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Chapter Text

Part 1: King's Landing

DAEMON

A tournament was held in celebration of the heir to the throne’s second son. The sound of rambunctious cheering was heard in every nook and cranny of King’s Landing. An unknown participant known as “The Black Prince” had just won the tournament, defeating several renowned knights in the joust. The lad of six-and-ten had the Seven’s fortune, luckily unhorsing his final opponent on the final pass whilst being behind on points for most of the bout. The unknown contender was clad foot to torso in black-painted steel and a shiny silver frogmouth helmet, looking comedically out of place. It was finally his time to bask in the cheers, noise, and the sweet taste of victory.

“I proclaim… the Black Prince as victor, unhorsing Ser Steffon Darklyn in the final bout of the Second Son’s tourney.” an announcer yelled. The smallfolk responded with boisterous cheers as the unknown victor rode steadily towards the King’s podium. A nearby squire hurriedly approached him with the victor’s laurels, offering it to the celebrating winner.

The laurel was adorned with different flowers: liverworts, rose petals, and lady’s laces. As he took his flower-crown, Daemon looked towards the royal podium; it was decorated with banners of the houses in attendance, notably houses Reyne, Crakehall, Bracken, Blackwood, Celtigar, Stokeworth, Caron, and other houses he cared not to remember. The largest banner present however, was the black banner with a red, three-headed dragon, the banner of the house of the dragon: House Targaryen. There were a few persons of note on the King’s Podium: King Jaehaerys, Good Queen Alysanne, Prince Baelon Targaryen, Prince Viserys Targaryen, and his wife, Princess Aemma Arryn. Septon Barth, Hand of the King, and Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Daemon, in his victory, sought a fair maiden to crown as the Queen of Love and Beauty. He was hoping to secure his own betrothal to his aunt, Gael Targaryen. He had not found her in the royal podium and thus, directed his gaze towards the other podiums where the other nobles sat. He saw women from a variety of lesser houses. He looked around for any maiden he could find.

Seven hells, none of these women are Valyrian.

The “Black Prince” continued to ride around the crowds, looking for possible matches as if perusing for wares in the markets of King’s Landing.

None of these women deserve this crown.

He couldn’t believe that his grandsires would not even allow Gael to be present. He had asked father to advise the Old King to wed him to his aunt as they were comparable in age and would preserve the blood of the dragon. Baelon, to his credit, agreed and did make an attempt to secure this betrothal. Last he heard of this was at the first moon of the year; Baelon had personally visited his second son’s solar to inform him. “My son… the Good Queen Alysanne has informed me that Gael will be made to choose her own husband. The King has also deferred this responsibility to her. You may not wed Gael.” his father said to him with sadness. Stifling a reaction, Daemon simply nodded and spoke no words. His father embraced him and left the room. The memory sparked a fire in Daemon - if the hypocritical King and Queen would not give him what he desired, then perhaps he’d make them regret it.

Viserys, his brother, had been married to Aemma Arryn - yet he could not even be given a similar opportunity. Aemma had been pregnant for six moons by now - a son would completely make his own existence irrelevant.

I’ve done it all. I have studied philosophy, arithmetic, history, law, and even healing under the maesters. I have practiced and honed my skills with the sword with the best members of the Household Guard, City Watch, and even the Kingsguard. I had bested each and every one of them by my fourteenth nameday. I have studied military tactics and logistics with his father’s advisors. I even learned some naval strategies and techniques with Lord Corlys Velaryon - the spurned Master of the Tides. I am well-versed in the long history of our people and have mastered High Valyrian. I have even listened to the damned septons and septas and have kept chaste. He let out a loud sigh - unheard and drowned out by the deafening cheers of the smallfolk.

Second sons only stand to inherit whatever they make for themselves.

“The first son is given everything while the second son is only thought of as a spare.” He unwittingly stated. He winced as he thought of uncle Aemon - disappointed in his own poor choice of words. Nevertheless, no one had heard his whispers of discontent amidst all the celebrations. He made another lap around the tournament. He had already gone two laps of the tourney grounds on his now-weary horse. Eventually the crowd died down, seemingly noticing the victor’s lack of action. Daemon stared at the King as he once again passed by the royal podium. He considered dismounting from his horse and revealing himself to the damned crowd. As he began his last round, he eyed a fair maiden on the stands left of the royal podium.

Daemon stopped his horse and approached the lady. He had reached the stands and struck awe in the nobility that stood before him. Gasps were heard around the grounds and a sea of murmurs threatened to flood his ears. His family’s eyes had turned towards him - as if the podium itself turned to face him. He observed the livery and the nearby banner.

House Royce, I reckon.

A crawl stirred low in his belly as he examined the lady’s face. He first saw her long hair, hundreds of deep brown curls occupying her head in some sort of chaotic orderliness. She had a broad forehead and angled eyebrows. He peered into her round eyes - the stormy blues returning his steely gaze. Her eyes glittered at him as he maintained his gaze. She had a straight nose, full and pink lips, a sharp jaw, and proportionate attached ears. She wore bronze earrings, and a brownish-orange cotehardie. She seemed tall, perhaps only slightly shorter than Viserys. He noticed the subdued expression on her oval face - calm yet daring at the same time. The prince felt as if a wave of weariness had swept him away and sought to put an end to the endless murmurs.

“SILENCE!” he shouted.

In an instant, the crowd, both nobility and smallfolk alike, was shushed. Finally, the Black Prince unfastened his chin straps and revealed his face.

It was Daemon Targaryen. The prince had short and kempt hair of silvery-white - almost identical to Baelon’s hair in his youth. He had a lean and sharp-boned face, with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. His forehead was tall and smooth. He faced Rhea and raised his newly-won laurel - once again peering into her with his almond-shaped, bright violet eyes. Pointing his straight nose and thin, pale lips towards the Lady Royce, Daemon spoke in a loud and commanding voice.

“My lady Royce, allow me to name you… Queen of Love and Beauty.” he said.

“I thank you, my prince.” she answered modestly.

The announcer shouted. “Prince Daemon Targaryen, son of Prince Baelon, grandson of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, and victor of the Son’s Tourney has bestowed the laurels of love and beauty upon Lady Rhea Royce, heir to Lord Yorbert Royce and Lady of Runestone!”

In all of a sudden, the crowds erupted in sheer exhilaration. Daemon had redirected his attention to the announcer but looked back at the new queen of love and beauty. He noticed a difference in her expression - her once stifled expression blooming into a warm smile. Daemon responded with a gentle nod. He then made his way to the royal podium and dismounted his horse, allowing his exhausted destrier the privilege of rest and a scrumptious hay bale in the nearby stables.

As the squire brought Daemon’s horse out, the announcer shouted: “SILENCE!”

The crowd, once again, followed suit.

Daemon peered at the podium and the faces that murmured upon it. He noticed the King Jaehaerys whispering something to his father. His father took a deep breath and suddenly spoke in a loud and baritone voice.

“Kneel, Prince Daemon Targaryen.”

Daemon knelt on his left knee - he stifled the glee that threatened to burst out from his throat. He would finally be made a knight, but he would not ruin this moment with his usual sarcasm or arrogance. Managing a solemn and earnest look, Daemon Targaryen looked up towards his father, Baelon, with utmost humility and poise.

Baelon descended from the podium with a steady gait. Daemon observed his father with curiosity; his father had tired eyes and large eyebags. His almond-shaped, violet eyes looked as if they had lost their luster. He wore his silvery-blonde hair short and was garbed in a red overgown emblazoned with the house sigil. Baelon “the Brave” also had Dark Sister affixed to his belt, resting in its black, leather scabbard. With a small genuine smile, Baelon halted in front of the kneeling prince. He unsheathed Dark Sister and planted his sword upon Daemon’s right shoulder.

Baelon began to speak in a commanding and powerful voice - the echo of his baritone voice reaching even the farthest stands.

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” Baelon said, subsequently moving his sword to plant it on Daemon’s opposite shoulder.

“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” Baelon then returned his sword to his son’s right shoulder.

“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.”

Baelon’s smile widened as he sheathed his sword. Daemon had thought as if his mother had risen from the ashes - nonplussed by the sudden luster in his father’s eyes and the glow of his face returning, if only for a brief moment.

Baelon took a deep breath and shouted.

“Arise, Prince Daemon Targaryen, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The crowd erupted in a roar. Daemon stood up and embraced his father. “Thank you, father.” He said with sincere gratitude. Tightly returning his son’s embrace, Baelon let out a hearty chuckle. “The ceremony is not yet over, my dear son.” The Heir unexpectedly faced the King and nodded, King Jaehaerys replying with a tired nod of his own while Queen Alysanne wore a serene smile. Baelon undid the clasp of his scabbard and held it - his right hand grasping the sword’s center. He raised it as high, as if drawing attention to the sword.

The heir spoke again, his voice bellowing. “Prince Daemon Targaryen, I hereby grant you: Dark Sister - the sword of Visenya Targaryen, wife and queen of Aegon Targaryen. May it serve you well in noble pursuits and allow you to uphold your knightly vows to the utmost.”

He then offered the sword to his second son, as he laid it to rest horizontally on both his forearms.

Daemon felt ecstatic but felt a tear forming in his left eye. He felt pride tingle in his stomach, creeping up into his chest; he had finally been given what he had deserved, a Knightship and a blade worthy of his prowess. Daemon genuinely laughed, a rarity for the second son.

The cheers resumed and the announcer began yelling.

He looked around and saw the brown haired lady staring at him - intent so obvious. She offered a grin and boisterous applause - her blue eyes almost squinting due to the width of her smile.

He smiled back, not thinking much and climbed the royal podium. Celebration ensued. Like his father before him, Daemon had become a knight at six-and-ten and was now… a man.

