Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.
Chapter 50: The Great Game VI
King's Landing
Daemon 'The Heir' Targaryen
I landed Morghul within the Red Keep's training grounds and leapt down to a scattered applause. My descent—swift, fluid, and deliberate—must have looked like some elaborate performance to those gathered below. The onlookers who had come running at the sight and sound of the dragon were struck silent for a moment, mesmerized. I simply smiled and offered a small bow, letting my warging senses extend outward in a subtle wave. A calm, warm aura settled over the crowd, and soon awe softened into quiet admiration.
Then came a startled cry from a few ladies nearby, followed by a commotion among the guards. A massive black blur surged through them—too fast, too large to stop. Before anyone could react, the creature lunged at me.
I didn't move.
The crowd gasped as my enormous direwolf collided with me, nearly knocking me over in what was, unmistakably, a joyful reunion. My boots scraped against the dirt, but I stood firm, laughing quietly as Fenrir pressed his head against my chest. A few people shouted in alarm, and the more perceptive among them—those with sharper instincts—looked at me with something between awe and dread. They understood the sheer strength it took to remain standing against a creature like him.
I hid my grin by burying my face in Fenrir's thick fur, scratching behind his ears and along his neck until his growling softened into a low, pleased rumble. I had known he had arrived in King's Landing on the second night after I had left, scaling the city walls as effortlessly as he had done at Dragonstone. Predictably, panic had erupted again that morning when Lyanna escorted my wolf through the gates of the Red Keep with little Gael in tow. It was a sight no one would soon forget—especially those who had once pitied Gael as a frail, sickly girl. After that morning, no one would dare call her weak, not when she walked beside Fenrir.
The wolf had some trouble fitting through the castle's grand doors, but he had guarded Gael with devotion, just as I'd commanded. He had even cuffed Lyanna once when she tried to convince Gael to release her from her punishment.
I was still half-lost in Fenrir's fur when I noticed movement from the courtyard's edge. Viserys and Aemma were approaching, both following a small figure running ahead of them—Rhaenyra.
"Wolfy! Why did you run away?" she cried, her silver-golden hair bouncing as she ran toward us.
I glanced at Viserys, who looked exasperated, and at Aemma, who wore the polite expression of a noble lady trying—and failing—to conceal her fear.
"He came to see me, princess," I said, stepping forward.
Rhaenyra nodded solemnly at my words, then immediately turned her attention back to Fenrir, tugging at his fur with the single-minded determination of a child who wanted to play.
"I am surprised," I remarked as Viserys and Aemma caught up.
Viserys shrugged, attempting nonchalance. "You said yourself that your wolf is one of the greatest deterrents should the Faceless Men attempt anything here. I see no harm in Rhaenyra spending time near him."
Aemma nodded reluctantly, though her thoughts betrayed her; I could sense the tangle of anger and fear simmering beneath her courtly restraint.
"That is surprisingly wise of you, cousin," I said with a faint smile.
Viserys gave a brief nod, then hesitated before speaking again. "Prince Daemon, I wish to formally ask for your permission to claim Vhagar."
I wasn't surprised by the question. In truth, I had expected it. Even so, I answered without pause.
"Denied."
The word struck him like a slap. Viserys froze mid-smile, confusion and disbelief twisting across his face. Aemma looked startled; Rhaenyra simply blinked up from her place beside Fenrir.
"Why?" Viserys asked, his voice tight. "Do you truly fear Vhagar that much?"
I almost laughed at that. Fear had nothing to do with it, and he knew it. The real reason was far more pragmatic—and dangerous. Granting Vhagar to him would stir ambitions among the nobility, inviting whispers and factions that could turn kin against kin. As of now, I am rather sure that no matter what Viserys will not rise in rebellion without a dragon to his name, even if the Lords whispered honey in his ears. Giving him Vhagar would be a needless waste of utility of the dragon for me. I trusted in my own power and in Morghul's strength enough to face even Vhagar herself, but I had no desire to encourage chaos.
