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At the mouth of Blackwater Bay, Dragonstone greeted any who wished to sail for the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.
Settled millennia prior by the dragonlords of Valyria, the isle was once considered one of the last true bastions of Valyrian culture—especially since the Doom. Though immediately after the Fall of Valyria that had proven true, for the Targaryens refused to relinquish their ties to the culture struck from the living world, by the time Aegon the Conqueror had succeeded his father as Lord of Dragonstone, they had already assimilated to parts of Westerosi culture, including male primogeniture.
The Ānogens Targārien made way for House Targaryen, and nothing was ever the same again.
These days Claw Isle was far more considered a home of Valyrian culture because while it had no grand castle created by the magicks of fire and blood, it did have many an artefact once belonging to the freeholder lines and was home to the last Valyrian high temple beyond the Black Walls of Volantis.
Aegon the Conqueror had believed in nothing, though he still honoured the Fourteen Fires. At the same time, Visenya had been deeply devout, praying to Vhagar in matters of war and Syrax for fertility, while Rhaenys had been the sole of the three to commence following the Faith of the Seven. Her son would be the same, though not overly devout. Slowly but steadily the Targaryens warped themselves into a strange and horrifying hybrid of Valyrian and Andal culture—two cultures that should never be mixed.
Of the sons and daughters of the former Freehold in the Seven Kingdoms—both high nobility or minor gentry—only the Celtigars still followed the teachings of the Fourteen Fires and prayed to their ancestral gods as a family and house. Many of the Velaryons had gone the way of the Targaryens and had assimilated into Westerosi and Andal culture.
Hailing from a minor branch of House Velaryon before becoming Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark, Lord Corlys Velaryon worshipped the Merling King—Vermax—though he honoured the other gods of the pantheon as well. While his wife was an adherent of the Faith, if nominally, the Sea Snake’s daughter had taken after her father. If rumours were correct, she had chosen Gaelithox, the Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire and the Master of Flame and Shadow as her tributary deity.
Daemon had been the first Targaryen since Visenya to pray to the Fourteen, for despite his cursed Valyrian wedding to Alys Harroway, Maegor had not been a true adherent to their ancestral gods, not having chosen a patron god. The Rogue Prince, much like Visenya, had chosen Vhagar, the Dark Queen, and Valyrian Goddess of War, Battle Strategy, Conquest and Victory—coincidentally the sister-wife of the god whom his beloved mount had been named for.
One of the greater schisms between Viserys and Daemon had been created because of the latter’s insistence that his niece knew the ways of old, including their gods. Both the King and Queen had been deeply insulted, especially the latter, who was deeply devout, as many Arryns were.
Rhaenyra had taken to the stories of Old Valyria with great gusto, and upon her four and tenth name day the year before, had selected Meraxes, the White Flame, Valyrian Goddess of Law, Order, Justice and Governance, twin sister of Caraxes and sister-wife of Tessarion, as her tributary goddess.
When the small council had caught wind of the king’s sole living child having followed her uncle and presumptive heir to the Iron Throne in worshipping foreign deities, the Hand, the Grand Maester and the Lord Commander had loudly protested. Though a devout man himself, the Master of Coin had defended the princess, as had the Master of Laws, who cited the law that all were free to worship their gods—he, himself, was a follower of the Old Gods.
Not wholly unsurprisingly for he was an adherent of the Valyrian religion himself, it had been Lord Corlys who had been the princess’s loudest defender.
Ser Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Runciter and Lord Commander Redwyne had been forced to capitulate and the matter had been closed—though only formally. His niece had confided in him how her lady-in-waiting, the mousy Hightower girl that always followed her around and refused to look Daemon in the eyes, had been asking Rhaenyra to join her at the royal sept and had been reciting scripture more often, no doubt at the behest of her cunt father.
Prince Daemon Targaryen truly despised his brother’s Hand. The Reachman was a manipulative cunt, who would be the downfall of his brother’s reign if Viserys was not careful.
The first thing Daemon did upon arriving on Dragonstone was to oust all of the man’s influence. When the senior man-at-arms, Ser Denys Brooke, and his son, Ser Alfred, both protested their dismissal, stating that they had been appointed by the Hand of the King and that the prince had no authority on Dragonstone, Daemon had killed them both, as well as their men. After which, he granted their widows and children each thirty gold dragons to start their lives anew, which all had gladly accepted. The Broome widows had even thanked him, which, by the men’s demeanour before he slew them, was no true shock to Daemon.
The people of the mainland considered Dragonstone a cursed isle—its castle had been moulded by way of the ancient magicks of fire and blood, and its black stone was disconcerting to many. Not to Daemon though—he adored Dragonstone, preferring it over the Red Keep and King’s Landing.
If he had been king, he would have turned the large isle into a true Valyrian capital—rebuilding and repopulating its many abandoned villages, perhaps even building a city on its shores. Alas, he was not king and never would be.
If he was honest with himself, Daemon did not truly mind it. The grievances he had against his brother were not so because he was displaced for Rhaenyra—he could agree with going back to their ancient inheritance practices—but rather because of his brother’s disloyalty and hypocrisy. Viserys and their father had usurped Rhaenys by claiming the man has a superior right to inherit, but now he was changing his tune, all at the behest of some limp-dicked Reachman.
If Daemon did not know better, he would have believed his brother and his Hand to be secret lovers, with how Viserys was loyal to the man.
“My prince?” one of the Gold Cloaks he had brought with him caught his attention, “A ship from King’s Landing has arrived.”
Daemon narrowed his eyes, “Who?”
“Larys Strong, Prince-Commander.”
Daemon smiled, “Bring him here.”
The man did as he was bid—scurrying off and following his patron’s orders.
