin will be used as our source. He keeps the payment for his information; we use what he knows.”

He fixed them with a look that allowed no misreading. “If any of you keep bribes and do not inform me of the reason, pray to your gods for mercy — because I will find you.”

A hush fell. The threat was plain and the consequence plain, and it steadied more than it frightened. Discipline had grammar.

“Ser Harrold Westerling will train you,” Daemon went on, naming me openly. “Once every sennight you will come here for drills and instruction. You will learn to fight, to hold lines, and to read a street. If you do not understand an order or a tactic, you ask him. If you have trouble with coin, or with kin, or with any officer from a great house pressing you for favours — you inform me. I will see it done. Do not rely on other nobles. Rely on the Watch.”

He drew a line in the air with his hand when he listed the chain of command. “The city watch answers to the royal family first: the King, then the Crown Prince, then the Commander. No other voice outranks that. You will prioritise the safety of royal blood in the city above all else.”

He let that hang for a moment, then shifted to the work at hand. “We begin with the worst — the gangs that pressgang children, the houses that sell women as if they were wares, the places where men traffic in people and slaughter dignity for coin. For a week, we root them out.”

The men who stayed had a look in their faces then that told me more than any banner: some had tired of theft, some had family to protect, some only wanted steady pay. Daemon paired his chosen with those Watchmen he judged salvageable, handing out tasks as though arranging pieces on a board.

Our weeks of operations were not theatre. We took no needless risks; we relied on informants, on the dogs of the docks, on fishermen who had seen boys taken from riverbanks. We watched doors for patterns, timed deliveries, and shadowed the same wagons until the driver grew careless. When we struck, it was with blunt speed: a dozen men in and out before the alarm could be sounded, doors kicked, bolts ripped, and chains cut.

Children found in damp cellars and locked rooms were freed and wrapped in cloaks, breathing in air like men coming up from water. Women bought and sold as merchandise were turned over to healers and septas where possible; where the goods of a house were evidence, we took it — ledgers, seals, receipts — and put men in irons. The men who resisted were held for the city gaol; those with noble backing were noted and shadowed until clear proof could be given to bring them before a court that would not be easily bent.

Every evening we returned to the barracks with lists: names, places, thin scrapings of proof that could be built into cases. Daemon would sit with these lists, staining a thumb with ink as he annotated who would stand guard, who would ride with a squad, who we would let go as a warning. He rewarded those who aided us — coin, small foodstuffs, a word to a lord when necessary — and he punished swiftly those who betrayed their oaths.

It was not theatrical justice. It was methodical. For a week the city felt a tightening — less the heat of panic and more the pressure of a hand that would not let evil breathe. Word spread: the prince commanded; the Watch answered; something in the gutters shifted.

When the week ended, the men had learned more than how to swing a blade. They learned that the Watch was a thing with teeth, that the Crown could reach where other houses could not, and that loyalty bought cheaply would not be tolerated. Ser Harrold’s drills had turned ragged formations into crude order; Daemon’s summons had given them purpose.

We had not yet touched the great corruption that sat in gilded halls, nor had we undone all the bargains paid in secret. But for the children taken from alleys and the women sold behind closed shutters, the city had, for now, a measure of reprieve — and for the Watch, a reason to stand.

The Small Council

Septon Barth’s POV

The bells of the Red Keep tolled the hour as the Small Council gathered in the solar. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, thin and cold, glinting off the polished table where seven men sat to rule a realm — or at least to quarrel over how best to do so.

His Grace, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, presided as ever, calm and inscrutable. At his right hand sat Queen Alysanne, whose gaze could silence a lord faster than the King’s decree. To her right, Crown Prince Baelon, Master of Laws, leaned forward with a frown that deepened as each report was read.

Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin, had already surrounded himself with ledgers like a scribe preparing for battle. Lord Redwyne, the new Master of Ships, smelled faintly of the Arbor’s best vintage, which I suspected he considered an extension of his office. Across from him, Grand Maester Allar adjusted his chains for the third time, as though their sound might lend his words weight once he began.

I sat opposite the King, parchment in hand, my quill hovering idly. The morning had already promised tedium.

It began, as such meetings often did of late, with complaint.

“The prince has overstepped,” Lord Redwyne declared, slapping a palm against the table. “He dismisses officers without consulting His Grace, seizes ships under suspicion alone, and conducts raids at night as though the law were his personal sword.”

“Better his sword than a Reachman’s purse,” muttered Lord Beesbury, not bothering to lift his eyes from his accounts.

Redwyne’s face flushed. “You defend him? The man’s made enemies of half the Faith already.”

“Enemies of the corrupt,” Beesbury corrected. “Since Prince Daemon’s appointment, harbor revenues have nearly doubled. Merchants complain, aye — but they also pay. The smugglers no longer dine so well.”

That earned a faint arch of the King’s brow, though he said nothing.

Queen Alysanne’s tone, when it came, was measured. “Revenue is not peace, Lord Beesbury. The people fear him.”

“The people feared their neighbors before he came,” Beesbury replied dryly. “At least now they fear someone honest.”

The quill in my hand paused. It was a shrewd observation, if not a charitable one.

Grand Maester Allar cleared his throat with ceremony. “Your Graces, if I may—”

“You may,” the King said mildly.

“The Reachmen,” Allar began, “write with grievous concern. They claim Prince Daemon threatened their sons, their ships, even their chaplains. He has dismissed septons from the Watch entirely — men assigned for the spiritual guidance of our city’s guardians. Without them, the Watchmen lack moral counsel, or any notion of penance.”

Queen Alysanne turned to her husband, brows drawn. “Did he truly dismiss the septons?”

Before Jaehaerys could reply, the doors opened.

Prince Daemon entered the chamber as though he had been summoned by the gods themselves. No armor this time, only black leather and a cloak clasped with the sigil of the three-headed dragon. Dust still clung to his boots.

