Daeron Targaryen-252AC
"Daeron!" Aerys shouted, lunging forward as his sparring sword came down in a sharp arc.
Daeron raised his blade just in time, steel clanging against steel. He pushed forward, their swords sliding against one another with a screech. Before Aerys could react, Daeron's edge was at his throat.
"Yield."
Aerys froze, chest heaving. He swallowed and gave a stiff nod.
"Good," Daeron said, lowering his blade. "At least you made me sweat."
He returned the sword to its stand with practiced ease, then turned back to his younger brother with a smirk.
"You should focus on your administrative talents, brother. Leave the swordplay to me."
Aerys glared, but Daeron only chuckled.
"So..." he added, arching an eyebrow. "How was the Street of Silk?"
"Ahh, brother..." Aerys said with a grin, still catching his breath. "That was heaven on earth, I tell you. Imagine the most delicious meal you've ever tasted—no, even that wouldn't come close. Not to what I felt when that whore's mouth wrapped around my Cock."
"You be careful now," Daeron said dryly. "Don't go fucking every whore who spreads her legs for you. I read a book once—a true story. A whore bedded every man in a village, and within a week, every single one of them dropped dead with burst cocks."
"Huh." Daeron shrugged and turned away, leaving the training field without another word. He winked at the cluster of Young servants' daughters watching from the shade, earning giggles and flushed cheeks. Aerys stood there, mouth wide open, sword still in hand, speechless. "Get back here and tell me that's something you made up."
It was said that King Aerys II visited the Street of Silk only once in his life. From the very next day, he avoided the place like the plague. No one ever knows what happened there.
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The throbbing in Daeron's knuckles from sparring demanded Rhaella's quiet company. He turned the corner toward her chambers and froze.
Shouting.
"You will not be alone with your brother again! Is that understood, Princess?" The voice was venomous, saccharine – Rhaella's septa. How dare she?
"But why?" Rhaella's sob tore at him. "I love him! He loves me! I just want to see—"
Smack! The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed into the corridor.
"You will fix your eyes upon a pious servant of the Seven, girl! Not another abomination like yourself!"
White-hot fury ignited in Daeron's veins. His hand closed around the hilt of the dagger Rhaella had gifted him – the hilt, Dragon bone inlaid with rubies, the blade Valyrian steel. Smack! Another blow landed.
He kicked the door open with a splintering crash.
The scene seared itself into his mind: Rhaella, crumpled on the floor, a livid handprint blazing on her tear-streaked cheek. The septa, standing over her, righteous fury twisting her face.
"My Prince!" The septa smoothed her robes, a sickening smile plastered on her lips. "Come to learn of the Seven's—"
Daeron ignored her. He crossed the room in three strides, kneeling to gather Rhaella into his arms. She buried her face in his neck, tiny tremors wracking her body, her tears hot against his skin.
"Is this the first time?" His voice was dangerously low, a tremor beneath the steel.
"My Prince," the septa protested, stepping closer, "this impropriety—"
"Is this the first time, Rhaella?" Daeron gently tilted his sister's face up, his thumb tracing the angry welt on her cheekbone. Her violet eyes, wide with terror and shame, met his.
"No," she whispered, a fresh sob choking her. "All… all of them. They said… if I told… a terrible curse… our family… you… We'd all die horribly. Said we were sin made flesh." Her voice dissolved into shuddering gasps.
Daeron pulled her close again, his arms a fortress. He pressed his lips to her temple, his whisper a vow against her skin. "Listen to me. Go to Mother. Go to Aunt Jenny. Lock the door. Sleep. When you wake, everyone who laid a hand on you will be screaming their last breaths. I swear it by our blood. Go. Now."
Rhaella nodded, a fragile trust flickering in her eyes. She pressed a desperate kiss to his cheek and darted past the septa towards the door.
"Princess! We are not finished!" The septa lunged.
Daeron moved faster. He slammed the door shut with his back, blocking her path.
"Out of my way, you incestuous spawn!" she spat, shoving at him.