Larys Strong was an unexpected development before his formal exile. The second son of the Master of Laws had been born with a mutilated and twisted foot, earning himself the insulting moniker the Clubfoot.
One day while he was passing through the Red Keep, he came across Lord Stafford Tarbeck, the young Lord of Tarbeck Hall, and his minions, mocking the man in the gardens. Though he had only sat there with a straight face, Daemon saw through the man’s impassive demeanour and had intervened.
Rather than use violence, the Rogue Prince had cut the Westerlander with his words—reminding him that he had famously fucked his mother and married elder sister both, which is why Daemon had been let go from his post as Master of Laws in 105 AC. Lord Stafford had bristled but had done nothing more than splutter with indignation, not even when Daemon had degraded him even further by saying that even with two working feet, he was barely capable of defending himself.
They had scattered and Daemon and Larys had been left alone. The then heir to the Iron Throne had told the crippled man to never allow anyone to mock him like that ever again. When Larys had asked why he cared, he replied that he did not and had left him alone in the gardens.
A fortnight later, Larys had approached him and thanked him. He admitted to resenting his brother when he used violence to defend him—how it made him feel emasculated. The Riverman was an odd one but Daemon had grown fond of him nonetheless. Once in a while he even apprised him of a rumour he heard while spending time with the women of the Red Keep, like how the new Grand Maester had brought with him his paramour from the Oldtown—a lowborn Dornishwoman.
“My prince,” the city watchman had returned, “Lord Larys Strong.”
Larys walked in with his customary cane tapping the stone floor, “My prince, I come bearing news from the capital.”
“Please sit, my friend,” Daemon gestured to the chair before him, “Donal, could you ask one of the maids to bring us some food and drinks? It is almost time for our midday meal. Also, tell Mysaria, I shall not return before supper.”
“Do not tell her I am here,” Larys chimed in.
Daemon froze and narrowed his eyes before telling Ser Donal to do as he was bid.
After the door closes behind his loyal guard, the Clubfoot leaned forward, “None can overhear us?”
“No,” Daemon assured him, “There is no other access,” he lied but his new friend did not need to know about the secret stone chamber behind the eastern wall, where House Targaryen had its ceremonial chamber and hid its secret artefacts. To be honest, not even Viserys knew about it, and Daemon had only found out about it quite by accident three moons prior.
Though Larys seemed hesitant, he eventually confided in him, “The White Worm is the one to have betrayed you to Ser Otto. She spies on you for him. Even now.”
Daemon’s jaw tightened.
“She is the one to have told him about the heir for a day comment, warping it to suit the Hand’s purposes.”
The Rogue Prince looked away, feeling uncomfortable. For almost a decade Mysaria had been by his side—his longest lover. To have been betrayed by a woman whom he had taken with him on his dragon’s back was deeply painful. He had trusted her.
“Why?”
“Why does a whore do what she does?” the second son replied, “For coin, I presume.”
Daemon hummed, “Is that all?”
Larys smirked, “No, my prince. My friends in the Red Keep have told me how the King has been receiving a visitor in his chambers almost every eve.”
“Who?” he wondered, “I presume it is someone not expected to join him in his chambers? So, no Otto or Mellos?”
“No, it is not. She is unwed and should probably not spend her eves with a widowed man—unchaperoned, no less.”
The emphasis on the visitor’s gender was enough for Daemon to be intrigued, though he felt a sense of dread wash over him as well, for he had an inkling where this was going and did not like it, “Who?”
“Lady Alicent Hightower.”
Daemon growled while in the distance Caraxes felt his emotions and roared.
“At least four days every sennight they spend the eve together,” his spy elaborated.
“Does Rhaenyra know?” though he knew the answer already.
“No, I presume not,” Larys replied, “As both girls are still spending their days together, and I doubt the princess would welcome news of her handmaiden’s treachery.”
“Ser Otto whoring out his daughter,” Daemon snorted, “That man is truly willing to do anything to keep close to the Iron Throne.”
Larys nodded, agreeing with him, “Is there something you wish for me to do? I have friends in the kitchens. I could have them slip moon tea into her drinks to ensure no bastards are born.”
“Yes,” the prince nodded, “Do it.”
“Anything else?”
“How long?” Daemon asked, “When was the first time she visited my brother in his chambers?”
Larys answered truthfully, though he seemed unsettled, “The night of Queen’s Aemma funeral.”
Daemon gripped the armrest of his chair so tightly, that it seemed as if it would splinter beneath his hands.
“I could also take more…,” Larys licked his lips, “…permanent measures against the Hand and his daughter?”
For a count, Daemon pondered accepting his offer but then a better idea popped into his head, “No, I have a better idea,” the smirk on his lips must have been positively diabolical because even the Clubfoot looked taken aback, “You surround yourself with competent men, I have heard, no? Men who can deliver things to me—difficult things to get?”
“Yes, my prince,” the second son seemed confused.
“I will write you a letter,” Daemon expounded, “I need you to steal something for me, and leave a letter behind.”
“Why?”
“Because I need the king to know it was me.”
───※ ·♛· ※───
“He has gone too far, Your Grace,” his loyal Hand had dismissed everyone from the small council chambers upon the dragonkeeper’s dire news, “Prince Daemon means to mock you before all. This wedding is an abomination! An affront to the Gods! Not to mention a dire stain on your reign and your house!”
Though he could understand where Otto came from, Viserys thought that was just a tad too far, “Let us not overreact. My brother is insulted at my decision to name Rhaenyra my heir and is merely lashing out,” the king was sure of it, “This Lady Mysaria is of Lysene blood, no?” he changed the subject.
His Hand seemed confused at the sudden pivot, “Yes,” he replied, “Or at least that is what my informants have told me.”
“Does she resemble the Rhoynish Lysene or the Valyrian Lysene,” Viserys asked.