He bowed briefly to the King and Queen — and to none else, save for a curt nod to Lord Beesbury and a glance my way.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice clear, “you asked for an accounting.”

The King gestured for him to proceed.

Daemon stepped forward, his tone measured but taut with restrained impatience. “Two sennights ago, I found the City Watch rotten. The Reachmen who led it fattened themselves on bribes. They took coin from smugglers and merchants alike, threatening smallfolk who could not pay. If a man refused them, his stall was broken, his goods seized, or his daughter harassed. And the septons—” he gave a sharp smile, “—the septons offered absolution for a price.”

A low murmur passed through the council.

“At the harbor,” Daemon continued, pacing now, “three ships might dock in a day, but only one was taxed. The other two? ‘Exempted’ — because they belonged to some pious Reach house with a septon’s blessing. That is how sin hides itself: behind prayer and parchment.”

Grand Maester Allar shifted in his chair. “Prince Daemon, if I may—”

Daemon turned his head, eyes cold. “Interrupt me again, Maester, and I’ll toss you from that window myself.”

there was a Battlefield commander's tone in that voice

Silence followed — the heavy, watchful kind.

He returned to the King. “We have spent two weeks cleansing the city. Gangs broken. Women freed from brothels where they were sold like livestock. Children rescued from those who’d press them into service or slavery. I do not need sermons to know what justice looks like.”

Allar swallowed. “Justice, perhaps, but not mercy.”

Daemon’s gaze flicked toward him again, and the old man wisely said no more.

Queen Alysanne spoke next, voice even. “Why dismiss the septons, Daemon? They served to guide the Watchmen — to cleanse their conscience when blood was spilled.”

Daemon turned toward her with a bow of respect, though his reply was ironclad. “If a watchman wants absolution, Your Grace, he may seek it in his own time and pay for it from his own purse. I’ll not waste the Crown’s gold on priests who buy silk robes and Dornish wine with the sins of better men. If the gods require coin to forgive us, then perhaps they can earn it themselves.”

That earned a sharp breath from Lord Redwyne, and even Baelon’s eyes widened slightly. But Daemon did not flinch.

Crown Prince Baelon, Master of Laws, spoke at last — his voice heavy with both weariness and blood-ties. “Your methods are bold, son, and your tongue sharper still. But you’ve stepped close to offending the Faith. You would do well to remember that the gods have long memories.”

Daemon inclined his head, not contrite but acknowledging. “Aye, Father. So do dragons.”

King Jaehaerys’s expression did not shift. He simply regarded Daemon with that long, quiet scrutiny that could feel like judgment or approval — sometimes both.

“You’ve made enemies,” the King said finally.

Daemon’s mouth twitched. “Then I must be doing something right.”

Beesbury closed his ledger with a quiet snap. “The numbers support him, Your Grace. The treasury gains where corruption once drained it. If the prince’s hand is rough, it is at least clean.”

Jaehaerys nodded slightly. “Then we shall see if these reforms endure longer than their maker’s temper.”

Daemon bowed, properly this time — to his King, his Queen, and to his father, though not to the rest. “As you command, Your Grace.”

He turned and left the chamber, boots echoing across the floor until the doors closed behind him.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Queen Alysanne murmured softly, “You cannot bridle a dragon, no matter how you raise it.”

The King’s answer was quiet. “No,” he said, gaze fixed on the door. “But you can aim its fire.”

I made a note of that line. It would not be the last time His Grace spoke of his grandson that way.

Chapter Text

Jaehaerys’ POV

Flashback

I still remembered the birth of my grandson, how long it took. Alysanne had counted the hours with me. Nearly ten and eight of them my daughter labored, pale and shaking.

Grand Maester Elysar had come out once during the night, his face drawn and tight.

“Your Graces,” he said, “the babe is stuck inside the womb, and the stomach burns hot to the touch. We do not know how to proceed.”

Runicitar stood beside him, hands folding into his sleeves.

“There is a way,” he murmured. “The same way Lady Jocelyn was brought through.”

Baelon whirled on him at once.

“Say that again and I will throw you from the window,” he growled, stepping forward. “Vhagar will make her meal of what’s left if you keep spouting such filth.”

Elysar swallowed hard, his eyes darting between my sons.

“If intervention is required,” he said, voice tight, “then… we must decide which life to favor. The mother’s, or the child’s.”

Aemon moved first. His face thundered.

“You will not speak that choice aloud,” he snapped. “There is no choosing between a mother and her son.”

“To reenact Jocelyn’s birthing folly would be a sin,” I told them. “And I will not hear it again.”

Hours later, as dawn stained the windows.

“How much longer will it take?” my beautiful Saera asked, pacing in front of me.

“It takes time sometimes, Princess,” answered my Hand, Barth, folding his hands behind his back.

“Just like Alyssa’s son to make us wait,” Saera muttered, rolling her eyes.

I couldn’t help the twitch of my mouth. Truly, Alyssa always was late to her obligations.

Baelon burst from the birthing chamber the moment the baby cried. He was laughing, breathless.

“He lives,” Baelon said. “They both live.”

Then he laughed harder.

“She begged him to come,” he added. “Enough pain, my sweet, enough,” he told him in Valyrian. “And the boy listened.”

We thought it a jest, but Baelon swore it was true.

Their son slipped into the world moments after her whispered plea. A blessed birth after a cursed labor.

Aemon knelt before little Viserys and Rhaenys.

“A little brother is a rare gift,” he told Viserys. “You must love him as father, brother, and friend.”

Rhaenys snorted.

“I wanted a girl, not another stinking boy.”

Viserys scowled, but Aemon only chuckled as he gathered them into his arms.

We laughed then. I remember that laughter more clearly than the cries.

Flashback Ends

“Jaehaerys.”Alysanne’s voice pulled me back.

I opened my eyes.No more Aemon. No more Baelon, Alyssa, Jocelyn…No more Saera.Only ghosts and decisions.