"Viserys," I said evenly, "you may think I denied you because I fear Vhagar, but that is not the case. I could defeat her if I wished, and you know it. The truth is simpler—you are not suited to her. She is an ancient war dragon, proud and fierce, and her fire would not bow to your will. Her former riders were bold, iron-hearted members of our line. You, cousin, are not that. Even once her mourning ends, she would reject you."
I paused, softening my tone. "If you truly wish for a dragon, I can allow it. The only unclaimed one now is Syraxas. You may have her if you choose."
Viserys blanched at once and shook his head. "No. She is Rhaenyra's dragon. I will not take her from her."
A smile tugged at my lips. "Aye. She is Rhaenyra's, and she has my blessing to bond with Syraxas when the time is right."
Viserys finally nodded, his shoulders loosening slightly. "Thank you," he said, though his voice carried the reluctant weight of a man who had hoped for something more.
The courtyard was quiet again, the tension fading into the cool air. Fenrir huffed contentedly beside me, and somewhere above, Morghul stretched his wings, casting a shadow above the courtyard.
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I stood beside the Iron Throne, watching the assembled court as King Jaehaerys presided over the trial of two traitors. By the time I had returned from dealing with the maesters, the verdict had already been decided, and the tale of the bards' betrayal was spreading like wildfire through King's Landing. Even the nobles, usually bored of petty crimes of Smallfolkes, were intrigued—after all, the crime had ties to me, the newly named Heir to the Iron Throne.
Today was the day the punishment is to be declared and I observed in calm detachment as my grandfather pronounced the sentence: death for treason, endangering a royal princess, and conspiring in the sale of humans into slavery. The father and son wept and begged for mercy, but the clatter of boots from the Red Keep's guards silenced their pleas. I could feel eyes on me from every corner of the throne room—some expectant, some wary—but I betrayed no emotion as my long-time friends were dragged to the black cells.
My attention shifted as the High Septon finally made his appearance. The man had arrived from Oldtown only yesterday, and though he had begged for a private audience, my grandfather had denied him, forcing him to speak before the full court.
The fat old man waddled forward and bowed deeply before the Iron Throne. When the King gave him leave to speak, he raised his voice in solemn gravity.
"Your Grace," he began, "I come on behalf of the Faith of the Seven. We humbly request that Your Grace reconsider the new laws regarding the collection of taxes. The Faith has gathered tithes for centuries, as is our sacred tradition, and through those offerings, the faithful receive blessings in this life and the next. Your new laws prevent the faithful from serving the gods properly and may even bar them from the Seven's grace after death."
A murmur of concern rippled through the gathered crowd.
I internally scoffed at the septon's selfish declaration, though I could not deny a flicker of satisfaction. My grandfather had initially opposed the law when I proposed it, and it took quite the argument before he finally conceded. The only reason he agreed, truth be told, was when I pointed out that the law would serve as a perfect distraction—one that would occupy the Faith's attention and keep them too busy to interfere with my own legitimization and ascension as Crown Prince and heir.
And I had been right. When I arrived at Oldtown and proclaimed the new laws—alongside the revelation of the Citadel's treachery—the Starry Sept had erupted in uproar, not over heresy or politics, but over the new tax reforms. It was almost amusing. A supposed follower of the Old Gods, a legitimized bastard rising to kingship, was of lesser concern to them than the gold they had lost. I shook my head and banished such thoughts, choosing instead to enjoy the entertainment that was about to unfold.
King Jaehaerys sat on the Iron Throne, his gaze cold and unwavering upon the trembling figure before him. He let the silence stretch, deliberate and heavy. Beads of sweat rolled down the High Septon's face, his once-calm composure cracking beneath the weight of the King's silence.
"High Septon," the King finally spoke, his tone deceptively mild. "Have you read the new Iron Throne Charter?"
"Yes, Your Grace, I have read it." the man replied, visibly confused, his voice faltering.