“Rhoynish, Your Grace,” Ser Otto replied.
Viserys laughed, “My brother is many things: brash, stubborn and violent, but he is above all a true believer in the ways of Old Valyria. He would never wed anyone that does not look Valyrian.”
“What of Lady Rhea?” he rightfully pointed out.
“Lady Rhea was foisted upon my brother,” the king said, “It was Queen Alysanne who said the vows in front of the Septon and the heart tree both because my brother refused. Like you have told me before, rumours are that he had refused to bed her.”
Otto seemed unconvinced, “Still…”
“Offer him an annulment,” Viserys ordered, “Daemon is dangerous and not particularly fond of you. The last thing we need is for him to lash out at you. An annulment will temper his fury.”
“Your Grace, I must protest,” his Hand replied with reddened cheeks, “To reward him after what he had done would be a folly. I cannot allow this.”
Though he knew his Hand meant well, Viserys was a tad annoyed for that was the second time in less than an hour that he could not allow his king to do something, “And yet, it is necessary.”
“The Vale, Your Grace,” Otto replied, looking for ways to dissuade him from offering Daemon that which he has desired for a decade-and-a-half, “Such an insult would be too grave for them.”
“They will understand, Otto. If needed I shall offer them a lowering of their tithes for a decade as recompense.”
His Hand had resigned himself to his orders, “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Viserys sighed, “I had Ser Harrold summon a detachment of household knights to accompany you and the Grand Maester on your journey to Dragonstone. Ser Harrold will join you as well, as will Ser Criston.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Be careful, Otto,” Viserys grabbed his good friend’s arm, “My brother loves me, and I know he would never harm me, but he despises you. Do not, I repeat, do not anger him. He has a Valyrian steel sword, a small army and a war dragon at his back. You would not survive.”
His Hand nodded solemnly, “I shall not fail you, my king.”
Viserys smiled at the loyal man—undeserving of his brother’s enmity, “You never have. I am certain you shall not start now.”
───※ ·♛· ※───
A storm brewed in her heart and mind both, and it was clear to see to all who came across Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the newly-minted Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne. Lords, ladies, and servants alike moved out of her way as she strode through the halls of the Red Keep—thunder in her eyes and a sneer on her lips.
Six moons prior, Rhaenyra had succeeded her uncle, who had been her father’s presumptive heir for nine years, and was formally named her father’s heir apparent and was granted the title Princess of Dragonstone—going against the precedent set by King Jaehaerys and later the Great Council. Though the lords and ladies of the realm had knelt to her, Rhaenyra knew that some had felt that her uncle’s demotion had been petty and unfair, and while she did not entirely disagree with them, she did feel as if they were discounting who she was a person and that as the king’s sole child, she had as much a claim, if not a greater claim to the heirship as her beloved uncle.
That said, she understood Daemon’s rage. For nine years, Daemon was her father’s sword and shield, as well as for the two years before. Not to mention the pivotal role he played in Viserys I being named heir at the Great Council.
When Lord Strong had mentioned that Prince Daemon was a renowned warrior with a war dragon, who might very well become a threat in time, her father had laughed the Master of Laws’ comments away.
Sadly enough, not for the same reasons as she had, for while Rhaenyra knew her uncle would never spill the blood of the dragon for he considered it too precious, her father had declared that not a single lord of the realm would side with his brother, which the Hand had vehemently agreed with.
Lord Beesbury had been aghast at their reasoning, claiming that it mattered not if any lords sided with Daemon for Aegon had conquered the Seven Kingdoms with three dragons and a few thousand men, and had done so with great ease. The prince had proven in the past that he could rally armies, as the sole reason King Viserys sat the throne right now was because Daemon had rallied an army in his defence when Lord Corlys readied his armada.
Her father had nearly spat with anger, claiming the lords and ladies of the realm chose him, and that it was not because of some army of cutthroats and men-at-arms. Ser Otto had agreed, proclaiming that the prince’s actions in the lead-up to the Great Council had only stoked the fires, rather than better King Viserys’ claim.
What had come next had almost caused great conflict with Driftmark for Lord Corlys put the Hand in his place by choosing honesty over arse-kissing, and claiming that if not for Prince Daemon raising an army for his brother, the Velaryon Fleet would have sailed to the capital and asserted Rhaenys’ rights by force if need be.
The loud claim that Daemon was the sole reason Viserys was king—and remained king—had caused a shouting match of unseen proportions. Sides were picked—Ser Otto and the Grand Maester siding with her father, and Lord Beesbury siding with Lord Corlys. Predictably, it had been Lord Strong who was the voice of reason, urging for calmness and reason to prevail.
A sneering Hand had declared the Sea Snake’s words treason, and Lord Corlys had smugly replied that House Velaryon had the greatest fleet in the known world, more gold than the Crown, and two dragons.
All had been silenced.
To Rhaenyra it had been painful to hear just how far her house had fallen. So much so that a lesser Valyrian house now had equal the dragons as they. Though the argument had ceased there—at a tense standstill—none had forgotten the Sea Snake’s words, least of all the King and his Hand.
While they saw it as an overt threat, the Princess of Dragonstone saw it for what it truly was—a manipulation. For why not tie the loose end that was House Velaryon to the Crown by wedding their sole daughter, a future dragonrider herself?
Rhaenyra would have applauded the man’s great gamesmanship if not for how it would impact her own position at court, for she knew that if her father ever had a son with her young cousin, the Lord of the Tides would insist he succeed her father, not she.
No, her father could not be allowed to wed Lady Laena Velaryon. Even though the princess truly adored her young cousin—the threat it would pose to her heirship would be too great.
To be honest, what she truly needed was her uncle, who was too busy throwing a temper tantrum at her seat.