Such a disastrous, blessed life the gods have given me.

“Yes, my love,” I answered softly.

“Shall we talk? Or do you need rest?”I could see the anger, the hurt, the pain in her eyes.

Only Daemon understood the threat that would have come if Rhaenys had ever been crowned. Such things I never fathomed in his youth — but now I know.He was never a fool.He simply refused to outshine his brother and cause him grief.

But now his eyes have opened.His elders plot against him, and so does his brother — the very brother to whom he was fiercely loyal. And we expected him to smile and humble himself in grace.

“Jaehaerys.”Her voice sharpened.

“Yes, Alysanne. Let us talk. Sit. What troubles you?”

She drew a breath. “Is it true you have annulled Daemon’s betrothal?”

I exhaled slowly.

“Alysanne… I never approved of many things you did. But I crowned you Queen — not queen consort — and with that crown, I swallowed my disputes.

“When you took half the North — the only land fertile enough for them to feed themselves — and gave it to the Night’s Watch, when no Northman rose against our family after their own she-wolf was killed in the Vale… they swore their oaths and caused me no grief. Yet still, you chose to punish them. You and my Hand plotted against the First Men — you in your pride, and Barth in his desire to weaken the old gods. I disagreed, but I stood beside you.”

She looked down.Her fingers trembled faintly.

“When you fought for the rights of women across the realm, I supported you. Even when the Faith — the very Faith that gave you the title of Good Queen — complained endlessly, saying I listened too much to a woman… I still approved your changes.”

I leaned back, letting the weight of years settle on me.

“When Rhaenys was made Aemon’s heir, I was pleased. I told Aemon a dozen times to wed her to Viserys — he is soft-willed, perfect to be a consort for a strong queen like her.”

Alysanne’s lips parted, as if to speak, but she did not.

“But Rhaenys married the most ambitious man on this side of the world. A family that caused the accursed war in ours before we rose, poisoning our father through our mother — and you think I would allow such a snake as King? That the future queen, who gave up her name and became Velaryon, would still expect to be heir while her husband refused to become her consort?”

My voice dropped.

“I could not accept that.”

A pause.A long one.

“Even Daemon understands this. Yet my wife and my heir refuse to.”

A bitter taste rose in my mouth.

“And Viserys…”My jaw clenched.“Well, Viserys drinks, feasts with lickspittles, then ruts into Aemma — a young girl, daughter of our sweet Daella — and I am forced to restrain Daemon from striking his own brother… while holding myself back from doing the same.”

Alysanne’s face paled.

“So tell me, Alysanne — when have I not indulged you?”My voice cracked then — from age, from grief, from exhaustion.

“Viserra is dead because you wished to punish her. When I wished to marry her properly, you twisted the knife, giving her to an old man to mend ties you yourself broke with the North. Not even to a Stark, but to their seven-worshipping bannerman.”

Her tears began to fall.Soft, silent.

“And now here you stand, claiming I have wronged you.”I shook my head.“Go on, Alysanne. Enlighten me.”

She did not speak.Only wept.

I watched her for a long moment.Then I shook my head once more.

“I thought not,” I said quietly.

And I left the chamber.

Alysanne’s POV

The door closed behind him with a soft thud — soft, yet it struck me harder than any slammed gate ever could.

For a moment, I simply stood there, hands pressed against the carved wood of the table, breath caught somewhere between anger and despair.

He had never spoken to me so — not in all our long years, not through war or plague or reform or grief.

My tears came not from the sharpness of his words, but from the weight behind them.From the truth he believed he carried.

I wiped my cheeks with the heel of my palm and forced myself to breathe.I had been Queen of these Seven Kingdoms longer than many nobles had been alive; a queen does not tremble like a frightened maid. But it is a lonely thing, sometimes, to be wife first and queen second.

“Jaehaerys…”I whispered it to no one, to shadows on the stone.

He spoke of indulgence.Of all he bore in silence for my sake.He spoke of Viserra, of the Night’s Watch, of Rhaenys’s claim, of Viserys’s failings — a litany of old wounds reopened all at once.

But he did not speak of the nights I held him when his grief threatened to choke him.He did not speak of the years I kept peace between our children when his temper and their pride clashed.He did not speak of the loneliness I carried every time he chose his councils over our marriage.He did not speak of the daughters we lost, the sons we buried, the burden we both wore — but that I bore differently, deeply, quietly.

He did not speak of my grief.

He said I punished Viserra.But he never asked why I pushed for that match.Viserra danced too close to ruin, and ruin clings to royal daughters in ways he never understood.If she lived under the roof of honour, it was because I feared for her soul, not her usefulness.

He spoke of Daemon — as though I did not see the boy he once was, wild and bright, seeking love in all the wrong corners because none of us knew how to reach him properly.Aemon loved him dearly, but Aemon is gone.Baelon tries, but Baelon carries the realm on those broad shoulders.Viserys loves and fears him in equal measure.Only Aemma and Gael soften him.And he has designs on Gael… my sweet daughter. Can't you understand that, Jaehaerys?

Jaehaerys said Daemon “understood.”But Daemon understands only when it serves him — and even then, his understanding burns too hot, too fast.A fire with no hearth around it.

He spoke of Rhaenys.He forgets that I held that child when Jocelyn could not rise from her bed.That I soothed her cries as though she were mine.He forgets that Rhaenys’s claim was Aemon’s dying wish — and that my daughter-in-law chose Corlys because she wanted a life of her own making, not a marriage built for convenience.

He forgets so much.

I sat down heavily, the chair creaking under the sudden weight of years.

He said I wronged him.

Perhaps I did.Perhaps I have.Marriage is not a straight path, and between two dragons it never could be.

But he wrongs me too — without seeing it, without meaning to.

I placed a trembling hand over my eyes.I needed a moment to breathe, to think, to gather myself back into the woman the realm expects.