"So," the King continued, his lips curling into a faint smile, "the Faith of the Seven agrees with all the laws within that charter—except for this one?"
The High Septon grimaced, his mind clearly recalling the clauses within the document. The Faith had, reluctantly, agreed to the Charter, even to the clauses recognizing other religions—hoping for a compromise regarding the taxes. At the end of the day without gold even the Faith couldn't stir up trouble to protest the open acceptance of other religions by the Crown.
"Though the Faith condemns heretics and unbelievers," the High Septon began, his voice rising in that rehearsed, fervent tone that came from years of preaching, "it also teaches us forgiveness—to welcome the lost souls into the Mother's embrace."
So, he wasn't chosen for being the fattest after all, I mused with a smirk. He had some measure of charisma in preaching, which really surprised me.
"The Faith acknowledges that His Grace, King Jaehaerys, in his wisdom, has affirmed the Faith's rightful place in Westeros. His decision to clarify the Iron Throne's stance is wise and prevents confusion in the future," the High Septon concluded with trained diplomatic words.
The king just smiled at that.
The King's smile widened. "That is good, High Septon. Then let us review the first and most important edict of the new Charter: 'The King's authority and power are absolute, and neither the laws of Gods nor those of Men stand above them.'" His voice hardened. "You have just publicly confirmed that the Faith acknowledges this law. So I ask again—how can the Faith collect tithes or taxes from my subjects when the King's authority is absolute? The greatest proof of royal power is fealty—and taxation. If any other authority dares collect coin from my people, then it undermines the very principle of monarchy itself. Thus, there will be no change in laws regarding taxes, also as of now no lords from any of my realms have come forward to protest this tax laws."
The high septon looked like as if he had swallowed a lemon in anger and helplessness. His fat cheeks quivered, and I nearly burst out laughing at the sight.
"Your Grace," the High Septon shouted, his voice echoing through the hall, "the lords may not protest, but the smallfolk surely will! They will be angered when they can no longer receive the blessings of the Seven, and when the septs cease to provide their sacred services. It has always been the Seven who offered alms to the needy and tended to the poor while the lords played their games of thrones. The smallfolk will starve to death without the septs' help! I beseech you, find wisdom as you have for decades past, my king."
The king's smile vanished at the Septon's outburst, and I could feel the silent rage that radiated from him.
"High Septon," the king said coldly, "you have misinterpreted the laws. Anyone may donate to the sept if they wish. Therefore, my loyal subjects have no cause to be angered over missing blessings if they so desire them. Yet, I wonder—what use do the gods have for our gold and coin? As far as I know, the only religion that demands tithes and taxes is the Faith of the Seven. Every other god requires only offerings freely given, never compulsory tribute."
The High Septon spluttered with anger. "That is because they are not true gods! We need the money to look after the poor and serve them! As I already said, without the Faith serving the poor many would starve to death, Your Grace."
At that, I felt the king's eyes turn toward me. It was my cue. I let out a loud snort of derision, followed by open laughter, making my mockery clear to all present.
Every eye in the hall turned toward me—some curious, others wary.
"My heir," the king said, his tone edged with restrained anger and a pointed look in my direction, "I was not aware we were entertaining the court fool. Perhaps you would enlighten us as to what you find so amusing?"
I bowed slightly. "Apologies, Your Grace. Of course, the High Septon is no fool—but his words were laughable by the sheer hypocrisy in them. The Faith may have aided the poor in ages past, but under your five decades of peaceful rule, even the lowliest peasant no longer starves. It is rather amusing to hear the High Septon speak of starving smallfolk when he himself rivals Lord Manderly in girth—a man known for his costly feasts, earned through honest trade and wise governance of one of the wealthiest cities in the Seven Kingdoms. I wonder, then, how the Faith affords such feasts when its followers are, as he claims, starving to death."
The High Septon began to sweat, his face reddening as he struggled to contain his anger, disgust, and fear—emotions that flickered plainly across his features as he looked at me. I was sure that, if it was not for being infront of the King, the man would have tried to insult me by calling bastard and how I was cursed.