“Princess Rhaenyra,” her cousin stood upon a balcony, overlooking the gardens, where her daughter sat below, taking her lessons with one of the septas. Lady Laena was a wild girl, she took after Rhaenyra in that way. Though she adored her dresses, she loved roughhousing with her younger twin brother just as much.
Ser Criston, her new sworn shield, unsheathed his sword.
“Sheathe your steel, ser,” Rhaenyra commanded, “It is my cousin,” the princess of Dragonstone joined Princess Rhaenys.
“You were deeply angry when the council was informed of your uncle’s actions, my husband told me,” the Queen That Never Was looked at her—hair as dark as night with only a single streak of platinum denoting her Targaryen blood, besides her stunning eyes, of course.
“He steals the egg meant for my brother and seizes command of my isle,” Rhaenyra snorted, “Did you expect me to be overjoyed?”
“Are you telling me that you don’t understand Daemon’s anger?” her cousin queried, raising her eyebrow at her, “He is the one who made you father king by opposing my superior claim, cementing that men inherit over women, and your father spat in his face once more.”
“I would expect you to understand my claim better than any,” Rhaenyra pointed out, “This is a chance to right the errors of the past.”
“Righting the errors of the past is impossible for my crown was stolen from me.”
Rhaenyra blushed, “I misspoke, cousin, my apologies. I merely meant to say that we could ensure that what happened before,” the to you unspoken, “will never happen again.”
“To have your uncle as an enemy is a dangerous position to be in,” Rhaenys replied, “Trust me, I know.”
“My uncle loves me,” the Princess of Dragonstone answered defensively.
Rhaenys smiled, “That he does.”
Rhaenyra did not know how to respond.
“He is exceptionally fond of you,” the Lady of Driftmark elaborated, “Though he always sends Laena and Laenor gifts from his travels, none have ever been quite as extravagant as those he sends you.”
The young princess grew bright red, uncomfortable with where this was going.
“You seem quite fond of him as well, no?”
‘Did she know?’ Rhaenyra wondered, “My uncle is a great man, how could I not be?”
For a few seconds, her cousin stared at her before smiling and looking away, “Corlys wants to wed Laena to your father.”
Rhaenyra snorted, “I know. Lord Corlys is not known for his subtlety.”
Rhaenys raised her eyebrows at her, “And yet, the king and council did not pick up on his subtleties,” she pointed out.
“That is because my father is a blind fool,” Rhaenyra snorted, “Letting himself be led by his Hand.”
“Careful, cousin,” Rhaenys looked at the sworn shield at her back, “Such words might be considered treason by some and the walls of the Red Keep have ears.”
The heir to the Iron Throne was no fool, for while she had chosen Ser Criston herself, lifting him from hedge knight to Kingsguard, he had taken vows to honour her father, The King, and keep his secrets, not hers, “I am merely speaking truth.”
Her cousin hummed before changing the course of the conversation, “Would such a match bother you?”
Rhaenyra wondered whether she should tell the truth, “Yes, of course. I would prefer for our houses not to wage war upon each other.”
Though she feigned surprise, Rhaenyra could see right through Princess Rhaenys, “War? What do you mean?”
“Are you going to tell me that Lord Corlys would not wish for a grandson of his to ascend the throne over me, should Laena give my father a son?”
“Perhaps it will not come to that,” the Lady of Driftmark gave her a non-answer, “Nonetheless, even if Laena were not to wed your father,” Rhaenyra heard between the lines—the princess was not fond of such a match herself, “You need a strong husband of your own. Someone who could defend your claim and would not attempt to usurp the Targaryen dynasty.”
“Such a man does not…,” Rhaenyra’s words trailed off, “Thank you, cousin.”
As Rhaenyra swiftly turned around and speed-walked toward her chambers—a risky idea forming in her mind—her cousin shouted behind her, “Do give him my regards, will you?!”
───※ ·♛· ※───
“Welcome to Dragonstone, Otto,” Daemon smirked with at his back three dozen heavily armed men.
“Your occupation of this island is at an end,” the Hand sounded as pompous as ever, “You're to relinquish the dragon's egg, disband your army, banish your whore, and leave Dragonstone by order of His Grace King Viserys.”
“Where is the King? I don't see him,” Daemon replied, ignoring the remainder of his words.
“His Grace would never lower himself to entertain such a mummer's farce,” the Hand tried to rattle him.
His eyes fell on the knight who had defeated him at the Heir’s Tourney, only six moons prior, “Ser Crispin, wasn't it?”
“Ser Criston Cole, my Prince.”
“Yes, apologies. I couldn't recall,” Daemon lied—the sting of defeat still lingered. While he had not minded being struck off his horse, the subsequent defeat during the duel had been painful for he had only lost because of his own arrogance.
“Perhaps my Prince recalls when I knocked him off his horse,” the new Kingsguard replied.
The Rogue Prince smiled for it was a fine answer, “Very good.”
“This is a truly pathetic show, Daemon,” the Hand once more spoke up, “Are you so desperate for the King's attention that you've resorted to skulking about like a common cutpurse?”
“I'm simply keeping with the traditions of my house, the same as my brother did for his heir.”
“Those traditions are for the trueborn children of royalty, not for bastards fathered on a common whore.”
Daemon could not bring himself to proclaim that Mysaria was to be his wife—the sting of betrayal still felt deeply, “I care little for what you believe is proper, Otto. My decision has been made.
“This is an abomination. With every breath you soil your name, your house, and your brother's reign.”
“My brother has a reign only because I allow it,” Daemon sneered, “His reign could end with just a swift flight to King’s Landing.”
Otto gaped at him, clearly not expecting his answer. Unclear of what to do, the Hand of the King turned to the City Watchmen at Daemon’s back, “And what of you, men of the City Watch? Aiding the Prince in his treason?”
