Chapter 13: The Ballad of the Heir
Like many maidens of the court, the young and innocent Gael Targaryen was fond of songs — sweet tales of knights, dragons, and doomed love.
Lately, her fascination had a name.
Diamante Waters — the silver-haired, purple-eyed bard from Driftmark — had bewitched every maiden in the Red Keep. His harp sang with melancholy, his words painted glory and sorrow in equal measure, and his beauty made even queens linger a heartbeat too long.
And now, even at this late hour, Gael insisted on hearing him perform.
Daemon Targaryen — reborn, wiser, sharper — followed her through the candlelit corridors of the Red Keep, his expression unreadable.
He had seen men like Diamante before. Beautiful masks hiding dangerous ambitions.
And Daemon, having lived through betrayal and blood in another lifetime, had learned to recognize a serpent coiled beneath silk.
> Sea Snake's bastard, he thought darkly. Or worse — his spy.
When Gael insisted that Diamante merely sang for the joy of it, Daemon's laugh was soft but cold.
"Sing for joy? Gael, singers are liars. Those who play their harps in taverns bed pig-herders' daughters. Those who play in castles… seek the beds of noble maidens."
She glared, indignant. "Why must your thoughts always be so filthy, brother? I'm not going alone. Qiong Qi Arryn, Kelly Rosby, the septas, even some squires are going. You worry too much."
Daemon's lips curled. "And you know much of this singer, it seems."
Gael smiled, dreamy. "Diamante is not like the others. He's charming, graceful, and kind. He speaks of the sea as if he was born upon it. They say he is as skilled with a sword as with a harp. Perhaps he'll be knighted one day — or even become a great navigator like Lord Corlys himself."
Daemon's gaze darkened. "A sailor, a knight, and a singer? Too perfect. Tell me, did he mention who his father is?"
Gael frowned. "He grew up in a nunnery. His mother was a septa. Don't be so cruel. Not every bastard has a scheming lord behind them."
"Sea Snake has bastards in every port," Daemon murmured. "Hull, Spicetown, Lys, even Dorne. Rhaenys tolerates much — too much, perhaps. Or perhaps she takes her own lovers in revenge."
"Daemon!" Gael swatted him lightly. "You sound jealous."
"Perhaps I am." His smirk didn't reach his eyes. "But not of a singer."
They arrived at the Queen's ballroom. The hall was lit by seven golden candles, the flames reflected in marble and polished steel.
Diamante sat upon a small dais, a silver harp resting against his knee. The sigil of House Velaryon — the seahorse — gleamed faintly upon its frame. His fingers danced across the strings, and the hall filled with a melody so haunting it seemed to bleed the air itself.
The song was about Aegon's Conquest, of dragons descending from the clouds, of fire and fate intertwined. The crowd swayed with the rhythm — court ladies, septas, even squires — all lost in the music.
Then came the final song.
> "A father bids farewell to his daughter…
A true dragon's seed within her womb,
A flame to light the seas and skies,
Her child to wear the crown of doom…"
Daemon's eyes narrowed. The words struck him like the chill of deep water.
Aemon of Dragonstone. Rhaenys. A claim wrapped in melody.
The Sea Snake's influence spreading through song.
He leaned toward Gael. "Now I see it clearly. They are planting seeds — seeds of their own dynasty."
"Can't you listen without suspicion?" she whispered.
"Not when songs turn into banners."
The melody grew mournful, the harp's voice like the wind before a storm.
> "The Sapphire Isle turned red with blood,
The Evening Star burned bright and fell,
Daughter, grieve not for me,
For your child shall rule the realm."
When the final note faded, silence held the room for a heartbeat before applause erupted like thunder.
One by one, the guests drifted away, leaving only Daemon, Gael, and the silver-haired bard.
Gael's eyes shone. "It's beautiful. A tragic, noble story."
Daemon smirked faintly. "If the King heard it, he might call it treason."
Diamante rose smoothly. "Her Grace the Queen has already heard it. She called it moving. The King, however… he prefers silence to songs."
Daemon tilted his head. "Songs are powerful tools. Perhaps you'd compose one for me someday."
Diamante's smile was charming, but calculating. "When your deeds deserve one, Prince. Legends are not written from words alone."
That answer pleased Daemon more than he expected. "Tomorrow, then. We'll see if your sword arm matches your tongue. Train with me at dawn."
The bard's grin widened. "An honor, my prince."
---
The next morning, dawn spilled across the training yard like molten gold.
Daemon and Diamante faced each other in the ring, blades flashing under the watchful eyes of Ser Petyr Tyrell — the Red Keep's Master-at-Arms, thick-bodied and bald as a cannonball.
"Remember," Tyrell boomed, "the tourney for Princess Rhaenyra's birth is in days! Win that, and your names will be sung across the realm."
He looked between the two young men and smiled. "Though between you and Criston Cole, I don't know who to wager on."
Daemon's brow furrowed. "Criston Cole?"
Diamante lowered his sword. "A steward's son from Blackhaven. Hardly of noble blood — but they say he fights like a dragon reborn."
Daemon's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Then I shall enjoy breaking him."
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