Across the room, a faint breeze stirred the tapestry depicting the Conquest — three dragons flying in unison, wings spread wide.For a heartbeat I envied them.

“Queen Alysanne,” I whispered to myself, “not Alysanne the wife. Not Alysanne the mother. Queen.”

I stood. Slowly, but I stood.

There was work to do — wounds to mend, truths to face, a husband to meet again when tempers had cooled.

But for now, for this small sliver of morning, I allowed myself the sovereignty of sorrow.

Baelon found me in the Queen’s solar after the midday hour.He did not knock. He never needed to. From the time he could walk, he had simply entered my rooms as though they were his own — and in truth, they always were.

He stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind him with a gentleness that did not match the strength in his shoulders.

“Mother,” he said softly. “You sent for me.”

I nodded, setting aside the embroidery I had not truly worked on.My hands were too unsteady for fine stitching today.

“Sit, Baelon.”

He obeyed, lowering himself onto the bench opposite mine.He studied my face carefully — he had always been perceptive, more than Jaehaerys knew, more than Aemon ever admitted.

“You’re upset,” he said. Not a question, simply truth.

I gave a small, tired smile. “Your father and I quarreled.”

He exhaled slowly. “I had heard.”

Of course he had. The Red Keep carried words faster than ravens.

Baelon waited, patient as only he could be. His presence had always been steady — the one child who soothed rather than sparked chaos.

“I spoke sharply,” I admitted. “But your father… he spoke as though I have been a burden to him. As though my choices were made to spite him. As though the years between us were nothing but mistakes.”

Baelon’s brow furrowed. “He did not mean it that way.”

“Perhaps not,” I whispered. “Yet it was said.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.Only the faint whistle of wind against the shutters.

Then Baelon leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Mother… Father has carried more pressure these past few years than any one man should. The councils fight him, the Faith troubles him, the lords bicker, Viserys grows softer by the moon, and Daemon grows harder by the day. And there is Rhaenys… and your anger about that.”

His eyes met mine, earnest.

“He fears losing more of us. Losing another child. Losing another piece of the future he’s tried so hard to shape.”

I looked down at my hands. “And does that excuse the way he spoke to me?”

“No,” Baelon said immediately.Then softer, “But it may explain it.”

I closed my eyes, listening to the firmness in his voice — steadier than Jaehaerys’s these days, clearer than Daemon’s fire, more grounded than Viserys’s drifting ease.

Baelon had always been the bridge between us all.

“He loves you,” Baelon continued. “And when he loves, it consumes him. You’ve seen how he clings to duty — he hides behind it when he cannot bear the weight of his feelings. He didn’t want to hurt you. He just doesn’t know how to speak his fear.”

I swallowed. “Fear?”

Baelon nodded. “He fears losing the realm. He fears losing the family. And he especially fears losing you.”

The words struck deeper than I expected.

“He thinks the realm is slipping away,” Baelon added. “He thinks Daemon and Viserys will tear it apart if he missteps. He thinks the Faith creeps too deeply into the Crown’s business. And then there is Rhaenys…”

I opened my eyes. “Rhaenys never meant to dishonor us.”

Baelon hesitated. “…perhaps not. But Father sees ambition where there is only pride. He loved Aemon more than any son, and her claim is tangled with grief he never truly faced.”

I inhaled shakily. “Your father believes the world conspires against us.”

“And he is half-right,” Baelon said gently. “But you are not among those conspiracies, Mother. He knows that. He simply spoke in anger — and he will regret it.”

I looked at him — Baelon the Brave, the boy who grew into a man of quiet strength and unshakable loyalty.Of all my children, he held Fire and Duty in equal measure.

“What should I do?” I asked softly.

Baelon reached out and took my hand — something he hadn’t done since I pushed him away for becoming heir, thinking he stole his niece’s birthright.

“Speak to him,” he said. “Tell him your truth, as he told you his. You and Father have weathered more storms than any marriage I know. Don’t let age fray what love has built.”

My throat tightened at the warmth of his palm.

“And Mother,” he added, voice firmer, “do not grieve for Daemon too deeply. I will guide him. I always have. I will keep him from burning the realm — or himself.”

A small laugh escaped me. “You always were the reasonable one, my sweet boy.”

He smiled — that softer smile he shared only with family.

“Reasonable enough to know when two dragons need time to cool their scales,” he said. “Go to him when you’re ready. He’ll come to you if you don’t.”

I squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Baelon.”

“Always, Mother.”

He stood, bowed his head — not as heir, but as son — and left.

Alone again, I felt the tension in my chest ease, even if only a little.

Baelon was right.

Jaehaerys and I had weathered wars, rebellions, famine, grief…We would weather this too.

But first, the storm must break.

Jaehaerys’ POV

I returned to our chambers long after the sun had dipped behind the western walls.The torches were lit, their flames dancing against carved stone, and the air held the faint scent of lavender — Alysanne’s doing. She always tried to tame the Red Keep’s drafts with warmth and fragrance.

For a moment, I stood at the door, hand resting on the iron latch.The weight of the crown on my brow felt heavier than the Valyrian steel circlets of old kings.Heavier because it sat between us even here, where it never should.

I opened the door.

Alysanne sat near the hearth, a book open but unread on her lap. She did not look up immediately.She knew I had entered — she always knew — but she waited for me to begin.She had always been the braver of us in matters of the heart.

I cleared my throat softly.

“Alysanne.”

Her eyes lifted then. Red around the edges, yes — but steady.She was not a woman easily broken.

I closed the door behind me and walked toward her, the old ache in my knee flaring with each step.I felt older than I ever had — older than the dragons buried under Dragonstone, older than these walls around us.

She said nothing, but her gaze held a patient expectation.It was my turn.

I exhaled slowly.

“Alysanne… I spoke cruelly. I will not dress it in excuses. I hurt you, and that was not my intent.”