And thus begins my journey to greatness.

Chapter Text

DAEMON

The feast in the Small Hall at the Tower of the Hand had begun in earnest. Baelon had used his powers as heir to convince the Old Barth to put the treasury to use; well, in a feast and tourney at least. It was mid afternoon. Sunbeams gleamed through the open windows. The high ceiling was made of red brick - grand but humble in comparison to the marble ceiling and columns of the Great Hall. The Small Hall, in contrast, was much more simple; the columns and floors were made of red brick, its large wooden doors were closed and guarded by Targaryen men-at-arms, and it could fit a much lesser number of people. The lengthy hall and its oak tables were occupied by the many lords and ladies who had attended the Tourney of the Son. The aroma of the roasted pork permeated across the room as the nobles sated their appetites. There were numerous platters of varying salads, stuffed chicken, porkchop, steak, jams, sauces, and side dishes of mashed potatoes and soups. Pitchers full of Arbor Red and the occasional Arbor Gold were placed all around the table, a posthumous courtesy of the late master of coin, Rego Draz. 

The Heir to the Throne, Baelon Targaryen, sat at the head, now wearing a black doublet and a red long sleeved shirt underneath. The gladdened man from earlier had slowly withered away to his usual state: face solemn and deep in thought as he ruffled his beard in uncertainty. His lilac eyes stared towards the door, as if waiting for a woman who’d never come. Daemon sat at his right, wearing a black overgown; he appreciated the relative simplicity it offered, formal but comfortable. To Daemon’s right was Viserys who wore a fancy overgown embroidered with many different designs he cared not to evaluate further. In front of Daemon and to Baelon’s left was the Good Queen Alysanne. She had forced Baelon to sit at the head since it was his future office and keep. Septon Barth, the Hand of the King himself, was absent, unable to attend the festivities due to the busyness of his post and his commitment to duty. Baelon begrudgingly gave up, not wanting to be scolded by the Good Queen as if he were two-and-ten again. Though old and sickly, the Queen made sure to spend as much time with her children and grandchildren as possible. To Viserys’ right was Aemma Targaryen, wearing a simple and loose dress, no doubt trying to give her pregnant belly some breathing room. To Queen Alysanne’s right however was an unusual brown-haired lady. 

I am truly a fool. I had expected Princess Gael, and now I must stomach the presence of this old hag yet again. 

Daemon’s face contorted to a frown, holding the “Good” Queen in contempt. As if suddenly remembering that it was his son’s nameday, Baelon forced a smile and made an attempt at a good conversation. His smile was hollow; any man or woman who truly knew the man could tell. Whatever joy this man once had, was now gone and left in Tarth. 

The Heir spoke. 

“Alyssa was a fine lady. Though never ladylike… she tamed a rowdy fool such as I.” Baelon said as he peered at the empty space between his right and left. He slowly adjusted his gaze to the man adjacent to him.

“She would be so proud of you both, my sons. Your performance today Daemon was valiant. I daresay you take after her more than me in terms of sheer spirit.” Baelon said as he offered a soft and genuine smile at the brothers. Viserys shedded a few tears at the memory of their mother and offered a comforting smile back to his father. Daemon, however, could not do the same; his face was taut, solemn yet numb to any emotion. 

Queen Alysanne offered a sad smile at her son and grandchildren. “I truly miss Alyssa. She had a fire in her eyes. Always ready to fight, but humble enough to be the butt of even the harshest jest. She used to follow Daenerys around… Maegelle followed her when she was young too, though she always avoided her… I can remember Aemon and his stoic look whenever Maegelle complained of her absence…Viserra, Daella. It… it pains me to say their names.” She said sadly as her composure broke, wiping tears off her wrinkly cheeks. 

Baelon’s face twisted further, unraveling the sorrow he so usually repressed. 

Seeking to alleviate the tension, Viserys wrapped his left arm around Daemon. “She would truly be proud of us, Daemon. I remember our mother doting on you when you were a wee boy. She scolded me when I hid your toys… you remember that little carved dragon? Oh, she would always say “Seven hells, Viserys! I may as well lock you in your quarters just as the King did to my bloody sister!”” Viserys shared and laughed heartily. 

Daemon looked down, forcing a chuckle; he was ashamed that he could not even remember his mother’s face. Viserys’ short story elicited a hearty laugh from Queen Alysanne and a faint smile from Prince Baelon. 

Viserys kept talking. “Poor Aegon. I swear he’d give you a run for your money if he were here with us today.” Viserys mused, sorrow lacing his words. The mention of his third son shattered whatever smile Baelon forced, causing tears to flow down his face instantaneously. Viserys looked ashamed, his nostalgic smile fading into a sad frown in regret. Baelon excused himself without a word, stepping away to collect himself. Daemon could only pity his father, he knew he had lost too much in too little time. 

As for little Aegon, Daemon could at least remember his baby brother. He was frail but such an endearing little thing. He had light green eyes and dirty blonde hair; one would think he had been a Lannister, but his facial features were Valyrian through and through. The three of them together would make a handsome bunch.

At least I remember you, valonqar. Frail but feisty. A true warrior felled before he could even wield a blade.

An awkward silence followed at their table. Daemon fidgeted with his last piece of steak, stabbing it repeatedly with his fork. The other lords and ladies maintained their chatter, usually about Aemma’s pregnancy, Jaehaerys’ incoming fiftieth year as King, and both his and his father’s marital status. A tournament was held for Daemon, yet many looked more to his own father. 

RHEA

The Lady of Runestone had already expected the odd seating arrangement. Rhea had previously met the Queen hours ago; she had paid her respects to the royal family, offering both condolences and congratulations to Aemma for the deaths of her kin in the Vale and her pregnancy. What she had not expected was the Queen’s summons after the tourney. Her carriage to the Red Keep had been graced with a royal escort of Redcloaks and one Whitecloak, Ser Clement Crabb. Upon her arrival to Maegor's Holdfast, Ser Clement had escorted her to Queen Alysanne’s solar. 

The Queen asked Rhea about her maternal grandmother, Lady Prudence Celtigar. Her grandmother had been one of her ladies-in-waiting in the past until her marriage to Lord Florian Grafton. Queen Alysanne then brought up matters of marriage, eventually expressing the intent to wed her to Daemon. They had discussed the details: a matrilineal marriage to secure the Royce line. The deal had been too advantageous to refuse; her lord-father would scold her if she had refused. The Lady of Runestone did accept, with only a modicum of reservations. 

For most of the duration of the feast, Rhea was relatively quiet, eating her food with ladylike aplomb. Aemma Arryn or Aemma Targaryen, as she was now known, talked to her about the beauty of the Vale and how her relatives’ deaths had saddened her. Aemma continued speaking about the hardships of motherhood. Rhea sympathized, her mother had passed giving birth to her sister, Junia. Rhea found the mood to be grim, a supposed merry celebration of Prince Daemon feeling more like a funeral of those who’ve met the Stranger.

Minutes passed and Baelon eventually returned. 

“I apologize. It was inappropriate of me to step away.” Baelon said with a forced smile, downing a whole goblet of Arbor Red. He let out a defeated sigh as he swallowed the rest of the alcohol.

“Nonsense, my son. I understand. We have already lost so much…” Queen Alysanne replied. 

Mustering the biggest smile she could, the Queen continued. 

“But I do not believe that today is a day of loss. Your boy, Daemon, has just turned six-and-ten, is a knight, and is now eligible for marriage. In fact, I do believe that it is time to have more members in the family, with the right partner of course.”  Queen Alysanne said, alluding to Rhea.

She paused, looking at Rhea on her left and finally urged her to speak.

“Lady Royce, dear, do introduce yourself to the prince.” the Queen urged.

Rhea snapped out of her trance, maintaining her poise. She had been unable to think straight ever since she was bestowed that flower-crown in the tourney stands.

Rhea turned, facing the queen, wearing a polite smile on her face as she introduced herself. 

“Thank you, my queen. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Prince Baelon, Prince Viserys, Princess Arryn, and Prince Daemon. I am Lady Rhea Royce, heir to Lord Yorbert Royce and Lady of Runestone.” She said, without a hitch.  

Daemon faced her, his face interrogative and… upset?

Rhea lost her composure for a fraction of a second. Her stomach twisted at his reaction; she had expected that same warm smile she witnessed earlier. 

Did he not choose me? Was it simply a fluke?

The Lady of Runestone would not falter to a single man’s foul expression. Regaining her grace, Rhea maintained her deferential facade and showed no visible reaction. 

Queen Alysanne spoke with calm glee, a smile apparent.

“I have betrothed Lady Rhea to you, Daemon. I am certain you will enjoy your marriage with your chosen Queen of Love and Beauty. You will be wed once Lord Royce approves, a raven has already been sent to the Eyrie.” 

Rhea flashed a warm smile towards Daemon, hoping for him to reciprocate it. She could not lie to herself; her heart fluttered at his crowning of her as Queen of Love and Beauty. Unfortunately for her, the Prince only flashed an angry frown in return. 

Her betrothed had not kept his poise. Like a kettle over a high flame, Rhea could observe the Prince’s expression, he was simmering in anger. In a sudden, Rhea had figured it out.

I was foolish. He hates me.

In an abrupt outburst, Daemon stood up, knocking his chair back and silencing the whole hall.

“You would DARE to betroth me to this… woman? How many times have I requested Princess Gael’s hand? Am I not enough? Do I not deserve it? Am I that insufferable to you all?” 

All those around him were stunned by his accusation. Baelon’s face was solemn, disappointed even. Alysanne’s mouth was gaped wide, incapable of uttering any words. Viserys and Aemma were embarrassed, but not entirely surprised. The lords and ladies at the Small Hall had pursed their lips shut and an uncomfortable silence loomed over the entire feast. 

