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Chapter 94: The Dragons Return to the Red Keep
Daeron Targaryen's Perspective
The Gate of the Gods stood wide open. For the first time in years, its towering iron doors did not signal the arrival of a pretender, a conqueror, or a would-be king—but of the true heir, the rightful king, returning to claim what was always his.
Daeron Targaryen sat atop his black destrier, armor polished to a mirror shine, his crimson cloak rippling gently in the spring breeze. The crown rested lightly upon his brow. He looked every bit the king Westeros had waited for—and needed.
Beyond the gates, the wide city streets were lined with thousands of people—men, women, children, the old and weary. They had come not just to see the end of a war, but to see who had won it.
As Daeron entered the city, the crowd erupted into cheers. Some threw rose petals. Others lifted their children onto their shoulders just to catch a glimpse of him. A chant rose, wave-like and rhythmic:
"Daeron! Daeron! Long live the King!"
Daeron gave them what they came for. He held his chin high, his expression composed but not cold, regal but not aloof. He raised a hand in acknowledgment. The people roared louder.
Then came the sound that silenced all.
A roar. Thunderous. Majestic. Terrifying.
Lyrax.
She soared high above the city, her obsidian black-blue scales gleaming in the sunlight, wings cutting through the sky with powerful grace. She circled once, then let out another mighty roar that echoed off the walls of the Red Keep. It was not just sound—it was declaration. The dragons had returned. That House Targaryen had taken back its place on the throne.
Daeron allowed himself the smallest smile.
Behind him, riding in tight formation, were his two Kingsguard—Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy. Flawless in their white armor, they looked like carved marble knights brought to life.
Behind them rode his uncle Ned, ever solemn, ever steady. Then came Robb, proudly holding the Stark banner as a sign of their allegiance. Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully rode beside him, face unreadable. And near the rear of the mounted retinue rode Daeron's uncle, Viserys remained quiet, trying to maintain a steady composure, his expression shifting between pride and nervousness
Further behind, in a gilded carriage draped with crimson and black, sat his grandmother Rhaella and his aunt Daenerys. Rhaella looked out of the window with serene grace. Daenerys, her face close to the window, watched the cheering people in awe.
The victory procession moved slowly through the city. The banners of House Targaryen flew high above, draped from windows, tied to poles, clutched in the hands of children. There were cries of joy, weeping, laughter.
And yet, beneath it all, Daeron could feel the truth. He heard it in the quiet spaces between the cheers.
Relief.
That's what this is, he thought. Relief. Not loyalty.
They weren't chanting his name because they loved him. Not yet. They were celebrating because the fighting was over, the city would not burn, and their lives—such as they were—could continue.
They do not care who wears the crown, he thought. As long as the baker bakes, the blacksmith hammers, and their children sleep safely at night.
He did not resent them for it. He understood it. Perhaps better than any king who came before him.
Still, he had a role to play. So he sat tall in the saddle, face composed like marble carved in the image of justice and strength. He waved when he was supposed to wave. He nodded when he was supposed to nod. He was no longer just Daeron.
He was the King.
The procession climbed the long hill toward the Red Keep. With each step, the weight of his crown grew heavier—not just in gold, but in expectations, in burdens yet to come.
And yet, Daeron Targaryen rode forward, unwavering.
Toward the throne forged in fire and blood.
Towards his destiny.
Rhaella Targaryen's Perspective
The wheels of the gilded carriage rolled over cobbled stone, the echo of hoofbeats and cheering fading slightly as the Red Keep loomed ahead. From the moment the massive doors of the Gate of the Gods had opened, Rhaella Targaryen had been silent, her gloved hands resting neatly on her lap, her back straight despite the fatigue that clung to her bones.
She gazed out the window now, watching as the familiar crimson walls of the Red Keep rose higher and closer with every turn of the wheels.
Home.
Or something like it.
The last time she had seen these walls, she was a queen in name but a prisoner in truth, bound by fear and duty to a mad husband and king. The castle that once housed her family had also held her grief and pain like a tomb. She had walked these halls with blood on her clothes and tears that refused to fall.
There had been laughter too, once. Quiet moments with Rhaegar as a boy, the sound of Viserys playing in the gardens, the rare smiles that broke through Aerys's madness in their early years.
But time had warped those memories—most were soaked in dread, in whispered screams behind locked doors.
Now, the Red Keep stood before her once more. Not as a cage. But as a seat of triumph.
Rhaella turned her head slightly.
Beside her, Daenerys pressed against the carriage window, her violet eyes wide with wonder. Her silver hair shimmered in the morning light, her breaths rushed in excitement as she leaned forward to glimpse the great towers and walls. She looked like a child seeing a storied castle come to life.
Rhaella smiled.
For all the pain the Red Keep had given her, it would give Daenerys something else—something new. A beginning.
"My sweet girl," Rhaella whispered, her voice soft over the rumble of the carriage, "you deserve to see this place with eyes full of hope. Not fear."
The Keep grew closer.
Rhaella closed her eyes briefly and inhaled. The air smelled of roses and ash and history. She would not let the ghosts of her past haunt this return. Not for herself. And not for her children.
For Daenerys, for Viserys, and now for Daeron—her grandson, her pride—she would reshape the legacy of this place. It would no longer be a monument to fire and madness. It would become a haven. A court of peace and strength. A home again.
No more chains, she thought. No more silence. From this day forth, the Red Keep shall bear only good memories for my family.
The carriage turned, and the great gate to the Keep yawned open to receive them.
Rhaella Targaryen took her daughter's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"Welcome home, Daenerys," she said aloud, voice steady.
And for the first time in years, she meant it.