She blinked once — slow, controlled.“Intent does not always soften the wound, Jaehaerys.”

“No,” I murmured as I lowered myself into the chair opposite her. “It does not.”

For a moment I looked into the fire, letting its warmth loosen the tightness in my chest.

“You know me better than any soul alive,” I said quietly. “You know how I carry my grief — with logic, with decisions, with order. When I am afraid, I speak sharply. When I am overwhelmed, I turn my fear into command.”

Alysanne set her book aside. “Fear?” she echoed softly.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Fear.”

She leaned back slightly, studying me with a calm I did not deserve.

“The realm is changing,” I continued, voice low. “Our children and grandchildren have grown into people neither of us fully recognize. Viserys drifts through life with the only ambition of becoming king and siring an heir. Daemon burns brighter than any fire — a hurt little drake one day, a tempestuous dragon the next. Rhaenys pushes at boundaries in her grief and rage for the throne she thinks was stolen — more than for the father she lost.”

My voice tightened.

“You see the faithlessness of lords; I see the ambition of houses. And Baelon…”

Her expression softened.

“Truly, Alysanne,” I said quietly, “your anger toward Baelon over my naming him heir has wounded me more than anything else in our quarrel.”

I pressed a hand to my brow.

“I fear losing the realm we bled for. Losing you. Losing the family we tried to shape. And when fear rules a man of my age… words become weapons without meaning to be.”

Silence settled between us like dust after battle.

Alysanne lifted her chin slightly. “I have never sought to stand against you, Jaehaerys. Only beside you.”

I nodded slowly.“I know. And I have not always shown you the same grace.”

Her eyes glistened before she forced them steady.

“You spoke of Viserra,” she whispered. “Of choices I made… choices I have regretted every night since her death.”

My throat tightened.

“Alysanne,” I said gently, “I should never have thrown that at you. Her blood is not on your hands. Grief blinds me… blinds us both.”

She swallowed, but she did not cry again.Alysanne was strongest when she chose quiet over tears.

“And Daemon,” she continued, “for all his fire… he is still that little boy who chased his grandsire across the gardens begging for dragon tales. I fear for him. I fear the path he takes.”

“I know,” I murmured. “As do I.”

She looked at me — truly looked — and for the first time since morning, I felt seen.Not as king.Not as judge.But as her husband.

“Come here,” she said softly.

I moved to her side, lowering myself with the stiffness of age. She took my hand, her thumb brushing the knuckles worn by decades of ruling.

“We have weathered too much to let one quarrel sour us,” she whispered. “But speak to me, Jaehaerys. Not at me.”

I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the weight lift — just enough.

“I will,” I promised.

“And I will hear you,” she replied. “Even when I disagree.”

A faint, tired smile touched my lips.

“Then perhaps,” I said, “there is still hope for these old dragons.”

She leaned her head against my shoulder.

“And perhaps,” she murmured, “hope is what we needed more than truth today.”

The fire crackled quietly.The realm pressed at the door, but for this moment — just this one—we were only Jaehaerys and Alysanne again.

Husband and wife.Two tired hearts, learning each other anew.

Chapter Text

Baelon’s POV

Word reached me before the ink on the King’s morning decrees had even dried.

A delegation had arrived at the Red Keep gates, banners of House Beesbury, House Merryweather, House Peake, and three minor houses sworn to Oldtown. All “coincidentally” arriving on the same morning. Courtiers whispered from shaded balconies as their banners crossed the outer court, the fabric snapping in the late summer breeze. The sound of boots echoed off marble.

Not to mention the septon leading them, dressed in robes heavier than any summer day demanded. The scent of incense followed him faintly.

Ser Otto Hightower also joined them, being one of the justiciars under me representing the Reach.

Trouble.

I stood beside Father in the small audience chamber when they were ushered in. Beeswax candles burned low against the heat, parchment stacked on the council table behind us. Father straightened in his seat. Mother’s expression cooled subtly.

The Reachmen bowed deeply, almost theatrically, and the septon placed a hand over his heart.

“Your Grace,” the septon began in a smooth, sorrowful voice, “we come bearing grievances that must be answered for the sake of the Seven and the harmony of the realm.”

Father’s eyes flicked once to me. He already knew who they meant.

“Speak plainly,” Jaehaerys commanded.

Lord Merryweather stepped forward, his round face reddened from either the climb or indignation.

“It is Prince Daemon, Your Grace. His actions in King’s Landing have disturbed the peace. Noble sons have been arrested without cause. Merchants threatened. And septons dismissed from the Watch as though the Faith holds no place in guiding the morals of the city.”

There it was.

I kept my face still, though inside I felt the familiar pull between my son and my father, that terrible space where loyalty must sharpen, not soften.

Father answered with deliberate calm.

“Prince Daemon uncovered corruption. Some of that corruption led back to Oldtown. If the Faith’s septons accepted bribes, they were rightly dismissed.”

The septon bowed again, deeper this time, reverence masking resentment.

“With respect, Your Grace, absolution is misunderstood by the young prince. The Faith guides lost men back to virtue. The loss of our septons leaves the Watchmen without spiritual anchor.”

Mother’s voice cut in, cool as freshly forged steel.

“Spiritual anchors who purchased silk and wine with the coin collected for absolution?”

The septon’s lips thinned.

The Beesbury lord stepped forward.

“Your Grace, the Reach feels threatened. Prince Daemon’s actions send a message that the Crown mistrusts Oldtown and its faithful vassals.”

This time I answered.

“The Crown mistrusts only corruption. If your men are innocent, they have nothing to fear.”

Their faces tightened. Truth rarely pleased those who profited from lies.

Lord Merryweather persisted.

“We humbly request that Prince Daemon’s authority be moderated. Oversight from the Small Council. Limitations on his command. A clear separation of authority, lest one prince’s impulses endanger the peace.”