Rhea… was on the verge of tears.

I accepted a betrothal of a man who hates me. I am a moron. I should have never thought myself deserving. 

Daemon kicked the chair behind him further. He began walking around the head of the table.

“What? The rumors of mummers and my dealings in the city take precedence over my capabilities? I have not once broken my chastity. I have not once bedded a whore. I have not once besmirched the name of our house. Yet… you scorn me, you spurn me at every moment. Is it because I am a second son?” Daemon continued.

The Heir stood up and approached Daemon, attempting to placate him. 

“My son, did you not bestow Lady Rhea as Queen of Love and Beauty? You must understand, her Grace-” Baelon said, suddenly interrupted by Daemon.

“And you father. Look at all these lickspittles. They all attempt to cajole you into marrying them. They send their bloody daughters of four-and-ten to find a spot in your bed.” Daemon continued.

Baelon looked down at the ground, his face red with anger. The heir clenched his fists. 

“Lykiri, Daemon.” Baelon said pleadingly, his voice shaking in anger and grief.

A tense air had settled over the feast. Rhea looked at her surroundings. The lords and ladies were affronted; Rhea discerned faces of anger, sadness, and even sadistic joy among the nobles in the crowd. The sun's bright light had now been dimmed by the arrival of dark clouds and an impending rain. Queen Alysanne seemed resigned while Prince Viserys and Princess Aemma wore deep frowns.

Suddenly, she heard the voice of the heir, again. 

“Tubī daor, Daemon. Let us discuss this later.” Baelon uttered, soft enough for only those close enough to hear. 

Daemon paused. Pangs of guilt eroding his composure. He looked down and clenched his fists. His jaw was tense, his cheeks taut, and mouth shut. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and reopened them. Rhea saw it on his face, certainty. Certainty in what he felt he had to say.

“Tubī daor? Daor? You want me to stop? If not today, then when? Must I cease speaking for your convenience? Must I silence myself from speaking the truth so that you can keep your blissful ignorance? These lords want to wed me. You know why father? They know that the heir can always be replaced. Just like how you were chosen over Rhaenys. Just like Uncle Aemon, Viserys would only need a crossbow bol-”

A thump was heard across the room, followed by the sound of clattering metal and cracking wood. Prince Baelon, Son of Jaehaerys and heir to the throne, had struck his son across the face. A pitcher of Arbor Gold had spilled and some cutlery had fallen down the ground. Daemon had recoiled from the blow, stumbling onto his chair and falling over with it. The lords and ladies in attendance gasped at the shocking scene. Rhea gasped along with them. Without much thought, the Lady of Runestone stood, grabbed a napkin, and made haste towards the fallen prince. She ran past the frozen Queen and the unmoving heir, paying them no mind. She knelt near the fallen prince and observed him. His disheveled silvery-white hair had covered most of his face. He laid beside the fallen chair. The prince was dazed, seemingly allowing her to care for him. Rhea parted his hair with her fingers and began wiping the blood off from his lips. 

“Are you hurt, my prince?” She asked worriedly. 

“You. G-get away from me.” The Prince spoke, halfheartedly. Daemon had sat up, tears streaking down his face. His violet eyes had dulled, their luster lost to stress and melancholy.

Rhea had expected anger, yet all she saw was a face so downcast by what had occurred. Their eyes met. She felt something emanate from him. Something… that wasn’t hate.

“But your lips-” Rhea reached out with the lightly blood-stained napkin.

“I SAID GET AWAY!” Daemon shouted, swatting away her arm. 

“My son… I... I did not mean to hit you.” Baelon said pathetically, his red face turned pale with guilt. 

Rhea was aghast. Her forearm ached from the swat, but it was nothing compared to a horse’s headbutt or a goat’s ram. She felt frozen in place, unable to move, forced to perceive every accursed event that occurred on this godsdamned day. She watched Daemon, who slowly stood up. Baelon attempted to grasp his hand.

“F-forgive me, my son.” the Heir said, his voice whimpering.

Daemon, with all his strength, pushed his father in his chest, sending him to the floor. Tears in his face, the second son spoke in High Valyrian. “You had us, father. Viserys and I. You had us… yet you always looked at us with those sorrowful eyes. Were we not enough? Did you have to die with mother and Aegon? Did you have to die with Uncle Aemon? Why… in all my hellish life have you not chosen to live life for us? Why?” 

Rhea only understood a few words; High Valyrian had been part of her education but she had forgone her studies in favor of hunting and the occasional swordplay. She saw Baelon close his eyes as he hit the ground, shame consuming him. 

Daemon, on the other hand, gave his father and Viserys a guilty and sorrowful frown. He walked to the table and fixed the fallen pitcher of Arbor Gold and poured its remnants into his goblet, drinking it all while flashing an angry look at the Queen.

Suddenly, she felt an intense heat, thawing her frozen muscles. He had turned his gaze to her. Rhea discerned a guilty frown, similar to that he showed Prince Baelon and Prince Viserys.

“Marry someone else.” He said to her, pleadingly. 

Rhea managed to suppress her reaction, an amalgamation of sorrow and increasing fury. She stood up and headed towards her seat, flashing the Queen a disappointed look. She curled the bloodied napkin in her fist and walked out of the Small Hall, stomping loudly as she did so. Upon her exit, Rhea heard the heir’s tactful apology to her fellow lords and ladies. She cared not about his apologies, if anyone were to apologize, it should have been Prince Daemon.

What a child. If he were not white of hair and violet of eyes, he’d have been slain right then and there.

She had hoped to make way to her carriage, in an effort to get home as soon as possible. She walked in the open hallway to seek her guards, hopefully Ser Yohn, yet found them absent. The gloomy weather had worsened, Rhea looked to her surroundings, rain pattering at the edges of the open corridor, with puddles forming in the dirt outside. She sighed in resignation, aimlessly pacing around the open corridors. Eventually, she ran into a small door. Without thinking much of it, Rhea opened the small door, thinking it was some sort of entrance into a room.

The door was unlocked, but stuck. Perhaps the typical Southron lady would struggle to open it, their smooth hands and brittle arms offering no real practical use. For Rhea, it was more of a hassle than a struggle. Upon opening the door, Rhea had noticed the utter lack of light in the black space. She could make out a sloped wall, indicating that this was in fact, a stairway. She quickly shut the door, too tired to venture in unfamiliar places. She sighed yet again, further admitting resignation. She had given up at the thought of heading back to Runestone, instead choosing to swallow her pride and return to the feast. Alas, there was no leaving King’s Landing, not until this torrential rain ceased. 

By the old gods and new, once I leave this place, I shall never return.

DAEMON

Rain. How terribly apt.

He had left the Tower of the Hand half an hour ago, stomping on his way out and slamming every door, he could. Daemon was now garbed in a black cloak, to cover himself from the heavy rain. He had initially chosen to take the secret path leading to Flea Bottom, even considering breaking his chastity and showing them how vile he could actually be. Unfortunately, he found the secret path to be almost flooded. The Prince found himself in a rut of rage again. He did everything for his family, yet whatever he did amounted to nothing. He no longer sought to please the lot; he now sought vengeance.

If I can’t have her, then I’ll have something else.

He made his way to the Dragonpit, evading Targaryen guards and City Watch guardsmen along the wet dirt roads. Eventually he exited the Red Keep unassailed, slipping out while the guards inspected a merchant’s caravan, suspecting it of hiding contraband or prostitutes. The Prince then calmly strolled to a carriage; the driver had been waiting for customers from the relatively wealthy courtiers, lords, and ladies of the Red Keep. 

Daemon was familiar with the driver, Murch. He handed the driver three golden dragons, one for haste, another for secrecy, and the last out of familiarity. Murch was a bald and homely man, wrinkles adorning his tired face and his crooked nose standing out, or slanting out. He was a soft-spoken man, rarely giving his input, unless it was about the rain.

“Damned rain again. To the fortune teller again, boy?” Murch uttered gruffly.

“Not today, Murch. Bring me to the Dragonpit.” Daemon replied, a serious look on his face as he entered the carriage.

Murch nodded, closing the door behind the Prince. He then sat at the driver’s seat and whipped the reins, startling the horse into moving. 

They took the Street of Looms. The once red roads had now slowly turned to grey cobblestone. Daemon looked outside of the shoddy carriage and its window, peering at the wares, textiles, and even clothing that the vendors offered. The street was littered with these vendors and their small shops. Daemon scanned the carriage’s surroundings, as if browsing for wares he desperately needed. The rain had weakened to a mere drizzle, allowing the vendors to sell their merchandise in earnest. He had viewed the colorful fabrics with apathy. At the end of the day, he was still a member of the richest house in Westeros who had no need for cheap textile and poor sewmanship.

The road was smooth enough for the carriage to pass efficiently; although the occasional pothole rocked the carriage back and forth, making Daemon a tad uncomfortable. Customers walked about the road with the occasional City Watchman surveying the area. The rains had swept away the filth and vile stink of the capital’s streets. Daemon liked the gloomy weather; it cleared the skies and washed the streets of the smallfolk’s excrement. He found himself enjoying the pleasant smell, or a lack of a smell thereof. 

Murch spoke. “Are ya’ sure that we won’t visit yer’ witch?” He asked through the driver’s window.

“You’re talkative today. I am in no mood for conversation.” Daemon replied with a sigh. 

He continued and answered the question. “No, we will not meet Tanda today.”

Murch answered with yet another question. “Well, we’re ‘bout to enter Pisswater Bend. This may be the only time you visit the ol’ lady without your shoes reekin’ like piss after.”

“Gods damn you. Shut your bloody trap before I take my coin back.” Daemon said angrily, eager to dismiss the old driver. Murch snorted as they continued their slow ride. 