"Your Grace," I continued after a brief pause, "merely looking at the High Septon's grand stature reveals his indulgence in two of the gravest sins—gluttony and greed. There can be no other reason for him to come before you and demand that you rescind your rightful law."
"Your Grace—!" the High Septon shouted, trying to protest.
"Enough," King Jaehaerys hissed, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade. Silence fell instantly, even the High Septon bowing his head in fear. "I have heard enough of this matter. There shall be no change to the new Iron Throne Charter. In fact, as my heir so aptly pointed out, I find myself wondering how you became so fat when the holy scripture of the Seven commands temperance and restraint. Therefore, High Septon, you shall fast for seventy-seven days within the Red Keep's own sept—praying for forgiveness for your indulgence in fleshly desires while your supposed flock starves."
I could not hide my grin at the High Septon's expression—or at the wisdom of the king. Without its leader for the coming months, the Faith would be paralyzed, torn between conflicting voices, each undermining the other.
I glanced around the court and saw merchants and bards alike, their faces lit with anticipation. They had come to witness the punishment of my betrayers, but instead they would leave with a new tale—one they would eagerly spread across the realm: the tale of the Fat High Septon who defied the Dragon King and was made to fast for his sins.
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Dreamscape
I looked at the Mountain as the boy fell before me in my dreamscape He tried to wrench himself free, but since I had to talk to him, I didn't allow his escape.
The Mountain panted harshly as he struggled to get to his feet.
"Hello, boy," I said with a pleasant smile.
The boy growled in anger and sprang upright anger giving him strength to move. I looked at the boy as he stood defiantly before me trying to get his breath back as I completely released my mental grasp on his consciousness.
"Now, what have you decided about where you will go? Is it still beyond the Wall?" I asked, already certain of the answer.
The Mountain sneered and answered, "I will not change my mind. It will be beyond the Wall, where my enemies still breathe and far away from a hypocrite like you."
I studied my son and felt the turmoil beneath his words. He was wary of the Night King and his minions, yet his determination to bring his will upon the wildlings was laudable.
I nodded. "Fine. You may go beyond the Wall. Let me call your three brothers and ask their opinion too—then we shall have a proper family talk."
"They are of the same mind," the Mountain replied immediately.
I ignored him and concentrated on summoning the other three. Even for me it was difficult to link so cleanly within a single dream; it was only possible because they were my blood and because they stood in Winterfell itself.
Three more figures blurred into being, and the boys became visible. None matched the Mountain's height, but the other three were large for their ages, thick with muscle. Their coloring differed, yet the same inhuman handsomeness—my own—showed in all their faces.
The three shook their heads to clear the cobwebs and finally realized where they were seeing me and their nominal leader the mountain. As their sight and mind cleared I could see the frown and anger coming to their face in real time.
I smiled sadly; the sight of my sons frowning at me tugged at my heart. Yet, I couldn't be chained by those feelings in my current situation.
"Brother," one of them greeted the Mountain, ignoring me though all their eyes fell on me.
"Have you decided where you will go?" I asked all three once more, to make sure.
As expected, all three scoffed and said they would follow the Mountain.
I closed my eyes in defeat and finally opened with a deep sigh.
"I see," I said finally. "Since you are set on this venture, let me be clear about a few things. I will train the four of you—your minds will be hardened against the Night King's attacks. I will allow you to venture beyond the Wall only if every one of you can throw me from your minds. Mountain, you will be the leader, and the responsibility for your brothers falls to you. If the Night King attacks and you fail to keep your brothers alive, you will kill them yourself rather than let them be taken by my enemy. You will swear this vow by your dead mother's name and by the Old Gods."
Protests rose at once from all four, the Mountain's hands balling into fists. If anyone else faced such a figure they would have been cowed with fear. I could feel his tremendous muscles coiled with anger, a hair's breadth from violence. I ignored the display and continued.