Father’s brows rose a fraction.

“And who,” Father asked quietly, “proposed this delegation?”

Silence lingered.

Then the septon answered too quickly.

“We speak on behalf of the Faith and the stability of the realm.”

Which meant Oldtown.The Hightowers.And their Reach allies.

Father leaned back in his chair, his gaze sharpening.

“You shall have your answer, but not today.”

The septon opened his mouth.

“And you will not ask again,” Jaehaerys added.

The chamber froze.

I stood beside him, spine straight, hands clasped behind me. I did not smile, but pride warmed my chest.

Daemon had fire.Mother had heart.I had duty.And Father ruled.

The Reachmen withdrew at last.

Mother exhaled once.

Father turned to me.

“Find Daemon. Bring him to the council chamber. If the Reach wishes to test our resolve, we will answer them with unity.”

“Yes, Father.”

Before I left, I caught the quiet look shared between my parents.

Old dragons, still dangerous.

I reached the training yard as the sun dipped low, throwing long shadows across the sand. Steel rang against steel. Dust drifted in pale clouds under trampling boots.

Daemon fought four Watchmen at once.

Two rushed him from the left. He pivoted, sweeping one off his footing. The second swung and caught only air as Daemon locked blades and drove an elbow into his ribs.

The remaining pair circled.

Dark Sister rode low at Daemon’s hip, the grip loose in his palm, while his violet eyes tracked everything.

He noticed me just as the fourth watchman lunged.

Daemon did not turn.

His heel slammed back into the man’s gut, folding him to the ground.

Daemon racked the training sword, claimed Dark Sister, and approached.

“You’re early, kepa,” he said in High Valyrian. “Skorkydoso emagon ziry?” (Bad news?)

“Issa,” I replied. (Yes.)

“They’ve come crying already?”

I nodded. “A delegation of Reachmen. Beesburys, Merryweathers, Peakes, joined by Ser Otto Hightower, and a septon fat enough to pass for a Lannister coffer.”

Daemon snorted. “Āeksio syt glaeson.” (A lord for sale.)

My tone sharpened.

“They claim you threatened noble sons, seized ships unlawfully, and dismissed septons unjustly. They want your command moderated by the Small Council.”

Daemon laughed, sharp and ugly.

“Moderated? By whom? The same fools who let Oldtown turn the Watch into their private treasury?”

He stepped closer.

“Kepa… īlva tolie iksis.” (Father… the truth is worse.)

I frowned. “Speak plainly.”

Daemon continued fully in High Valyrian.

“The Reach is preparing for a shift in power.” (They plan something subtle, not open rebellion.)

“Explain,” I said.

He counted on his fingers.

“One. Their men in the Watch were planted deliberately to control trade and information.”

“Two. Oldtown septons keep ledgers of debts, not sins. Bribes, political deals, blackmail.”

“Three. The smugglers they shield all carry Reach cargo.”

My jaw tightened.

“And four?”

Daemon met my gaze.

“They are courting Viserys.”

“Explain.”

“They flatter him. Praise him as the next king. Send Arbor gold and sweet cakes. Speak of gentle rules and dangerous princes.”

Meaning Daemon.Meaning me.

I exhaled slowly.

“So you believe they aim to influence succession?”

“I believe,” Daemon said carefully, “they want to weaken or even remove you, then isolate me. They spread talk of Maegor reborn to poison my name, so Viserys will rely on them instead.”

Silence held between us.

“Nyke ūndegon vēzenka.” (I smell a hunt.)

“And what will you do with this knowledge?” I asked.

“Lo mirre.” (Not act yet.)

“Yet.”

Daemon shrugged.

“If we speak now it sounds like madness. They have been shaping this for years.”

My posture eased.

“You were right to wait.”

“But you must show nothing,” I warned. “Not at court. Not the council.”

His eyes glinted.

“And not Viserys?”

“No. He would run straight to them.”

Daemon nodded slowly.

I reached out then and placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

He froze.

It had been years since I’d done that.

“Kepa,” he said quietly, “Nyke jorrāelagon ao.” (I trust you.)

A herald hurried toward us.

“My princes, the Small Council awaits.”

Daemon smirked lightly.

We straightened together.

“Ñuhon kesrio syt ao.” (Time to play the game.)

“Crown Prince Baelon Targaryen, The Spring Prince.”“Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince Commander of the City Watch.”

The doors opened.

The council looked up.

And the game began.

Otto Hightower’s POV

The Small Council chamber smelled faintly of heated parchment and Arbor wine, Lord Redwyne’s signature arrival scent. He always came early, always drank early, always tried too hard.

King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the table, back straight, composed like a statue carved from ice. Queen Alysanne sat beside him, expression calm but tight around the eyes. She hid her emotions well, but today even she couldn’t mask the tension.

Barth, the Hand of the King, was already seated with quill in hand, the realm’s most aggravating combination of serene and sharp. Lord Beesbury, Master of Coin, had ink-stained fingers hovering over his notes. Grand Maester Allar sat stiffly, his chains chiming with every nervous shift, as if sound alone granted wisdom.

And along the wall stood Lord Merryweather, Lord Peake, and Lord Beesbury of Honeyholt, cousin to the Master of Coin.

Three Reach lords who waited like vultures, patient for whatever carcass might fall first.

Idiots. I had warned them to be discreet. To stagger their arrivals. They had done neither.

They clustered together like guilty men walking into judgment.

Then Prince Daemon entered.

Boots loud, posture unapologetic, expression carved into stone. Prince Baelon followed, calm and centered, the only man in the entire damned castle capable of reigning in his brother without drawing steel.

King Jaehaerys lifted two fingers.

“Begin.”

Prince Daemon did not bow. Did not soften. Did not pretend.

He went straight for the throat.

“The last time I sat in this room, it was a moon ago,” Prince Daemon said. “I gave you a summary. Today, I give you the truth.”