As they wheeled through the street, Daemon could discern the unorganized shanties and their disconcerted inhabitants. He saw a child and his mother as the carriage moved, kneeling on the street as they wept. It seemed like the rain had caused a flood in a few of the houses, washing away many belongings, even their shoddy home itself.

“Halt.” The Prince said.

“Ah. So, you will be seein’ Tanda?” the old driver replied. 

“Shut up, will you? Park your carriage somewhere nearby. I will find you.” Daemon replied, frustratedly, his face in a silent fury.

Daemon opened the door and exited the old musty carriage, slamming the rickety door behind him. 

Rains, a crying mother and child, and dragonfyre. Omens. Perhaps the old hag was right.

He had occasionally visited the witch, Old Tanda. The old hag lived somewhere in Flea Bottom, in a decrepit old wreck of a house. The Prince disliked the old woman; he saw her so-called magic as a mediocre attempt to imitate the old powers of the Valyrians. It was simple: just because a dog can breathe fire, does not mean it is a dragon. Tanda was born a dog, like the rest of her Westerosi ilk and thus could never, ever, be a dragon

First Men, Andals, and even the stubborn Rhoynar. They only seek to steal our blood, our dragons, and our renown. 

The Prince smirked as he remembered the Faith of the Seven. The Targaryen dynasty unfortunately followed that accursed religion. He knew it was to appease their new subjects, a way to placate the fools by following their backward ways. The Faith would have him burnt or put to trial for even thinking like this; he was sure however, that Jaehaerys and Alysanne, through their faults, would sooner burn the whole damn Starry Sept before allowing a Targaryen prince to fall prey to some foolish zealots. 

Maegor was right on that one, surely. He was wrong to leave some of them alive though. He thought, as he appraised his surroundings. 

The rain constantly pattered as Daemon slowly walked in the water. Daemon was royalty indeed, yet he always enjoyed being down in the dirt, or the floodwater in this case. He did not find it bothersome; the floods only reached his shins and besides, he much preferred being out and about. Discomfort brought him peace; he found himself more accustomed and comfortable with stressful ordeals.

The majority of the nearby smallfolk, well tinyfolk due to their even poorer and pathetic stature in life, were either shoveling water out from their homes onto the street or weeping at their losses. At least the merchants in the Street of Looms had better living spaces and no water to wade through; these people had nothing, even with Jaehaerys’ competent hand at the reins of the Kingdoms, they struggled and suffered. The rainwater from the Red Keep and the Rhaenys’ Hill always flowed down into Flea Bottom; it truly was the bottom, the lowest of the low, morally, financially, and topographically.

It is their fault. They were born as dogs. They will forever remain as dogs. None of them chose to live a better life. He pondered yet again while wading towards the crying woman.

Were there not two?

He was stuck in thought until something grasped his hand. Immediately recoiling, Daemon reached for Dark Sister. It was not there, he had left it in his solar after his bath; a mistake he would not repeat. With nothing else to do but face the assailant head-on, Daemon turned and faced the direction of his attacker, his unoccupied fist clenched and ready to strike. He swung towards the would-be assailant as his eyes caught up to his hands.

He saw… a child. 

The Black Prince quickly redirected his swing. The sight was humiliating, a shrouded tower of a man twirling around, fist in the sky like he was catching a fly and falling into the water face first. Fortunately, his cloak somehow still obscured his features and identity; it did not however, obscure his humiliation, as a few passersby laughed in glee at the situation. He pulled his cloak up as he surfaced. The water tasted like piss; he spat repeatedly, ridding his mouth of the disgusting liquid. He clenched his fists even harder as he recovered, now kneeling in the pisswater. He looked at the child, hoping to finally strike the little twat seriously this time.

“Please help us milord. My mum, please help me mum.” the child begged.

He quickly unclenched his fists and peered at the child; he felt pangs of guilt for even considering striking the kid. He stood up and sneered condescendingly at the small brown child. 

“Why would I-” He attempted to dismiss the kid quickly, but the child hastily grabbed his hand, urging Daemon to follow. Daemon relented, his conscience telling him to humor the poor thing. The child held his hand as she led him back down the road. After a few minutes of treading in the floodwater, Daemon finally saw the grieving mother, still weeping in the rain, her knees immersed in the floodwater. The woman was almost blue, worse off compared to her daughter. The child’s complexion was unusual. Rhoynish? Volantene? Daemon could not pinpoint what kind of desert or island the child came from. Her mother, on the contrary, was clearly from Westeros, having fair skin and Andal features. The pair did share the same light brown hair and eyes, proving that they were in fact mother and daughter.

The mother wore a painful grimace; her face riddled with wrinkles from toiling in the rain for far too long. She spoke. “My daughter. My s’weet daughter. T-take ‘er milord. Please. PLEASE-”. 

Many of the onlookers gazed at the tall and shrouded figure. His disguise was faltering as people began to slowly crowd amidst the moderate rain. He could no longer loiter freely; his cover was blown. Acting quickly, lest he be found by his family and accused again of his supposed debauchery, Daemon had hastily placed his hand upon the mother’s mouth, suppressing her pleading yells. 

He spoke with conviction, his voice low. “Silence. Come with me, both of you.”

Daemon had hastily brought the mother and daughter back to his carriage. Murch offered an inquisitive look but said nothing, instead expecting the Prince to pinpoint their next location. The three boarded the carriage while a small crowd formed outside. He could not hear their voices in the pouring rain but he was sure, certain that they knew who he was. The three settled into the damp carriage, their soaked clothes wetting the seating. 

“Th-thank you, milord.” The mother said weakly, shivering and hyperventilating as she bowed. 

“Thank you, my good lord!” The daughter followed suit, almost sounding like a noble. 

The little girl smiled. She smiled so wide that Daemon could see the missing teeth and smell her rotten breath.

“Do away with your bloody flattery, child. From now on, you will serve me. The world has spurned you, I will not.” the Prince replied coldly as he looked the child eye to eye. 

Daemon then yelled out to the driver.

“Murch, to Tanda.” the Prince commanded. 

The driver chuckled. Of course they’d visit the old lady.

Instead of continuing to the Street of Flour, Murch turned the carriage left to an alley situated a few houses away from the intersection. They were entering Flea Bottom proper, the poorest of the poor and the vilest of the vile. The hub of cheap whores, fighting pits, and shitty bars was alive and active, rain or shine. Daemon sighed, closing his eyes to rest, if only for a moment. The travel to the house would take a while, given the foot traffic and the terrible weather.

Time passed. It was now late afternoon, half an hour before sundown. The roads in Flea Bottom were narrow, unmaintained, and littered with prostitutes, solicitors, and drunken men. Daemon was no stranger here; he had first gone here at the age of one-and-ten. Viserys had brought him, encouraging him to “familiarize” himself with women. Daemon however chose to listen to a witch instead. Viserys chastised him afterwards, telling him that the witch was just peddling the usual mummer’s farce to screw with him. Daemon, however, did not listen to his older brother and kept listening to the old crone. He chose not to; maybe she knew the answers he had sought his entire life.

“Your names. What are your names?” Daemon asked, indifferently.

“Mylenda, milord. My daughter is Rosey.” The mother replied.

“How old?” He continued nonchalantly.

“I dunno about miself, milord. Rosey’s seventh nameday is comin’ next moon.” She answered, honestly.

Daemon scoffed, seemingly uninterested in her answers. The child, Rosey, was still fast asleep. The mother, though exhausted, kept herself up and aware. 

“Where ‘are ya’ taking us milord?” Mylenda asked, fear lacing her words.

“Worry not. I will not harm you. You will help me. I will help you. That is all.” He replied seriously. 

The mother nodded. An eerie silence plagued the carriage interior. Mylenda persevered, catching herself whenever she fell asleep. Daemon looked out the window, waiting for their eventual arrival. 

The carriage rolled to a stop. Daemon looked outside and knew that they could no longer travel on foot; the roads were too narrow for any carriage to fit. He quickly opened the door and exited the carriage. He gestured his newfound companions out, slamming the door shut as Rosey finally exited. 

“Stay close.” Daemon uttered softly but commandingly. 

The Prince turned to the driver for only a moment.

“Be vigilant, Murch.” He said, receiving a nod and gruff snort in reply.

The rain had weakened to a mere drizzle. The group walked in a file; Daemon situated himself at the back, with Mylenda leading in front. He made sure to keep one eye trained on the child. Flea Bottom was no place for children and he would not have his new servants be assailed by thieves or kidnappers. The triad walked the many alleyways and streets of Flea Bottom. There were City Watch guardsmen, Redcloaks, Merchants, Traders, and the occasional lord or lady. It was ironic that most of Flea Bottom’s critics were also its repeat visitors. He frowned at the thought. He’d heard rumors that his own father may have even visited the damned place himself. Hypocrites, the lot of them. His father was a hypocrite, his brother was a hypocrite, seven hells, the whole godsdamned royal family were hypocrites. His brow furrowed and his lips were pursed shut. He felt an increasing sense of fury as they walked about in the dim alleys and bustling streets. 

I may as well whore myself out. 

He thought to himself. He then peered at the little girl in front of him.

Not in front of a child. 

He thought again, suppressing his lust for vengeance against his family. 

Daemon then barked directions towards the mother, directions she followed duly enough. He had covered his face with a black cloth, securing it with a knot on his neck, hiding much of his Valyrian features except his eyes. 