“The King made me their commander. They are loyal to me,” Daemon pointed out, “You've come for the egg. Here it is,” he held the thieved object out before him.
“Are you mad? You'd never survive this.”
“Well, happily, neither would you,” the Rogue Prince mocked his foe.
“To choose violence, here, is to declare war against your King.”
“Wonderful,” Daemon sneered.
“Even if it ends in the death of your unborn child and its mother?”
“Sure,” Daemon shrugged his shoulders.
“For someone who has proclaimed his wish to wed the mother of his unborn child, you seem to be quite uncaring of what happens to her,” Ser Otto was catching on that something was not right, “You invited the king to your wedding and yet, here you are, endangering the woman you claim to love.”
“Wedding?” Daemon guffawed, “In what world do you think I, a prince of the blood and one of the last dragonriders alive, would ever wed her?”
At his back, Mysaria reacted at long last, no doubt shocked at his harsh words.
“I could look past her chosen profession—after all, I did employ her for the past decade and I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't—but her alliance with you is even a tad too distasteful even for me,” Daemon sneered, his disgust clear to all.
The Hand looked gobsmacked, and Daemon was certain if he had looked backwards, Mysaria’s face would be the same as Otto’s.
“No, Otto, I have no intention of wedding your little spy, nor do I plan on putting a baby in her womb.”
Ser Otto Hightower seemed to gather he had been played for a fool, “Good. Hand over the—
“Odd, no?” Daemon smirked, “How you heard a rumour of me wishing to wed the White Worm and two days later a dragonkeeper comes bearing news that I stole a dragon egg.”
Otto blanched, finally realizing he had fallen into a trap, “Like I said before, to harm us would be to declare war on your brother, your King. You would never survive,” his words would have been more convincing if he had not stuttered whilst uttering them.
“Excellent,” Daemon replied, “The Conquerors landed on the shores of the Blackwater with ten thousand men at their backs, and three dragons in the air. I am certain I shall have enough with one.”
“Daemon…,” Mysaria spoke for the first time, “Please…”
Daemon switched to Bastard Valyrian, more precisely the version spoken in the lands of the Weeping Daughter, “Ao vēttan aōha iderennon. Issa gaomagon [You made your choice. It is done].”
Daemon held out the egg toward Maester Gerardys, who promptly took it in his arms and scuttered back behind the three dozen gold cloaks Daemon had summoned—hundreds more in the villages below and the keep above.
The Rogue Prince raised his sword once more.
Ser Otto Hightower finally realized the predicament they were in, “The prince is a traitor to the Crown! Defend us!”
Only the new Lord Commander seemed hesitant. Ser Criston Cole seemed almost gleeful at the prospect of crossing steel with him, not knowing it would never come to that.
Daemon opened the bond in his mind and tugged on its string. The smirk on his face must have been devilish for Otto looked even more frightened.
The shrill shriek had all fall back—the Blood Wyrm had arrived, climbing over the mountainside, slithering into view of all.
“Today, you die, Otto,” Daemon said, “You all die, but first...”
With a sudden lunge to the side, the Rogue Prince stood before his long-time love—Dark Sister planted deep in her chest.
The woman known as the White Worm had tears in her eyes as she whispered, “Why?”
Daemon looked her in the eye and allowed himself to feel some grief for he did love her, even if not in the way Mysaria had wished, “Goodbye.”
All were frozen and none spoke as the Rogue Prince held his now dead lover.
Despite his pain at what he had to do, Daemon steeled his heart and threw the White Worm’s corpse off the bridge, into the icy water below—giving her a water burial.
The terror on Otto’s face was glorious to behold.
“The Hightower shall not stand for this,” the Hand threatened, “They will light the beacon green!”
“Good, that’s exactly what I want,” Daemon admitted, “Aegon should have followed Visenya’s advice and burned that foul city to the ground.”
Daemon heard his mount behind him, though it was the men in front of him retreating more and more that showed him that the Blood Wyrm was approaching.
A sound to his left had Daemon turn his head, ‘Rhaenyra?’ a silent thrill, which the Rogue Prince recognized as belonging to his niece’s dragon.
Through the mist, Syrax came forth and Daemon only barely managed to contain his smile, ‘Just on time,’ did he know his niece or did he know his niece?
The royal envoy seemed less overjoyed, with Ser Otto’s face having soured.
Daemon just waited as his niece disembarked and walked past the men sent by her father.
“What are you doing here, Princess?” the snake dared to demand of his niece.
“Preventing bloodshed.”
“Ser Criston, please escort the Princess to safety,” the Hand tried to command the new white cloak but Rhaenyra ignored them both, walking past them.
“Take care not to startle Syrax, my lords. She's rather protective of me.”
Daemon felt a sudden fondness as his niece stood before him, “Dārilaros [princess].”
“Kepus [uncle],” she replied, trying to keep her customary fondness from her voice but failing, “Kepa ñuha yne Zaldrīzdōro Dārilaroso brōstas. Kesy uglaesā luon sombāzmion ñuhon issa, kepus [My father named me Princess of Dragonstone. That is my castle you’re living in, uncle].”
“Let us speak in the Common Tongue, niece, we do not wish for our dear guests to be unable to understand us, do we?”
His niece seemed taken aback for they had always preferred the dulcet tones of High Valyrian over the language spoken by the Andals whilst conversing amongst each other.
“You know,” Daemon started, “I had a visitor a few fortnights ago. He is why I commenced this entire mummers’ show.”
Rhaenyra seemed confused, as did Otto—his men still stood beside him with their swords unsheathed.
“He told me that your father has been receiving a visitor in his chambers for the past few moons,” Daemon watched how Otto blanched, “He also told me of Mysaria's betrayal.”
The Princess of Dragonstone's nostrils flared as she narrowed her eyes, “Where is your bride-to-be, uncle?” ignoring the first part of his confession for now.