Silver flashed. The dagger sliced through air and flesh. Three fingers flew from the septa's outstretched hand, scattering like bloody pebbles on the Myrish rug.
"AAAAAAAGH! MY HAND!" Her scream shredded the air. "Abomination! Demon! The Seven will scourge you for this!"
Daeron stepped over the severed fingers, his expression glacial. "Gods?" He tilted his head, a predator considering prey. "How long, do you think, they'll wait to strike? Tell me how many thousands must I send screaming into the dark before they deem me worthy of their fury?"
Terror, pure and primal, flooded her face. He smiled, cold and sharp as Valyrian steel. "I like that look." His hand shot out, clamping like a vise around her bleeding wrist. "This is the hand you struck her with." He raised the dagger, its edge glinting wickedly. "Twice."
Slowly, deliberately, he began to saw. She writhed, kicked, screamed – a cacophony of agony and pleading. He absorbed the blows without flinching, his focus absolute. The blade bit deep, grating against bone. With a final, brutal wrench, her hand separated from her arm. She collapsed, howling, clutching the pulsing stump.
He knelt, yanking her head back by her hair. The pious black veil tore away. "When Rhaella gave me this blade," he murmured, almost conversationally, tracing the rubies with a blood-slicked thumb, "I promised her I'd kill anyone who hurt her. I pictured knights or Squires. Fools. Never… never a septa." He pressed the dagger's tip to the center of her sweating forehead. "I'll send you to your gods. But first… a brand. So they recognize their pious servant."
He began to carve. Each line of the seven-pointed star was etched with agonizing precision, her shrieks rising to inhuman pitches, filling the room like the cries of a damned soul. Blood streamed down her face, a grotesque mask.
The door burst open. Ser Duncan the Tall filled the doorway, his face ashen. Behind him, men-at-arms and maids gaped in horror at the crimson tableau.
"By the Gods! Prince Daeron, what have you done?" Duncan roared.
Daeron didn't look up. He finished the final point of the star, the dagger tip scraping bone. His voice, when it came, cut through the septa's weakening screams like a whip, addressing the frozen onlookers: "Every septa. Every septon. Within the Red Keep. Bring me their heads. A gold dragon each."
Like startled rats, they scattered.
"NO! Obey ME! Prince, I beg you! Stop this madness!" Duncan pleaded, hand on his sword hilt, but was paralyzed.
Daeron finally turned his blood-spattered face towards the knight. "Madness, Ser?" He laughed, a hollow, chilling sound. "I came here from the yard, seeking peace. And found this bitch," he kicked the sobbing, mutilated woman, "striking my sister. Not once. Twice." He slashed the dagger horizontally across her eyes. "BLIND!" she shrieked, a new wave of torment erupting.
He ignored her. "And Rhaella," his voice cracked, raw with a fury deeper than rage, "told me. Every septa in this cursed keep laid hands on her. On my sweet sister! The one who cries for flies in a spider's web!" He drove the dagger down with both hands, plunging it deep into the center of the carved star on her forehead. The screaming ceased abruptly. Silence crashed down, thick and suffocating. He released her hair. The body slumped, lifeless.
Daeron rose slowly, turning fully to face Ser Duncan. Blood painted his silver hair crimson, dripped from his chin, and soaked his tunic. His eyes, violet chips of ice, locked onto the Kingsguard. "The Kingsguard," he hissed, stepping over the corpse towards the towering knight. "Sworn to protect the royal blood. Why did you fail her, Duncan?" He stopped inches away, the reek of copper and voided bowels clinging to him. "Is it time…" his voice dropped to a deadly whisper, "to bleed the white clothes dry?"
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS CARNAGE?"
King Aegon V stood in the ruined doorway, his face pale with shock and dawning fury, his gaze sweeping from the mutilated corpse to his blood-drenched grandson. "Daeron! Explain this!"
Daeron didn't flinch. He met his grandfather's eyes, the dagger still clenched in his fist, dripping onto the septa's star-marked brow.
He sheathed the dagger and brushed his hair back with his hands, clearing the blood on his face.
"Grandfather, Welcome, you see, I was talking about failed Duty."