They walked and walked, avoiding the seductive prostitutes or the bloodthirsty drunken gamblers. They took another turn. Daemon sighed, relieved that they had finally reached their destination. Among the mazes, sidestreets, and suffocating alleyways and brothels of Flea Bottom, was an old shoddy house. It was less of a shanty and more of large manor that had fallen to squalor. The house was built with some type of black stone and looked considerably aged, perhaps even predating the Conqueror’s arrival. The blackstone was significantly weathered by time and rain, its once definite shape eroded into irregularity. The windows were boarded shut with planks of wood or heavy olden furniture used as makeshift barriers. The pavement leading to the house had all but disappeared, only a few patches of occasional blackstone remained, indicating the existence of an old road. Daemon and his anxious companions had deftly avoided the pothole puddles, nimbly hopping from blackstone patch to blackstone patch. The rain had picked up again, further encouraging the group to make haste. The group made their way to the house door. It was odd, the manor's blackstone facade had been scarred and continuously eroded, yet… the large door remained in pristine condition.

Daemon could care less about high-quality wood or how rocks eroded when exposed to rain. He was tired of the games in King’s Landing, the political maneuvering of cunts who sought to upend their house. He needed freedom, freedom from that damned woman. He needed a solution, a quick and convenient one. 

Serving the family. What a load of shit. 

He was tired of leaving his fate to the whims of the old Queen. He wanted to decide his own fate, take matters in his own hands. With the help of Old Tanda and her magic, maybe he could actually take the reins.

And break this damned betrothal.

Before he could even knock on the door, Daemon found it completely wide open.

He had blinked and it had opened. He had not perceived it whatsoever.

“Save your damned tricks for the naive, Tanda. I’ve brought company. We will enter.” Daemon said, irritation coating his words.

“I told you. No visitors.” A voice spoke out, danger lacing the words.

“They are from your prophecies.” Daemon said to the astonishment of the mother and daughter.

“You have brought the sacrifices?” Old Tanda said, stepping into the light. She had a large mole on her left cheek. Her face was littered with wrinkles, lesser moles, and skin tags. Her eyes were greyish-white, old age had not treated her kindly. She was short and frail but strong enough to carry herself around. She had a tall old branch as a makeshift cane, slightly taller than little Rosey. White, curly, unkempt hair covered the rest of her face.

“Sacrifices?! No, milord. No, you can’t do this to us. No. Please, mercy.” Mylenda begged, clutching Rosey and embracing her in an attempt to protect her.

“Woman. The witch jests. Human sacrifice would undo House Targaryen. I would not risk my house’s destruction by destroying its connection with the Faith.” Daemon said in an irritated and sarcastic manner, all while removing his soaked cloak and entering the House. 

“May they enter?” Daemon asked the old crone.

“Aye. You wouldn’t take no for an answer anyhow young lad.” The crone answered with an oddly cheerful tone. 

Reluctantly, Mylenda carried the now sobbing Rosey into the house, the door shut itself behind her.

The house smelled like dust and moisture. The stairwell to the second floor, which currently served as a glorified catch basin, was boarded up with wooden planks. A large animal skin, one from an auroch, was placed underneath the leaking boards, serving as the old crone’s actual catch basin.

“Ohohoho. Hold no fear in your hearts for I no longer sacrifice people.” Old Lady Tanda said once again, a devilish smirk on her face.

Daemon scoffed. “The Faith of the Seven disallows human sacrifices and it has stood far longer than you, crone. You’ve not done a single human sacrifice your entire life.”

“The Old Gods appreciate sacrifice…” Tanda mused, a grin on her face.

“Who worships the Old Gods, the first men in the North? Dragonfyre can change that.” Daemon replied, removing his soaked coat and hanging it on a half-rotten coat hanger. The Prince finally settled on a rickety wooden chair. 

“You argue and argue yet you know within yourself, that you have no conviction for the faith.” Tanda replied, her grin had turned into a sneer. 

Old Tanda gazed upon the poor mother and daughter, pointing at a bench near the unlit hearth. She flicked her fingers, and a sudden light emerged, the hearth bursting aflame. 

Daemon laughed heartily. “Oh, crone. Must you do this with every godsdamned visitor? Will you now use your magic to turn into a beautiful whore? The Wall would soon fall before any man complimented your beauty.” He japed, flashing a sardonic grin.

“You play the skeptic, yet I find you here. You hide behind your poor attempts at humor. You resent hypocrisy, yet you represent it. I am ugly and old and I no longer care about such shallow things. You are beautiful outside Daemon, yet you are rotten to the core.” Old Tanda replied, her eyes squinted and her brows furrowed. 

A tense silence ensued. Daemon still fashioned a shaky grin, unsure what to retort but unwilling to admit defeat. The mother-daughter pair had now sat beside the hearth, warming and drying themselves with the heat of the fire, too exhausted to care for the conversation between the two. Tanda had eventually sat on a chair in front of him, the chair still in pristine condition. 

Tanda spoke, interrupting the silent Daemon. 

“The power of your house… blinds you to the powers of those you deem lesser. Arrogance will be your downfall, Daemon; I have foreseen it. Your destiny has not changed, you will be plagued with suffering and doom. Tears, dragonfyre, and a fall.” She said.

“You speak of treason, old crone. Threaten me again and I’ll have your bloody head.” Daemon replied, an angry frown on his face.

“You talk much about spurning, yet you spurn those who offer you any assistance… is your soul so blackened to cast a shadow upon all you encounter?” Old Tanda questioned, her eyes beset with worry.

“My soul is Valyrian. I am born of the dragons. I am royalty.” Daemon replied.

“You are born of the dragons yet whine at the slightest of offenses. A dragon would not burn a child at a light tap of its snout. And royalty would not disrespect their betrothed… they would do their duty, would they not?” Old Tanda spoke with certainty. 

“You old bitch! I’ll have you flogged!” Daemon yelled, attempting to stand, his thighs burning in pain as he did so.

“You damned witch.” Daemon hissed. 

“Careful, Daemon. You came to me, not I to you. I have lived long, longer than you believe. I have seen many different kings and royal families, do not think of yourself different.” 

Daemon snarled, like an angry dog leashed to a fence, itching to break free and bite the bastard that left it there. 

“Now, my prince… would you please act according to your stature?” Tanda asked, impatient.

He still couldn’t move, his muscles burnt intensely even at the simple thought of moving.

“I yield! Gods damn you; I yield.” the prince said, defeated.

“If you approach every conflict with fire and steel, then you will find yourself burnt or butchered.” Tanda said, cautioning him. 

The Old Crone stood up and collected a cauldron and three small bowls. She walked towards the hearth, moonlight and firelight illuminating each respective side of her obscured face. She laid the covered cauldron near the hearth, warming whatever food inside it. 

“Serve yourselves.” The Old Tanda said.

“My thanks, milady.” Mylenda said.

“Thank you, my lady!” Rosey said, now smiling again in unparalleled joy.

“I am no lady. Please, call me Tanda.” the crone replied, chuckling. 

Minutes passed. Mylenda had served the group a bowl of bean porridge each. The mother-daughter dyad had helped themselves and had relished the simple dish. Daemon had moved to the bench adjacent to the hearth, deciding to finally dry himself. He was on the left end, with Mylenda on the opposite end. Rosey sat between them. Mylenda had faced towards the door, her suspicion of foul play still lingering, especially to the passing shadows outside.

Daemon, on the other hand, was defeated.

Bested by two old crones. One a queen and one a witch. Ser Daemon Targaryen of Pissdrinker Bend. A fitting title for a second son.

Wallowing in his self-pity, Daemon stared at the fire. He had hoped that it’d suddenly explode and consume him, body and soul. As usual, the second son never got what he wanted. He could beg the Gods all day for lightning to strike him and all it’d result to is an egregious amount of rain. 

“Why are you sad, milord?” Rosey inquired, her common accent betraying her.

“Are you not sad yourself, child? You’ve no father. Don’t you feel the same?” Daemon said, deflecting her question with an insult.

“My pa’ died in the Myrish invasion, milord.” Rosey replied.

Daemon glanced at the child again. Her skin was olive in contrast to her mother’s fair skin. Her hair, though light brown, was thick and heavy.

“Your father served the crown? I should reward his honorable service.” Daemon said, with unusual delicateness.

“No, milord. He was from Myr.” Rosey replied.

Daemon pursed his lips. The child stared at the hearth, her eyes watching the crackling coals and dancing flames. 

“My mother is dead. I do not even remember her face. My whole family lauds her far more than they ever did for me. I never even knew her.” Daemon sputtered suddenly.

The mother spoke suddenly.

“I hail from Tarth, milord. I met her father on a wee mornin’ - a few ships showed up outta’ nowhere. I was fishin’ for our mornin’s meal. The damned men tried ta’ have their way with me. Then a handsome lad showed, beating his men with a damn club.” Mylenda said.

The mother chuckled. Slowly, her happy chuckle turned into a soft sob. Her face twisted into a deep, sorrowful frown.

“The King’s men slayed my Garin. He told me they’d surrender. He told me they’d stop the fightin’. They did.” She continued.

Mylenda sobbed. Her downturned nose dripped with snot and her thin lips quivered in grief. She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her disheveled gown. 

Daemon looked away, feeling a sense of responsibility for his father’s actions. Those were his father’s orders. Some of the Myrish exiles had laid their arms down at the sight of the Baratheon levies. Some tried to flee. Some fought. All were slaughtered. Baelon gave no quarter as Vhagar set the battlefield aflame. Mummers say that his father even executed each captured prisoner personally. 

Rosey hung her head low, gazing at the floor. Daemon quipped again, this time somber. 

“My strong-willed mother and your honorable father. You and I will forever dance to the songs of good people we never knew.” Daemon said, gesturing a toast with an imagined goblet.

The child and mother clinked their own imagined goblets with his. A peaceful silence followed as they all gazed at the warm hearth. Its warmth soothing all aches and self-doubts deep within.

The Old Crone finally croaked, impatiently interrupting the conversation.

“Quit your damn whining you snotty boy. Now, what is it you want? Divination? Prophecy? Have you finally come to learn pyromancy?” Old Tanda asked.