“Ah, you missed quite the show, Rhaenyra,” Daemon laughed, “Mysaria was a spy for our dear Lord Hand.”
Rhaenyra looked back at Ser Otto with a gaze hotter than the fiercest dragon’s flames, “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Daemon answered with false solemnity, “Of course, you understand that such betrayal could not stand.”
Rhaenyra looked back at him, “What did you do?”
“I may have killed her and thrown her off this very bridge,” Daemon’s pretend remorse was almost comical, “You understand, I am sure.”
“Why would I understand?” his niece wondered.
“Well, you, yourself, have been faced with betrayal from someone you love.”
Confusion reigned within his niece’s mind—her expression showing it all, “I do not understand.”
Otto tried to save his hide, “This is enough,” he turned to the Lord Commander, “Detain the prince.”
“Quiet!” Rhaenyra snapped and even the Hand looked taken aback.
Daemon sniggered.
“Answer me, Daemon,” Rhaenyra rarely used his given name, preferring kepus or uncle.
“Well, young Lady Alicent, of course,” the Rogue Prince replied, “She has been visiting your father’s bedchambers several eves a sennight for the past half-year.”
Daemon wished to have been able to spare his niece this heartbreak but he knew that the short pain was better than the long pain—which would end in displacement or usurpation, he was sure.
“The Prince lies,” the Hand tried.
“Do I?” Daemon mocked the man, “What say you, Harrold? You have been standing guard outside the king’s chambers since Ser Ryam fell ill.”
The Lord Commander looked uncomfortable.
“Of course, you are to keep the king’s secrets,” Daemon said, “But what if keeping those secrets could lead to danger down the road.”
“What do you mean?” Rhaenyra asked.
Daemon loved his niece, but she had been sheltered by her parents—as their sole living child, Daemon could understand their fear of anything befalling her, but they had done her a great disservice, “Well, do you think it a coincidence that the Hand’s daughter spends her evenings with your father, alone in his chamber. A widowed man, no less. Without a chaperone.”
“Lies!” Otto shouted but the prince and princess ignored him.
“How long?” his niece asked.
Daemon grabbed her face, softly stroking her cheek and peering into her eyes, “Since your mother’s funeral.”
Rhaenyra closed her eyes to stop the tears from falling.
“He is lying, princess,” the Hand tried to salvage his plans, “Daemon is trying to turn you against your father and my daughter both.”
“Prince Daemon,” Rhaenyra snapped, “You will address my uncle by his title or you will burn,” she threatened the man, who blanched.
Rhaenyra licked her lips and looked past the Hand toward her former sworn shield, “Ser Harrold, are my uncle’s words true?”
“You Grace, I have sworn vows to keep my king’s secrets,” he responded quickly.
“The Hand wishes for my brother to despoil his daughter, so he would feel honour-bound to wed her,” Daemon pointed out, “Not because he wishes my brother happiness, but rather because he wishes for Lady Alicent to have a son,” the which would displace Rhaenyra going unsaid.
“Ser Harrold,” Rhaenyra tried again, “Please.”
The solemn knight nodded in ascent, breaking his vows.
Otto grew bright red, “Nothing untoward is going on, princess. Alicent merely comforted the king in his moments of grief and sorrow by reading to him.”
“A few moments ago, you called my uncle a liar,” Rhaenyra pointed out.
“He was questioning Alicent’s honour, princess,” the Hand was growing more desperate with every passing second, “I had to protect my daughter, who was only doing her duty, as commanded by the Seven and as written within the Seven-Pointed Star.”
“Really,” Daemon laughed, “If I knew the Seven-Pointed Star spoke about whoring out your daughter, I might have read it myself.”
Otto said nothing more and instead just gazed at the princess with a feral desperation.
Daemon put his mouth next to his niece’s ear, softly whispering, “Aōha kepa iksis nākostōbā. Istiti mīsagon Targārien Lentor sir [Your father is weak. We must protect House Targaryen now].”
Rhaenyra looked down and nodded her head, signalling her acceptance of what had to happen.
“Luthor, please escort my niece to the castle,” Daemon ordered.
The behemoth gold cloak nodded before stepping forward, “Please, Your Grace. Follow me.”
Rhaenyra walked toward the man and together they started the trek toward Dragonstone—Syrax taking flight and following closely behind them—ignoring Ser Otto’s impotent shouts, ordering the princess to return to his side.
“Ser Harrold,” Daemon addressed his late father’s good friend, “You will return to the capital and tell the king of what has happened here.”
“What has happened here, my Prince?” the famed swordsman questioned—dread in his eyes.
“The king’s royal envoy has been killed and Rhaenyra has sided with her uncle,” he pointed out.
The knight hesitated for just a count before turning around and marching toward where Syrax had landed, leaving the Hand and his men behind.
They all pointed their swords at Daemon but the prince did not care. Looking Otto straight in the eyes, he told him, “You gambled, Otto, and you lost. I will never allow any half-breed to sit the Iron Throne, nor allow you to steal my niece’s crown for whatever abomination would come forth from your whore daughter’s womb.”
Before the Hand could even respond, Caraxes descended upon them all—condemning them to a horrifying death of dragonfire.
───※ ·♛· ※───
“The three-headed dragons you see carved into wood and sometimes even into stone are a more recent addition—the conquerors inviting stonemasons and woodworkers to Dragonstone for their craft,” her uncle’s voice soothed her, calming her nerves at siding with a rebel—royal or not, “In the times of the old Freehold the dragonriders used no heraldic symbols—no banners, no house words, and no grand titles. All heads of the forty families had the same title: Lord Freeholder. Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys capitulated to Westerosi traditions and customs long before they even commenced the conquest. Aegon inheriting the lordship of Dragonstone, rather than his elder sister, proves that.”