"If you do not meet this basic requirement," I said, "I will personally strand you four in Yi Ti with nothing but the clothes on your backs and a single weapon. And if, no, when you return beyond the Wall, you prove disobedient, I will come in Morghul and kill you all myself. I have no use for unruly sons. I will not let my blood and my power fall into the hands of the Night King."
I unleashed my presence, pressing immense mental weight upon them so that they understood I was not in my usual, jocular mood.
They grimaced under the pressure. The Mountain, however, stepped forward against it and said, "I am not a fool like you who would go beyond the Wall knowing the danger without caution. I will take the vow and see that our kind is not endangered."
I nodded and ignored his insult.
"Then you have my temporary approval—provided you can all cast me out of your minds when I attack you randomly, both in the real world and the dreamscape." I replied. I turned to look at the Mountain, who had subtly shifted his position while we spoke. I ignored the fact that all four of them were trying to circle me, moving with what they must have thought was stealth. At least they were planning—thinking ahead, even. That, at least, pleased me. If they could plan this well against a supposed enemy like me, then perhaps they might even succeed beyond the Wall, where true monsters awaited them.
"Now," I continued, "Mountain, you will be the King-beyond-the-Wall. And when we meet in the real world, you will acknowledge me as your Emperor—if your position is secured."
"No!" the Mountain roared, his fury sharp enough to cut the air. "I will not follow you, nor bend the knee to you, Daemon Targaryen—no matter what! I would rather die than bend the knee to someone like you."
"Then I will be very happy to help you achieve that goal too, my son," I replied calmly, almost cheerfully. "Just as I am supporting you now in your venture beyond the Wall—because I am, after all, a loving father." I shrugged. "This world is ruled by power, and unfortunately for you, I have more of it than you do. Anyway, let us set that aside for now. That moment is years away. For the present, I will support you four with everything I have."
I glanced around at them, my voice steady and deliberate. "I have already asked Lord Stark to arm you as you wish, in addition to dragonglass knives, arrows, and even spears with dragonglass head. Cregan has also promised to gift the Mountain an ancient morningstar forged from Star Ore and dragonglass. It will serve you well against the dead—and the Others. I will also instruct the Night's Watch to provide you with supplies when needed, and even men if the need arises."
I paused, letting the weight of my words settle before I added, "But all this comes at a price, my son. And that price is the first thing I mentioned—you shall acknowledge me as your Emperor."
The Mountain glared at me, his eyes burning with hatred. By then, all four of my sons had positioned themselves around me—one on each side. I nearly laughed aloud at the sight of their barely concealed coordination. They exchanged nods before pouncing on me all at once.
I grinned, delighted by their attempt, and leapt upward just as they reached the spot where I had been standing. I was already in the air, my knee perfectly aligned with the Mountain's face. The impact was satisfying—the crack of bone sharp and clean. The recoil pushed me backward into another son behind me, and he took the full force of my momentum. His back slammed against the ground with a thud as I somersaulted away, landing lightly on my feet.
I looked up to see blood streaming from the Mountain's broken nose, while the son I had struck was gasping desperately for air, clutching his chest where my elbow had crushed his diaphragm.
"Your performance is embarrassing for me," I said with a grin, brushing dust from my clothes. "I appreciate your willingness to attack me—and your timing was decent—but signaling each other so openly was utterly foolish."
I cracked my knuckles and took a ready stance, my grin widening. "Come on, then. Let me teach you all a few lessons in hand-to-hand combat."
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Author's Note: finally the 50th chapter and i am surprised by the continuing support for me.
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I am grateful for all support and wishes all of you has a good time in this Xmas, Hanukkah and New year. Festival days are coming and I have activated a discount for everyone in potter tier in my pat reon. Only new and cancelled patrons could actually see it and thus do the needful to claim it if it is beneficial for you. !!!
See you next week in ADS 51. probably 2-3 chapters in current time if i am not hit with some very interesting muse and we will timeskip to king jaehaerys death when, well ... very surprising things would be happening...
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