That arrogance should have backfired. Instead, it commanded the room.

“King’s Landing is not simply corrupt. It is rotting. And that rot grows from roots planted deliberately by Reach hands.”

Lord Merryweather inhaled sharply.

Fool. I could see the lie forming on his lips before Prince Baelon’s glare silenced him.

Prince Daemon continued, voice drawn like steel.

He placed a scrap of parchment onto the table with surgical precision.

“A ring of six men taking orphan boys from Flea Bottom. Not to feed them. Not to shelter them. To sell them to Tyroshi slavers who prefer boys without names.”

The chamber froze.

Queen Alysanne gasped softly into her hand. Barth wrote furiously. Even Lord Redwyne stopped breathing, his wine cup halfway to his lips.

Prince Daemon added, voice low,

“Two of those men were Reachborn. One wore the seven-pointed star around his neck while bartering the price of a child.”

I felt my stomach turn.

Not from morality.

From strategy.

Daemon had chosen the perfect entry point, the crime no one in the room could defend.

Prince Daemon placed a second parchment.

“Septon Rendal of Oldtown recorded absolutions in a ledger. Not of sins, of transactions.”

He fixed his gaze on the Reach envoys.

“One column for sins. One for fees. And one for requests from noble houses, which my dismissed guards were ordered to fulfill.”

Lord Peake sputtered. “Lies!”

Prince Daemon lifted a thick ledger and slammed it onto the table so hard the inkwell leapt, splattering black ink across Lord Redwyne’s sleeve.

“If you accuse me of lying again, I will open the page bearing your house sigil.”

Peake collapsed into his seat as though struck.

The Reachmen folded like wet parchment.

“You know the harbor scheme,” Prince Daemon continued, “but not the extent.”

He held up three fingers.

“For every three ships from the Reach, only one was taxed. The other two were waved through with a prayer, a nod, and a purse beneath the table.”

He lowered his hand.

“Do you know what was inside those untaxed ships?”

No one spoke.

“Saffron. Silk. Lyseni wine. Smuggled Dornish steel. And one ship carried three coffers made of weirwood.”

The temperature in the chamber plunged.

Queen Alysanne went pale. King Jaehaerys’s frown deepened, the kind he reserved for ancient wrongs. Prince Baelon stilled beside the wall.

I felt the ground tilt beneath my feet.

Weirwood.

Of all the things for Daemon to uncover.

“Sacrilege,” Alysanne whispered.

“Sacrilege,” Prince Daemon agreed, “funded by Reach gold.”

The envoys looked ready to collapse.

Prince Daemon’s next words fell like a hammer blow.

“Seven brothels, run by a man named Brigos, with direct ties to House Merryweather.”

Lord Merryweather lurched to his feet.

“My House has no such—”

Prince Daemon slammed Dark Sister’s sheath onto the table.

The chamber jolted. Cups rattled. Candles guttered.

Merryweather dropped back into his seat like a whipped dog.

Prince Daemon did not look at him. He looked to the King.

“Two of those brothels sold women from the Stormlands. One sold Riverlands girls. One from the Vale.”

He drew a careful breath.

“And one sold what no man should ever buy. Mute children. Ten. Maybe more.”

Queen Alysanne trembled. Prince Baelon’s hands closed into fists. Lord Redwyne gagged. Even Barth halted his writing, grief plain on his face.

The envoys blanched visibly.

This was beyond corruption.

This was damnation.

Prince Daemon set the last parchment down.

“Forgeries. Harbor passes. Each stamped with the Honeyholt seal.”

Lord Beesbury of Honeyholt broke.

“This is a smear!”

Prince Daemon didn’t spare him a glance.

He looked at King Jaehaerys.

“Open the first box.”

Prince Baelon stepped forward, lifting the lid.

Inside:

stacks of ledgers

iron-bound books

coin purses with Reach crests

blood-stained knives

forged harbor passes

and pieces of carved weirwood, still smelling of sap

Queen Alysanne gasped. King Jaehaerys’s jaw turned to stone. Septon Barth whispered a prayer. Lord Redwyne muttered a curse. The envoys stepped back.

I, I began recalculating alliances, timelines, risks.

Prince Daemon had not just found rot. He had excavated the entire skeleton and dragged it into the daylight.

The old fool cleared his throat.

“Your Grace, if I may.”

Prince Daemon’s fingers tightened on the table edge.

Prince Baelon saw it. King Jaehaerys saw it. Queen Alysanne saw it.

But Septon Barth, the Hand, stopped Grand Maester Allar with his calm tone.

“Let him finish, Grand Maester. We asked for a full accounting. We shall have it.”

Allar’s mouth shut instantly.

Prince Daemon exhaled hard, then bowed to Barth. A gesture of respect that told me Daemon knew exactly which man in this chamber mattered besides the King.

“Every man arrested confessed under oath,” Prince Daemon said. “No torture. No coercion. Ser Harrold was present for every questioning.”

Ser Harrold of the Kingsguard bowed from the doorway.

Prince Daemon continued:

“For every accusation, I gathered witnesses. For every witness, corroboration. For every bribed guard, I found the matching ledger entry.”

He gestured to the boxes.

“I have thirty-two more boxes waiting outside.”

Even I swallowed at that.

Thirty-two boxes of proof. Prince Daemon had built a case fit for history books.

Lord Merryweather tried again.

“Your Grace, the prince seeks to destroy us.”

Prince Baelon answered, sharp as a blade:

“No. He seeks to cleanse the filth you allowed to fester.”

Septon Barth added softly:

“The prince should continue.”

Prince Daemon bowed again, not humble, but grateful.

He returned to his place.

His eyes locked onto the Reach envoys, no rage, no theatrics.

Just a dragon waiting for permission to burn.

“I have uprooted your rot,” Prince Daemon said quietly. “And I am not done.”

A shiver rippled through the chamber.

King Jaehaerys’s voice rose cold and regal.