“I like the three-headed dragon,” Rhaenyra pointed out rather lamely.
The two stood in front of the Painted Table, which had been lighted by Maester Gerardys at Daemon’s command only minutes before.
The prince sniggered, “So, do I, but that’s not the point. Fire and blood are our words now, but they were of the Freehold first. We cling to these small remnants of our grand history, but surrendered everything else.”
“To keep the peace.”
“But at what cost,” Daemon replied, “They still resent us. We have changed everything about us, bar wedding our kin and flying our dragons. We have more of their traditions we honour, than those of our own—of our ancient kin.”
Rhaenyra kept quiet, instead just staring at her beloved uncle.
“It is not a coincidence that your father did not turn your maid away,” Daemon sighed, “He is a weak man and he craves love and affection. That nature is what would cause your downfall.”
“My father loves me,” she grew defensive, “He loves you, even when you cut him.”
“I know,” her uncle smiled at her, though it was pained and sad, “He loves us, but not enough to be stronger. Ser Otto Hightower has been manoeuvring himself and his kin closer and closer to the throne. His house profits immensely from contracts with the Crown.”
“Every man has ambitions,” the Princess of Dragonstone pointed out.
“Yes, but not every man sends his daughter to the king’s chambers, risking dishonouring her.”
Rhaenyra glanced away for Daemon was right: Otto was dangerous. It pained her that her friend had betrayed her like that, “We have started a war now.”
“Good,” her uncle smiled before falling to his knee before her, “I, Prince Daemon of the House Targaryen, swear to defend the Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne, and her righteous claim as her father’s named successor.”
Rhaenyra was shocked, croaking out, “Why?”
“You are my niece, and I love you,” Daemon shrugged his shoulders as if it was obvious, before standing from his kneeling position.
“You do not wish to be king yourself?”
“If I wished to be king,” he looked her in the eyes, “I would be king right now.”
Rhaenyra nodded—she believed him.
“It is not your fault, you know,” Daemon said, “Alicent’s treachery. She is her father’s daughter. She did as she was bid. While I do not like what she did, she was but a child doing as her father told her.”
“She crawled into my father’s bed the same day my mother was laid to rest,” the princess snapped at her uncle, “Forgive me if I show little sympathy toward her.”
Daemon was almost amused, “You are a dragon and dragons are rarely forgiving,” he pointed out, “But don’t forget to show compassion to those less fortunate than you. Lady Alicent was mistaken for not coming to you but Otto was always a harsher father than Viserys.”
Rhaenyra hated to admit when her uncle was right, “When did you become the voice of reason?”
“When I was told my favourite niece was being conspired against.”
Rhaenyra snorted most inelegantly, “I am your only niece.”
“There is that,” Daemon deadpanned.
For a while the two just sat at the Painted Table, sipping from their goblets of wine.
Rhaenyra had always loved her uncle most of all, even though he was only rarely in the capital, preferring warring and trading in the East. After his dismissal from the Council in 104 AC, he had stayed away for almost three years, which had broken the Realm’s Delight’s heart.
Her father had eventually sent an envoy to Volantis, where her uncle had been residing, asking for him to return for his niece’s tenth name day celebrations.
He had.
Bringing with him an entire trade fleet of gifts, ranging from rare silks and cloths to jewellery, and even a Dornish sand steed. It had been the greatest day of her life, made even better when Daemon won the tourney celebrating her and crowned her his Queen of Love and Beauty.
“I spoke to your cousin,” Rhaenyra broke the silence.
Daemon raised her eyebrow but said nothing.
“Corlys wishes for Laena to wed my father,” the princess admitted.
The Rogue Prince snorted, “Of course, he does, but I will not allow Viserys to wed Alicent, I can assure you, a union with House Velaryon is even less welcome.”
“She does not seem to want it.”
“My cousin loves her husband,” Daemon sighed, “And the Sea Snake is still insulted by Jaehaerys choosing my father as heir, rather than Rhaenys. He thinks it was because of him.”
“Was it?” Rhaenyra was curious.
“Of course, it was,” Daemon laughed, “At least partially. It was equally as much his fear of potentially awkward whispers of how he became king,” the confusion must have shown because her uncle elaborated, “If Rhaenys had succeeded her father—his heir’s heir—people might have commenced whispering of how he disregarded his own nieces’ superior claims to the Crown. Aegon the Uncrowned was their father’s rightful heir, and he had two daughters—Aerea and Rhaella—and Jaehaerys, with the aid of his mother jumped over both in the line of succession when he succeeded Maegor.”
Rhaenyra hummed, understanding Jaehaerys plight, though not necessarily agreeing with it, “The Conciliator seemed like a complicated man.”
“You say complicated, I say cunt,” Daemon chortled.
Rhaenyra joined her uncle in laughter, bumping her shoulder against his, “Rhaenys claims that I must have a strong husband of my own. Someone to defend me and my claim, and who would not attempt to supplant our dynasty.”
“My cousin is about as subtle as a ram in a porcelain shop,” her uncle grunted, “Did she offer Laenor immediately or did she just use subtext?”
“I don’t think she meant to imply her son,” Rhaenyra admitted.
“Then who…,” her uncle seemed confused.
“You.”
“Rhaenyra…,” he sighed, “You are but a child.”
“I do not mean now!” the Princess of Dragonstone snapped, “One day soon I will be a woman grown and I will need a husband, so why not you?”
Her uncle looked at her with those all-seeing violet eyes, “Viserys will already be cross enough.”
“I do not care,” Rhaenyra was stubborn, “I will not compromise on this. Rhaenys is right. The lords of the realm may have kneeled but they will not take my future ascension laying down, or at least not all of them. I will need a husband who can defend my throne, and who better than you—the finest warrior our house has seen since Aegon and Visenya?”