Rosey turned around excitedly, Daemon following suit.

“May I learn magic?” Rosey asked, almost begging.

“Of course, daughter of Garin.” Tanda replied, flashing the child a genuine smile, something Tanda seldom did.

Daemon interrupted arrogantly. “I have no need for pyromancy. I have the bloo-”

“What is it that you actually desire, Prince Daemon?” She interrupted, her voice irritated.

He sighed, defeated again. “I need to change fate. I need to control my destiny. I need to break this damned betrothal.” The Prince replied tiredly. 

“Then I must gaze upon your future once more. Mylenda, do lock the door. This will take some time.” Old Tanda said as she turned to the mother.

Daemon had moved his chair as close as possible to that of the crone’s; his experience with her rituals clear as day. He relaxed on his chair and seemingly fell asleep, like following a routine he'd mastered his whole life.

MYLENDA

Mylenda had locked the door already, quickly walking back to the bench afterward. She settled beside Rosey, who viewed the scene before her with much interest.

“Mylenda, there will be blood.” Tanda said, warning the mother, for the child’s sake.

“Look away now, daughter.” Mylenda said.

“But mother, I want to see!” Rosey pleaded.

“I told ya’, look away. I won’t say it again.” Mylenda commanded, no longer entertaining any resistance.

Rosey grumbled frustratedly but followed her mother. She turned away, instead finding entertainment at the sputtering hot coals and firewood.

“I will give you a book, Rosey. Be a good girl and listen to your mum.” Old Tanda said encouragingly. 

“Alright!” The child excitedly replied.

The time of talk was over, Tanda now grasped a sharp knife in her right hand. She had placed a bucket on the floor, in between their chairs. The Old Lady sat opposite to Daemon, in arm’s reach. Daemon laid his hands on the armrests of his rickety chair, his palms facing the ceiling. He had fallen into a deep sleep. 

Tanda began singing in an unknown language. Chanting and humming. The color in her eyes fading as she did so. She grabbed Daemon’s right hand and slashed it horizontally. She bled his hand into the bucket for a minute, eventually bandaging the wound with some boiled cloth.

“The right hand that decides a man’s choices. Old Gods! Allow me a glimpse upon the consequences of this man’s actions, past and present!” The Old Lady yelled.

The rain outside had strengthened. The occasional flash of lightning gracing the windows with flickering light, thunder bellowing soon afterwards.

Tanda had returned the hand to the armrest, this time facing the floor.

She then swiftly collected his left hand, cutting it open the same way and bleeding it into the bucket below. She then bandaged his left hand.  Old Tanda placed it on the armrest, palm once again facing the ceiling.

She spoke again, this time in a calmer manner. “The left hand that receives the will of others. Old Gods. Give me sight of this man’s friends and foes!”

Yet another flash of light graced the windows, thunder following soon after. Mylenda had watched the ceremony with suspicion, still wary of Old Tanda. The house was still dark, but she could have sworn that there was something different. She peered at the door, investigating it. The door now had a face and wore a pained grimace. She blinked slowly hoping that the face would disappear, it did not. She averted her gaze, preferring to look at another person instead. 

Old Lady Tanda had already been looking at her. She could see the Old Lady’s lips move slightly. 

A wave of darkness crashed onto her.

Chapter Text

DAEMON

Black.

Daemon found himself in his solar, awoken by a soft melody of a nearby harp. His bed had fresh white sheets and a red and black blanket folded at its foot. His feather-filled pillows were encased in white linen, soft to the touch and cold to the touch. The wind blew into the window, lightly grazing his skin with an ominous chill. He quickly rose from his bed, hastily prompted into action by the unsettling breeze. He planted his feet on the similarly cold brick floor, shivering at the unnerving sensation. He had no shoes to wear, instead peering at the familiar red brick walls of the Red Keep. 

There laid Dark Sister, mounted on the wall opposite to him, still resting in its black scabbard. The Prince gathered his strength, stood up, and slowly walked to the mounted blade, as if it called to him. As he neared the resting sword, the young man of six-and-ten astutely observed the master crafted weapon. The sword that Visenya once held and brought to battle was now his. He grinned as he unsheathed the blade, gathering the arming sword into his hands, admiring his ancestor’s work. He wrapped his right hand on its hilt, the tactile grip provided a firm hold for any user that wielded the sword. The pommel was gold and shaped like a dragon’s egg, a representation of their houses' might and its endless growth. The gold cross guard was made in the likeness of a dragon, with the quillons representing the wings and the center being the torso and head. His smile was wiped clean off his face as the soft melody of the harp abruptly ceased. The Prince quickly affixed the scabbard on the left of his belt.

To his right appeared a door; he was certain it had not been there upon his awakening. He slowly neared it, his left hand anxiously clutching his scabbard and his right hand already grasping the Dark Sister’s hilt. 

Something’s amiss.

The door seemed unfamiliar, different from the actual door to his solar in Maegor’s Holdfast. Daemon kept his left hand on his scabbard while he attempted to open the door with his right. He slowly twisted the knob.

It did not budge or rotate, firmly resisting his spirited attempt to open it. Daemon tried again impatiently, this time using more force in his follow-up attempt. He finally used both his hands, moreso trying to rip off the door from its hinges rather than opening it. He braced his right foot on the door as he heaved and hoed, channeling all his strength into each pull. He kept at it for a few minutes until the door eventually burst wide open, sending him flying backwards into the hard brick wall. 

Daemon grunted as he collected himself. The dazed prince slowly stood up, curling his right fist in anger. He grunted, dizzily glaring at the immovable door. The door no longer resembled his own. He observed it further, his gaze slowly stabilizing as he regained his senses. The door was circular and its wood white. The tree had a face; tears of blood descended from its eyes and mouth, its nose flared and eyes angry. He glued his gaze to the ghastly being. He found himself calmer, now certain of the enemy that hid itself in trickery. He drew his sword again, finding it lighter and nimbler than earlier. He held his sword near his center in a plow guard stance. He blinked as he tensed his calves, hoping to end this vile being with a quick swipe of his sword.

Evil magics. He thought as he prepared for the inevitable clash of steel and wood.

Yet the face had vanished from the face of the door right as he reopened his eyes. He felt all the pent up tension slowly dissipate, his muscles quickly relaxed as he cautiously resumed a more relaxed stance. Daemon lowered his sword as he approached the door. The Prince then poked the door with Dark Sister, expecting to draw out a reaction from the possessed door. There was no such occurrence; the angry-faced door had been only a figment of his imagination. 

Daemon yelled in rage, charging at the door with Dark Sister, throwing caution to the wind. The high speed in which he hurled himself at the door completely separated the door from its hinges, sending it to the abyss.

Abyss?

He found himself falling in the sky as a result of his foolhardiness. Perhaps he slammed the door too hard… but shouldn’t he have hit solid ground by now?

A quiet thud, as if his body was caught by a giant’s hairy hand. He had been falling for what felt like hours, softly landing into a patch of grass. He heard the flowing wind whoosh by the abundant blades of grass surrounding him. Daemon found it serene, almost calming. The noises in his head had gone silent for once; the flames of ambition absent in this quiet land. He closed his eyes, finally able to truly rest for the first time in years. 

He had fallen asleep for a few minutes until he was abruptly awoken by sounds of laughter, a child’s laughter in particular. He stood up, searching for the sound’s origin. He could hear a voice at the other side of a nearby hill. Daemon ran up the tall hill, reaching its peak in only a few seconds. He looked at the near horizon. The Prince found himself in vast and fertile farmlands. He could see farmers harvesting their newly grown crops, tediously collecting their crops with sickles and scythes. He peered farther, discerning the familiar blue of the sea. He gazed towards the shore and saw a rocky beachfront, jagged rocks adorning the area. His eyes followed the shore, eventually settling on a nearby castle. It was near the sea, built on a hill, its tall rectangular keep had dwarfed all the small huts that the farmers lived in. 

Another laugh. He could hear echoes coming from that same castle. Daemon wasted no time and ran towards the castle, Dark Sister anxiously waiting in its sheath. He swiftly ran across the field, looking for the farmers he saw earlier. They had all mysteriously disappeared; the fields had also suddenly seemed burnt, blackened wheat and barley littered across the fields that the farmers once tended to so dearly. He could hear a crunch in every stride, the charred grass cracking and shattering at the weight of his determined pace. He gazed upon the castle yet again, now before him as he began his hike to its gates. Hastening his pace, Daemon eventually crested the hill and reached the castle gates.

Smoke.

The castle gate was unmanned and half open. The grey stone had melted; segments of the battlements, now molten rock, had flowed onto the ground. Daemon quickly ducked underneath the half-opened gate. He looked up at the rectangular keep; flames consumed each room, the stone melting as the interior scaffolding collapsed slowly. 

He heard another laugh, this time right around him. The courtyard was engulfed in smoke, the nearby castle buildings burnt along with the gate and keep. Daemon frantically shouted, simultaneously drawing Dark Sister out from its sheath. 

“Show yourself, craven! Face me! Let us settle this!” 

Daemon eyed the burning castle-town. The flames danced around the burning stalls and buildings. He blinked.

He now found himself in King’s Landing; it burnt just as the previous castle did. 

The Prince shouted again, his voice now shaky. “Who are you?! Face me!” 

Each time he blinked, Daemon found himself in another castle, city, or town. He could not escape the visions, corpses everywhere and fires leaving only ash in their wake. The air was filled with the smell of smoke and blood. From the rich Crownlands and even the cold North, fire engulfed everything.

He blinked again. He was in the first castle again. The fires had finally stopped.

He knelt, exhausted from the sight of such carnage. Burnt men, women, and children. Molten stone, burning houses, and the awful stench of the dead. He retched and gagged as he recalled the smell of all those charred people. His eyes teared as he continuously emptied all the contents of his stomach. 