“Prince Daemon will present the remainder of his evidence in full.”

He sat.

“Then I will pronounce judgment.”

He added:

“And let every man remember. Justice is not treason.”

The envoys blanched. Prince Baelon bowed his head in acknowledgment. Prince Daemon bowed deeply.

And I.

I understood something with perfect clarity:

Oldtown had just been outplayed. The Reach had overreached. And Prince Daemon Targaryen was no longer a reckless prince.

He was a blade. A sharp one. Held firmly in the King’s hand.

The chamber remained silent, thick with the weight of Prince Daemon’s evidence. The Reach envoys looked as though the stones beneath their feet might swallow them whole.

King Jaehaerys rose.

When the Old King stood, even the air seemed to brace.

His voice was quiet, terrifying for it.

“Prince Daemon,” he said, “your work has exposed rot festering beneath my roof. You will finish what you began.”

Prince Daemon bowed his head, jaw tight.

“You will take these men,” King Jaehaerys continued, “every one of them, and bring them to justice with extreme prejudice. No leniency. No pardons. No appeals.”

The Reach envoys flinched.

“As for the houses whose hands touched this conspiracy, Merryweather, Peake, Beesbury of Honeyholt, sanctions shall be imposed immediately. Their trade rights will be suspended. Their harbor access restricted. Their levies reviewed. They will reimburse what was lost, and their taxes doubled and paid directly to the Crown for the next three years.”

He paused.

“And their overlord house, House Hightower, will pay double their taxes for the next five years.”

I stiffened like a struck bowstring.

King Jaehaerys’s gaze sharpened further.

“If even a single coin is missing,” he said, voice soft as a sword sliding free, “there will be fire. Then there will be blood.”

Grand Maester Allar stiffened as the King turned toward him.

“The Citadel shall no longer assign maesters to every noble house by default.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“You cannot.”

“I can,” King Jaehaerys said softly, “and I have.”

The chamber froze.

“From this day forward, any lord who wants a maester may request one. If a house does not want to employ a maester, they shall provide timely reports instead of relying on maesters.”

Allar went sheet-white.

I added quickly:

“If any lord fails to provide accurate accounting, the Iron Throne will monitor that house directly until it can.”

The Reach envoys looked moments from collapse.

Oldtown’s grip… broken.

Shock rippled through the chamber. Even Septon Barth looked pale.

I stepped forward too quickly, too desperately.

“Your Grace,” I said, bowing, “House Hightower had no involvement in these matters. To punish Oldtown for the crimes of a few corrupt vassals.”

King Jaehaerys’s eyes turned toward me, those violet eyes promising violence and cold as frostbite.

I pressed on, gently, carefully.

“Your Majesty, the Reach is vast. Influential. Deeply rooted in the Faith. To strike so harshly, to defy them, could destabilize the peace you have worked your life to build.”

A plea. And a warning.

Thinly veiled.

Prince Baelon stepped forward before the King could answer.

As Master of Laws, his voice carried legal authority like a blade.

“Father,” Baelon said, “you are within your rights to do all of this. But the crimes involved septons. Men of the Faith. How do you intend to deal with them? The Faith may claim jurisdiction.”

A reasonable question, but one laced with danger.

Prince Daemon stood rigid beside him, fire simmering beneath his skin.

King Jaehaerys answered without hesitation.

“I am King of the Seven Kingdoms. Of the Andals, the First Men, and the Rhoynar. I am not King of the Faith.”

I inhaled sharply.

“Your Grace,” I said, voice strained, “you cannot turn against the Faith. Your own Faith. You even have a septon as your Hand. To defy the Seven is to.”

King Jaehaerys cut me off with a look that silenced men far mightier.

“The Faith of the Seven is not what I practice.”

The chamber froze.

Queen Alysanne looked down, not surprised, merely accepting.

King Jaehaerys continued:

“The Seven Kingdoms are secular. My people may worship as they please. Old gods, new gods, drowned gods, burning gods, so long as they harm none with their beliefs.”

He turned slightly toward Queen Alysanne.

“I allowed my wife to choose her faith. I allowed my children, and my grandchildren, to choose theirs.”

He fixed me with an unblinking stare.

“I will not permit the Faith to command my crown.”

I bowed my head very slowly, but my knuckles were white.

King Jaehaerys’s expression did not soften.

“As for Septon Barth, he was appointed Hand to mend ties after the Faith broke the King’s Peace during my father’s rule, which led to civil war in my House between my uncle and elder brother. He was appointed because he is competent, nothing more.”

Septon Barth inclined his head with grave respect.

Then King Jaehaerys turned toward Lord Beesbury, Master of Coin.

“Lord Beesbury, you will conduct a full accounting of all Crown revenues, harbor ledgers, guild permits, septon-managed funds, and any taxes we receive from the lords. I want a full accounting to find if I am being cheated.”

Beesbury swallowed hard.

“You will pull any man you need for this task. Any ledger. Any seal. You will report directly to me.”

He leaned in.

“And you will remember that you work for your King, not anyone else.”

Beesbury went pale to the lips.

The Reach envoys looked ready to faint. Even Barth seemed shaken.

The silence was thick.

Impossible. Unbreachable.

Until Prince Daemon stepped forward, breaking it like steel through glass.

“His Grace,” Daemon said, voice ringing with authority, “Jaehaerys Targaryen, rider of Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, has given his orders. It is the duty of the Small Council to enact the King’s will. Not question him.”

The envoys flinched. My jaw tightened. Septon Barth lowered his quill in quiet acknowledgement. Lord Beesbury looked as if he might faint.

Queen Alysanne exhaled, not relief, but acceptance.

And King Jaehaerys, the Old King, slowly sat back down.

Calm. Certain. Unmoved.

“Then it is decided,” he said.

And with those words, judgment was sealed.

Let it not be said Old Jaehaerys was not a dragon.