“If it is protection you seek, you will always have that, Rhaenyra,” her uncle promised her, “I would never let anyone harm you. You know that don’t you?”
Rhaenyra’s hand shook but she still reached out and stroked her uncle’s cheek, “I know. I want this. Yes, you are the finest warrior our house has seen in almost a century, but you are also the man I love above all.”
“Your attempts at flattery are as obvious as the fluttering of your eyelashes.”
“So, what say you uncle? Will you wed me?” Rhaenyra blushed.
Her uncle hesitated for only a count, “Should you still want me when the time has come for you to be wed, then yes.”
Rhaenyra tried to contain her wide smile but failed.
“So, what do we do now?” Rhaenyra wondered.
“Now, we wait,” Daemon shrugged his shoulders, “If I know my brother, he’ll come to us, sooner rather than later.”
“And until then?”
“Perhaps you’d like to see the ceremonial chamber?”
“I did not know Dragonstone had a ceremonial chamber,” its princess admitted.
“Nor did anyone else,” her uncle replied, “I found it by sheer dumb luck.”
Daemon grabbed her hand, pulling her with him, and Rhaenyra smiled, ‘Perhaps she made the right choice after all.’
───※ ·♛· ※───
A short excerpt from The Realm’s Delight and her Rogue Prince: A Storied Tale of House Targaryen’s Greatest Love by Archmaester Brocatus
“The moon during which relations between the Iron Throne and Dragonstone—between King Viserys and his heir The Princess of Dragonstone—were tense is often called the Cold Moon.
In the year twelve and one hundred after the Conquest, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen allied with the man she displaced as heir, Prince Daemon, her father’s brother, against Ser Otto Hightower, her father’s Hand, who wished to displace her in turn with a child born of a union between King Viserys and the Hand’s daughter.
King Viserys I Targaryen had become a widower when his lady wife, Queen Aemma perished in the birthing bed. Afterwards, he had chosen to name his sole living child, Princess Rhaenyra, his heir apparent, thus upending the precedent which had named him Prince of Dragonstone only one and ten years before.
His displaced heir, Prince Daemon, had left behind the capital before swearing allegiance towards his niece and successor, settling on Dragonstone—the heir’s domain. What was originally seen as an insult and open rebellion against his displacement soon proved to be more calculating, for Prince Daemon used his open hostility as a trap to lure to the Targaryen ancestral isle, Ser Otto Hightower and his niece.
Princess Rhaenyra chose the side of her beloved uncle and Prince Daemon slew the Hand—nearly commencing a war between the king and his chosen heir.
It was only through negotiations that conflict was avoided. After a moon of silence between the Capital and Dragonstone, during which the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms hastily announced his engagement to Lady Alicent Hightower, his dead Hand’s sole daughter, King Viserys the Peaceful and his Small Council sailed for his heir’s domains and engaged into peace talks with Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon.
The first decision made was that Princess Rhaenyra would be allowed to wed her uncle upon reaching majority, which was soon followed by the end of the short royal engagement between the King and Lady Alicent Hightower, who would eventually go on to wed Ser Edmure Locke, the future Lord of Oldcastle, with a hefty bridal treasure granted by the Crown.
It is whispered that the reason the king capitulated to all of his heir’s demands was House Velaryon’s open siding with Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon. No doubt caused by the king’s spurning of Lady Laena Velaryon—who would go on to become the first female Hand in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, following in her mother’s footsteps as a trailblazer.
The open office of Hand of the King would be filled by Lord Corlys Velaryon, rumoured to have happened at the behest of the Princess of Dragonstone. His lady wife became the first female small councillor, succeeding the Sea Snake as Master of Ships.
In the aftermath of the Cold Moon, tensions with House Hightower of Oldtown grew, for they wished to see justice for their slain kinsman. When the royal betrothal between Princess Rhaenyra and Princess Daemon was announced, as well as the end of the short engagement between the King and Lady Alicent, the Hightower’s beacon lit up green—calling their banners to war.
Their rebellion would be short-lived for only a fortnight later, Prince Daemon, Princess Rhaenys and Princess Rhaenyra descended upon Oldtown, burning their famed ancestral keep and forcing its lord to kneel. Though House Hightower was brought back into the king’s peace, they were forced to pay three million gold dragons in recompense to the Crown, and Ser Ormund, the heir to Oldtown, was taken as a hostage, as were his wife and children.
After the short rebellion in Oldtown, Prince Daemon would receive command of a royal army to wage war in the Stepstones. Along with Lord Corlys Velaryon, they ended the Triarchy occupation within eight and ten moons—vastly enriching the royal treasury with the spoils taken.
Upon returning victorious from the Stepstones, Prince Daemon would be granted the titles Prince of the Stepstones, Shield of Bloodstone, and Defender of the Narrow Sea. Three moons after his return to the capital, he would wed his niece at the end of lavish fourteen-day celebrations, attended by every great lord of the realm, from North to South.
Princess Rhaenyra would have eight children: Prince Aegon (b. 115 AC), Princess Visenya (b. 117 AC), Princess Aemma (b. 120 AC), Prince Viserys (b. 125 AC), Prince Baelon (b. 125 AC), Princess Rhaena (b. 128 AC), Princess Alyssa (b. 132 AC) and Prince Aemon (b. 134 AC).
The remaining two decades of King Viserys’ reign would be relatively peaceful, with his daughter taking on more tasks of governance upon herself as time passed. The fifth Lord of the Seven Kingdoms died on the ninth day of the third moon of the year thirty-two and one hundred after the Conquest, from the effects of his years-long struggle with flesh-eating consumption.
The lords of the realm kneeled to Queen Rhaenyra I Targaryen, and her consort and co-monarch Daemon I Targaryen, and the Golden Century commenced.