A figure clad in a black cloak manifested before him, a void occupying the gap where its face should have been.  

“What does this all mean? Tell me! Tell me, before I slay you where you stand!” the Prince shouted, threatening the apparition.

“You seek your destiny. You seek answers. I have granted your request; I have shown you your destiny.” the apparition calmly responded, its voice deep and haunting.

Daemon charged at the apparition, denying the figure’s false words.

“Lies! Deception! This is all a farce, some illusion to befuddle me. I know my fate; it is greatness through valor and bravery!” Daemon shouted, unleashing a flurry of strikes with Dark Sister. 

The apparition dodged each and every strike, nonchalantly defying logic and reality to avoid the quick Valyrian steel sword. 

It spoke again.

“I do not lie. You sought, I led. You sowed, you reaped. I do not choose for you, son of dragons.”

Daemon knelt, a sharp pain piercing his skull; agony filled his soul and sought to corrupt his very being. Nothing had changed. As he knelt in his dazed state, he looked to his surroundings again. Bright, red flames engulfed the whole castle, corpses laid around him in the courtyard, and he himself found himself bloodied and maimed. He screamed in despair as the figure looked at him, now completely silent. Daemon blinked.

He was lying in the grass again. The familiar swish of the wind had now graced his ears yet again. He let out a deep sigh.

Damn visions. 

“What bothers you, my love?” A familiar yet still-novel lady’s voice questioned. 

The woman he laid beside had asked him a question. 

“It was only a bad dream.” Daemon replied curtly, as he gazed at the clouds.

He heard a laugh, the same damn laugh that he heard throughout his visions. Daemon swiftly turned his gaze away from the blue sky, towards the direction of the voices and laughs. He found himself beside a woman and two children. He tried to distinguish their faces, hoping to find out who they were. He knew it was the same laugh, but he did not find himself irritated by it. In fact, it calmed him. One child grasped his hand, while the woman laid her head on his chest. The other child leaned on the mother. 

“It is because you never rest, even dragons rest. My dearest dragon should rest as well.” The woman said seductively. 

He grinned at the flirtatious offer. 

“And what rest should this dragon partake in? Shall it devour his lady whole?” Daemon replied in a sultry whisper.

“Seven hells, not in front of the children!” The lady replied.

He let out a hearty laugh.

“Why not? If I had not devoured you then and there, we’d never have these two.” Daemon said teasingly.

The older child finally spoke, in disgust for what she had just heard. “We know what you’re talking about, father.”

The younger child replied, in anger for his sister's interruption. “Come on! You spoiled the surprise! They've yet to even talk about the Lord’s Kiss!

He laughed even harder at the bickering children. He smiled as he looked at the woman lying on his chest. Her whole face, even her hair, were distorted.

"Awaken, my love." She said as she looked at him eye-to-eye. 

He only caught a glimpse of her stormy blue eyes as he slowly blinked.

Blue.

The serenity of lying in the soft grass had now been unpleasantly replaced by the moist and damp sensation of Murch’s shady carriage. Sunbeams graced his tired eyes as Mylenda opened the curtains. The damp seats were an uncomfortable hassle, yet he had to endure for the sake of his plans. Daemon’s deep violet eyes slowly adjusted to his current surroundings. The Prince found himself seated on the left side of the rear seat while Mylenda and Rosey sat on the forward seats near the window to the carriage driver. 

Murch spoke, his gruff voice almost cutting the air in half, if that were possible anyway. 

“We’re headin’ to the Dragonpit. You passed out for the night. We’ll arrive soon.” the carriage driver said.

Daemon was dazed. He decided to ask his companions about the Old Lady. Mylenda explained everything she saw. She narrated the events: him falling asleep, Tanda slashing his hands, the chanting, and the singing. She whispered the grittier details to avoid shocking her daughter.

Daemon peered at his unblemished hands, slowly coming to terms with what had just happened. This was the first time that she had offered a blood sacrifice; typically, he would just sleep and the crone would grasp his hands and tell him his future. This time was different, the visions, his unscathed hands, and his long and restful sleep. This time… it was no mummer’s farce. 

That damned crone really is a witch, that cloaked bastard as well. 

“Thank you, Mylenda.” Daemon said, uncharacteristically grateful.

“Of course, milord.” She replied curtly.

Daemon turned his gaze to the child, Rosey. She had been reading a book as her mother caught him up with the happenings of the previous night. Her bright brown eyes glimmered with hope. Food, rest, and a roof over your head. Seems like that's all it takes to make anyone broken whole again. 

“Child. What are you reading? Is that the witch’s book?” Daemon asked.

“It is, milord! She gave it to me as promised. I like Old Tanda!” Rosey replied with a joyful smile.

Daemon smiled. He found her joy familiar, like he had heard something similar in his dreams. Slowly his smile dissolved. He could no longer remember the children in his visions and disappointedly returned to his brooding. 

Minutes later, the comfortable silence was interrupted by the gruff voice of their carriage driver. 

“We’ve arrived. They’re lookin’ for ya’ for sure. Sun’s out, keep your face hidden ‘alright, I ain’t gettin’ hanged cuz of ya.” Murch said irritatedly.

Daemon handed Murch yet another gold dragon, hoping to compensate the grumpy old man for his services. Mylenda watched as he did so, unable to hide her own desire for gold.  

Mylenda had proven her worth and deserved her own pay. That’s what he thought at least. Daemon, feeling satisfied with his companions so far, handed the mother and daughter five golden dragons.

“Buy whatever you want. After this, we will return to the Red Keep. I will discuss the details… later.” Daemon promptly said, leaving them soon after.

Daemon felt calm… for the moment. He knew that he’d had no time to process any of the visions or “consequences” as that shrouded bastard said. He was grateful to be in a rush; the immediacy of his quest for vengeance gave him purpose and soothed his bothered mind.

Murch had dropped him off at the base of the Rhaenys’ Hill, so as not to arouse an inspection by the Targaryen soldiers patrolling the pit and its outskirts. He decided to just act like a passing customer to avoid the patrols. The vendors littered the slopes of the hill; there were food stalls, figure carvers, textile sellers, and the occasional blacksmith who made the long journey from the Street of Iron or the Coppersmith’s Wynd. He had worn the same damp and smelly dark cloak, obscuring his royal face and stature. He walked around the stalls, acting interested in the prices and even haggling every few vendors.

“Aye, I can sell ya’ a bushel of flour for a single stag, what say ya?” A vendor told him.

“The best I can do is five copper stars. No more, no less.” Daemon replied in his best commoner accent.

“You can keep your damn coppers! Flour, corn, and buckwheat! Get your ingredients!” The vendor shouted, attracting more customers.

Daemon weaved through the crowd like a serpent, slowly hiking up the hill. He was about a third of the way up.

They climb this damned hill just to sell their wares? How foolish. It won’t get them anywhere. The poor are poor; fate has it that way.

Fate?

Thoughts of his dreams the previous night flashed in his mind, the burnings, the cloaked apparition, the laughs, and the odd serenity of lying in the grass. He could only remember her eyes, those beautiful blue eyes.

Love?

Daemon shook his head at the thought

As he regained his senses, Daemon sighted a pair of City guard watch guardsmen patrolling the stalls. The guardsmen slowly neared Daemon, causing him to hide by browsing at yet another shop. This time it was a coppersmith, vending his works. He browsed his wares as the watchmen conversed nearby. 

“The Rogue Prince, eh? What a stupid name. If I were knighted at six-and-ten and betrothed to a hot fuckin’ lady, you’d find me fuckin’ in the fuckin’ bedroom day and night.” The fat guard said.

“Well, I’d agree that the prince is a fool, but I wouldn’t be thinking of all that. Imagine the godsdamned food he eats daily? I’d never complain again! At least I’d get fat on Arbor Gold and steak and not shitty ale.” The thinner watchman replied.

“Do ya’ have a problem with my belly, boy?” The fat guard replied.

“No. I have a problem with the shitty ale you stuff in your fat fuckin' mouth.” The thinner one replied.

The two guardsmen laughed heartily as they continued their banter.

Daemon found himself listening to their conversation, ignoring the smith in front of him - though he was quickly reminded of his presence.

“Are you buying, my prince?” The coppersmith said, flashing him the slyest smile ever.

“Keep your voice down, you bastard.” Daemon commanded in a pathetic whisper. 

The coppersmith crossed his arms and spoke. “Make me.” 

“You sniveling cunt.” Daemon cursed.

“Whatever do you mean my pri-” The coppersmith asked, a shit-faced grin on his face.

“Alright, alright! What are you selling?” Daemon said, defeated.

“Oh, I’ve had terrible business lately, my pri-” The coppersmith continued his mockery.

Daemin shot him an infuriated look, threatening to behead him. 

“Ehem. Apologies, lad. Well as you can see here… I’ve got bronze earrings, brooches, rings, and even a necklace. The necklace is one-of-a-kind. It has a bronze chain and a topaz centerpiece accentuated with a four-and-ten-pointed star. I’ve got some Myrish bronze stilettos too.” The smith replied with an enthusiastic smile.

“I’ll take the stilettos and the necklace. Should twenty gold dragons suffice?” Daemon asked, lowballing the coppersmith. 

“The necklace is worth a hundred dragons. The stilettos are worth five. Buy the necklace, get the stilettos free.” The coppersmith stated. 

“You are full of shit, smith. A necklace is nowhere near that cost. Besides, your wares are bronze… I may as well buy from the other smiths that trade in iron, steel or gold.” Daemon challenged

“Sixty dragons and I throw in a Bronze ring.” The coppersmith haggled.

“Five and twenty dragons. I have no need for a ring.” Daemon demanded.

