Chapter 6: Seeds of Power
The sun hung low over King's Landing, its dying light bleeding through the high, narrow windows of the Red Keep's council chamber. Dust motes drifted through the air like ghosts, catching the glow as if the stones themselves remembered every secret whispered here.
Daemon Targaryen stood before the painted table — not yet the Rogue Prince of infamy, but already something more dangerous. His eyes, amethyst and cold, scanned the gathered lords and maesters. He said nothing at first, letting the silence work for him. In another life, he might have been reckless. In this one, he had learned that silence was a sharper blade than Dark Sister.
King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the table, frail but unbowed. His hair had turned to silver snow, and yet his gaze was still that of the Conqueror's blood. "The realm grows weary of storms," the old king said softly. "We must not plant the seeds of another."
Daemon inclined his head. Too late for that, he thought. The seeds are already sown — I'm simply tending the soil.
To Jaehaerys's right sat Queen Alysanne, her once-gentle eyes now weighed with sorrow. Beside her, Septon Barth shifted a stack of parchments, and the Grand Maester droned about trade disputes and tariffs from the Reach. All noise. All distraction. None saw the undercurrents, save Daemon.
He studied the Sea Snake — Corlys Velaryon — seated a few chairs down, proud and poised, his weathered hands clasped over a cane carved with waves. His wife, Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, remained silent but her eyes flickered to Daemon often, as if measuring him. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips. He'd read that look before — ambition dressed as caution.
"The Stepstones remain a festering wound," Corlys said finally, his voice low but firm. "Pirates choke the trade routes. Braavosi galleys harass our ships. If the crown does not act, the coffers will soon run dry."
"Enough wars," murmured Alysanne, weary. "Enough blood for gold."
"But gold buys peace, Your Grace," Corlys countered, eyes narrowing. "Without it, peace starves."
Jaehaerys's hand trembled as he rubbed his brow. "We are too old for conquest."
Daemon's voice, when it came, cut through the room like steel. "Then let the young conquer in your stead."
All eyes turned to him. Even the torches seemed to flicker lower.
He stepped forward, his crimson cloak trailing behind him. "Your Majesty," he said with careful reverence, "the Stepstones threaten the stability of the realm. The crown bleeds coin while pirates grow bold. Give me leave to burn out the rot — once and for all."
Barth frowned. "A bold request, Prince Daemon. The Small Council will not sanction a private war."
Daemon smiled faintly. "Then let us not call it war. Let us call it cleansing."
Jaehaerys studied him, the old man's wisdom battling his exhaustion. "You sound like Maegor."
Daemon's smile deepened. "Maegor was cruel without purpose. I would be cruel only with cause."
There was a hush. Corlys's lips twitched — amusement, approval, perhaps both. Rhaenys's gaze lingered a heartbeat longer before dropping to the table.
Good, Daemon thought. Let them see the glimmer of madness, not the method behind it.
The king's voice broke the silence. "The realm does not need fire, nephew. It needs heirs, peace, and order."
Daemon bowed, hiding his smirk. "And yet, peace built on weakness will crumble in a single generation."
As the council dissolved into murmurs, Daemon turned toward the window. Below, the city stretched — chaotic, teeming, alive. Flea Bottom's smoke coiled upward like a black serpent. My kingdom, he thought. Not yet, but soon.
Behind him, he heard Queen Alysanne's faint sigh. "He is too much like his brother," she murmured to Barth. "And yet… not."
Not anymore, Daemon thought. This time, I'll be more.
The doors opened, and a guard announced Corlys Velaryon's request to speak privately with the prince. Daemon smiled, not looking back.
The first seed sprouts quickly, he mused. The sea itself begins to bend.
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