The coppersmith paused for a moment, considering his options. 

“Thirty dragons with the ring. With professional secrecy… anything lower than that and I’ll call the guards.” The coppersmith said, giving a final ultimatum.

Daemon was bewildered. “You’d throw away your head for five dragons?” The Prince asked. 

“I’ve lost more for less.” The coppersmith said, a solemn look taking over his formerly cheery expression. 

“Fine. At least put it in a bag.” Daemon said in resignation.

“Perfect.” The coppersmith said.

The coppersmith put the necklace and ring in their own respective boxes while the stilettos were placed in their scabbards. He then bagged all the items in a cloth, tying a knot to secure it all. 

“Deliver it to a black carriage at the foot of the hill. The carriage driver’s name is Murch. I am no longer asking as a customer. I am commanding it as a prince of House Targaryen. I will have your head if you disobey. Understood?” Daemon said, irritation coating each word uttered.

“Aye, of course milord.” The coppersmith answered in glee, happy to finally make a sale.

Daemon scoffed as he left the stall, continuing the journey to the Dragonpit higher up on Rhaenys’ hill. Eventually, he sighted the entire Dragonpit exterior. He gazed at the main entrance. There were wide stone steps built into the slope, leading to the massive bronze-iron doors that blocked its entrance. The exterior had many columns supporting much of the stone brick structure. There were inscriptions of High Valyrian on the walls. The main entrance had two massive bronze-iron doors and were absolutely massive. Guards were posted on the steps and the occasional dragonkeeper could be seen out and about. 

Daemon had ten gold dragons left for the remainder of his trip. He walked around the exterior while conspicuously analyzing the patterns of the patrolling Redcloaks. The guards of House Targaryen were clad in black armor and a red surcoat. They walked the area in pairs or groups of four. He looked around for alternative points of entry and finally found it: an oak-and-iron door on the west-side of the large structure. A sentry took his post beside it, vigilantly watching for suspicious persons. The Rogue Prince assumed that the guard would change in about an hour. He waited five minutes and observed no movement from the sentry.

Maegor’s balls. I’d sooner wed Lady Royce than wait another hour.

Daemon evaded a passing patrol while menacingly marching towards the sentry. The sentry’s watchful gaze pointed towards him. Daemon’s heart raced as he slowly let his instincts take control. He walked towards the guard; the guard subsequently placed his right hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade. 

Daemon removed the shroud that obfuscated his face, shocking the sentry. He spoke as matter-of-factly as possible.

“My father, the heir: Baelon Targaryen, has ordered me to do a spot-inspection of the Dragonpit, its keepers, and most importantly… the guards.” Daemon spoke, eying the sentry suspiciously. 

He continued speaking. “I find myself thoroughly impressed. The patrols are efficient and thorough. I’ve not encountered a single slacking guard, including you my friend. Now, let me check on the keepers inside.” 

“Excuse me, my prince. Word has gone out that y-you are missing from the Red Keep. It is my duty to inform the captain of your presence here.” The sentry replied pathetically. 

“Quiet.” Daemon said dangerously. He then handed the sentry five golden dragons for his silence.

“I see, hear, and know nothing, my prince. I thank you.” The sentry straightened up and unlocked the door. The sentry then returned to his post and resumed his watch, allowing the prince entry.

What cannot be solved with violence, can be solved with the right amount of gold.

Daemon wore his shroud again, as to avoid identification from dragonkeepers and the sparse patrols inside. The Rogue Prince took a moment to appreciate his surroundings. The Dragonpit was gigantic - the ceiling being higher than that of the Great Hall. It was considered a breathtaking sight for many. The base and floor was built with sturdy stone and now filled with sand. The sandpit was lined with auditorium seats on its left and right in the case of an announcement or event. The many arcades along the base of the building supported the structure for the dome and provided pathways in, out, and around the dragonpit. The dome itself was filled with intertwined ribs which formed polygons, supporting the structure and leaving an open apex. The hole in the apex allowed light to illuminate the center of the pit, though there was enough light entering from the many upper arcades that functioned as both support to the structure and windows for ventilation and light. 

Only Valyrians are capable of such feats. It was my house that brought unity to the Seven Kingdoms. We brought order, peace, and stability to this continent of barbarians. Today, I will follow in the footsteps of my ancestors. My family will be forced to acknowledge my worth and my might as a dragonrider.

The floor itself had many wide subterranean entrances. The builders had dug a cavern system into the hill for the dragons to live in. Daemon avoided the stairs near the podium as he knew that there would be much traffic there. The more people he ran into, the higher the chance of getting caught. He instead walked towards one of the nearby stairwells that led further down into the cavern. He descended the steps quickly, eager to tame a worthy dragon. 

Daemon had not realized how difficult navigation of an unknown area could be. It was a maze. The stone walls had slowly disappeared and blackstone walls, carved out of the hill itself, replaced the familiar architecture. He had stolen a mounted torch, using the light to find his way to the dragons. He could hear roars and growls of the many dragons in the distance. He traveled towards the noises in the hopes to find a riderless dragon.

He had been in the caverns for ten minutes before he ran into his first dragon. He had followed the loudest noise and entered a large, wide cavern. The sand in the cavern was marked by large footsteps. Daemon looked to each corner of the rectangular cavern; he had entered from one of the many smaller paths at the left side of the space. He saw no dragon at the far end of the room. He deduced that the dragon must either be somewhere else or to his side. He looked left… and then right. 

On his right was a large dragon. It had bronze scales and tan wings. The dragon’s head was adorned with two large spines on its chin and horns on the posterior of his long protruding jaw. It also had two large horizontal horns behind its eyes. Its wings were wide and tan, resting beside its scaly armoured torso. The dragon’s orange eyes turned to him, curious as to who this new visitor may be. 

Vermithor, the Bronze Fury.

Vermithor raised his head and looked to Daemon, inspecting him. Daemon wanted to test the commands he had learned from his father and the dragonkeepers.

“Vermithor, demās!” Daemon commanded. 

A low guttural sound crept up from the dragon’s throat. It began growling.

“Lykirī, Vermithor! Demās!” Daemon commanded yet again.

Daemon could not understand… Vermithor was familiar with men and was not uncomfortable around them. Despite that, it clearly did not like him. Vermithor roared and raised its head, spewing dragonfire into the open air and nearby walls. It was time for Daemon to go, to run as fast as possible; Vermithor deemed his commands an insult and threatened to immolate him if he kept up his antics.

Daemon had decided to calmly retreat whence he came. He reentered the cavern passes, taking different and unfamiliar routes as he continued. Eventually he found his way to yet another large rectangular cavern. There were marks of dragonfyre along the walls of the cavern. Most of the sand that occupied the now-bare center had been moved to a corner. 

The Prince gazed at the chained dragon in the center. It was wide awake and silent. Daemon entered the cavern, his feet initially shuffled in the sand until he reached the bare stone. This dragon was not as large as Vermithor but it was certainly big enough to command respect… or fear. It was red, and had two small horns behind its eyes. Its chin and jaw were adorned with a spiky beard. It had hundreds of small razor-sharp teeth. The dragon was unusually long, lean, and sleek compared to its fellow dragons. 

This was Prince Aemon Targaryen’s dragon: the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes.

Daemon felt his instincts intensify, eagerly ushering him to approach the dragon. He followed them. In response to his approach, Caraxes raised its neck, sounding a low growl. 

“Caraxes, dohaerās!” Daemon shouted as he maintained eye contact with the imposing beast. Caraxes was appraising him, looking for any sign of weakness or fear unworthy of a dragonrider.

Caraxes roared loudly, so loud that it could be heard all around the Dragonpit. The intensity of the soundwave alone shook the cavern around them, surely alerting all the guards and dragonkeepers of his presence. 

“Lykiri, Caraxes! Dohaerās!”

Caraxes intensified its efforts to ward off Daemon. It was now growling loudly, feigning lunges towards the white-haired human in front of it. 

Daemon stood still, stone-faced and unafraid of Caraxes’ tests. He mustered all his rage into the next command, seeking to tame the dragon right then and there.

“DOHAERĀS!”

The dragon ceased its growl and peered at the young prince. Caraxes then lowered its head on the sand and relaxed. Daemon laid his hand on the dragon’s snout and decided to try riding the beast. Unfortunately for Daemon, he had not even climbed Caraxes yet when he heard frantic shouts from the nearby cavern passes. The Dragonkeepers had finally determined the presence of a trespasser and had pinpointed his location. Caraxes pulled away quickly and roared again, prompting Daemon to back off. The dragon had been startled and was no longer in a mood for listening. Daemon gazed at the furious dragon, its mouth emitting a red-orange light.

Dragonfyre!

“Gods fuck this day!” Daemon screamed as he sprinted out of the cavern, narrowly avoiding the burning flames of Caraxes. He took the largest paths possible, hoping to speedily exit the dragonpit and make it back to the carriage. He took a left, a right, then another two lefts, and eventually found a stairway to climb out of. He slowly and carefully walked up the steps, light finally shining on him from the outside. He was near the surface; he would not get caught.

He was caught. Targaryen guards had awaited him just above the steps, cutting off his escape route. His journey proved to be a failure; he had not just failed to tame the damn dragon; he even pissed it off. 

Eventually, the Rogue Prince was put into irons, by the orders of King Jaehaerys himself. Daemon however, did make sure to inform the guards of his companions. In the hopes of avoiding the Prince’s ire, the captain-of-the-guard allowed Mylenda and Rosey to accompany him in his royal carriage back to the Red Keep. 

While Mylenda and Rosey were elated by the splendor of said carriage, Daemon was infuriated. A prince, chained, like some lowly prisoner. It could not be, a man of his stature could not be put into irons. Never. 

I’ll make you regret this, you old bastard.