Chapter 59: The White Worm and the Crown Prince of Dorne
Night draped itself over King's Landing like a heavy shroud.
In the narrow, smoky alleys of Flea Bottom, torches flickered in the hands of the Kingsguard escort, their light glinting off puddles of rain and filth. Prince Daemon Targaryen walked at the center, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him as he studied the two figures before him — Martina of Lys, a pale woman with haunted eyes, and her small daughter, Mysaria.
The girl stared up at him, her gaze unflinching. Even now, there was something unsettlingly clear in those gray eyes — a cunning too sharp for her ten years.
Daemon had never been a man for patience or subtlety. Espionage, whispers, informants — all these were tools better suited to others. But tonight, as he looked upon the Lysene girl, he thought, perhaps even the smallest worm can tunnel deep enough to hear what dragons cannot.
"Prince Daemon," Mysaria asked in a trembling but eager voice, "can your… brothel take us in?"
Martina lowered her head. "We've no other place, my prince. You own most of the houses from the Old Gate to Eel Alley. Everyone says you look after your own."
Daemon considered her words. It was true — he ruled the city's brothels as quietly as he did the skies above on Caraxes. The smallfolk called him Prince of the City… others whispered Prince of Pimps. Neither title troubled him much. Both meant power.
"You are too young for such places," he said after a pause. "And your mother shouldn't live her whole life as a whore. Come to the Red Keep instead. You can serve as my maids."
Martina blinked, as if unable to believe what she'd heard. "Maids? My prince, I know no trade but one. I can't clean, can't sew. I've no skill a noble would want."
Daemon frowned slightly. "Were you brought here by the Lysene envoys?"
Her eyes darted away. "Aye, once. I was a slave in a Lysene brothel. Then a noble bought my freedom — or so I thought. I bore his child, Mysaria, but he cast us out soon after. We fled to Dorne, but even there the Rhoynar whores treated me worse than filth. I sold what little was left of me to buy passage here."
Daemon's expression softened just a fraction. "Then you'll start anew in my service. Both of you."
He gestured for the guards to follow and led the mother and daughter up toward Aegon's High Hill. Along the way, the sound of music drifted through the air — the mournful notes of a harp carried by the wind. A crowd had gathered around a dark-haired Dornish singer, his fingers gliding across the strings with practiced grace.
His song was one of fire and ruin — the Dragon's Conquest.
> "The dragons came, their wings of flame,
Turning Harrenhal to ash and pain.
They came with storms, they came with death,
Till lions wept and oaks were cleft."
Daemon paused, drawn to the melody. The man's voice was deep and haunting — too refined for a common minstrel. The crowd cheered, tossing coins that clattered in a bronze basin. Daemon stepped closer, his Kingsguard standing watch behind him.
When the song ended, Daemon said, "You have talent, singer. Stay in King's Landing, and I'll see you're paid twice what Dorne can offer."
The man smiled faintly. "Your Highness honors me, but my blood runs hot for sun and sand. I belong to Dorne, not the shadowed alleys of this city."
He bowed deeply. "Prince Daemon, farewell. I've another performance in Eel Alley."
Daemon watched him go — the singer's steps measured, noble almost. A strange air for a street performer.
As they climbed toward the Red Keep, Mysaria suddenly spoke. "I know him."
Daemon glanced down. "The singer?"
She nodded, brow furrowed. "I saw him once… in Dorne. But he wasn't singing then. He rode in a golden palanquin, and he had no beard."
Martina laughed lightly. "You must be mistaken, child. Nobles don't wander Flea Bottom with harps."
But Mysaria's eyes widened with sudden certainty. "No, Mother. He's the Crown Prince of Dorne — Qoren Martell! I remember him now."
Daemon stopped dead in his tracks. The name hung in the air like a spark before a blaze.
---
The Prince of Dorne Vanishes
By dawn, King's Landing erupted into chaos.
If Mysaria spoke true, the heir of Dorne had entered the capital in secret — and vanished again before dawn's first bell.
The Kingsguard, City Watch, and Velaryon fleet scoured the city and sea alike. No trace of Qoren Martell or the Dornish delegation remained.
At the Small Council, the mood was grim.
Maester Barth spoke first, voice soft but troubled.
"Prince Qoren's disguise… his very presence here, hidden among minstrels — what purpose could he have but espionage or treachery?"
Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, slammed a gauntleted fist against the table. "The Dornish are vipers all. He came to spy on us — or worse, to steal dragon eggs from the pits."
The Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon, crossed his arms. "And yet he walked freely through the Red Keep under your watch, Ser Ryam. Should I take it the Kingsguard has gone blind?"
Daemon's lips curved into a cold smile. "And your fleet, Lord Velaryon? The Dornish ships slipped from your harbor like minnows. Perhaps you should look to your own nets before casting stones."
A sharp laugh escaped Corlys's throat. "Almost immediately, you say? The 'singer' performed for days in your streets, your courts — even your own taverns — before vanishing. That is your idea of swiftness?"
Daemon's tone turned to ice. "My idea of swiftness, my lord, is that he was found out. Yours let him escape."
Before the tension could turn to violence, King Jaehaerys raised a hand. "Enough. This shows one thing — our spies and watchers have grown complacent. But I will not have a Master of Whisperers seated among my council like some snake-charmer."
The Sea Snake pressed, "Then allow us to appoint one in secret. Otto Hightower or Lyonel Strong would serve the realm well."
Jaehaerys shook his head. "I will not have another Tyanna of the Tower whispering poison in my halls. No — intelligence shall remain within blood. From now on, Daemon, Viserys, and Baelon will share the burden of our eyes and ears."
---
The Witches' Visions
That night, Daemon returned to Maegor's Holdfast.
Princess Gael slept beside the fire, her pregnant form soft beneath the blankets. Nearby, Mona Darklyn, Ser Mia Hogg, and Martina of Lys kept quiet watch, while Mysaria sat cross-legged on the floor, studying a cracked chessboard Daemon had given her.
"Have they caught the Dornish prince?" she asked as he entered.
Daemon tousled her silver hair. "No. But your eyes were sharper than most grown men's. You did well."
Leaving the room, he passed into the adjoining chamber, where the witches Alys Rivers and Terra awaited him.
Alys stared into the fire, her blue eyes distant. "You ask if we saw his coming. I saw only shadows on water. The future is mist, not map."
Terra smiled faintly, playing with the carved weirwood bracelet on her wrist. "If the prince had come to kill or steal, the gods might have whispered a warning. But curiosity leaves little mark upon fate."
Daemon leaned forward. "And what do you see now?"
Terra's smile turned cryptic. "Crabs feasting upon the flesh of seahorses. A bronze statue bearing a seven-pointed star loses its arm; a silver one beside it shatters. The seas roar. Smoke rises."
Alys's voice followed, quiet as wind through ash.
"In my fire, I saw an island drowned in flame — dragons screaming as stone and lava consumed them. One fled east, over a blackened sea. And in its wake, sorcerers danced around a queen in red, crownless yet exalted."
Daemon frowned. "Ominous riddles."
Alys turned toward him. "You of all men should know — storms begin as whispers before they roar."
---
The Tourney of Fifty Years
When morning came, the Tourney of the King's Jubilee began at the Dragonpit Square — the grandest spectacle Westeros had seen in a generation.
Lords, knights, and warriors from every corner of the realm gathered beneath banners and dragons. Even Braavosi water dancers, Summer Island spearmen, and Meereenese gladiators joined the lists.
Daemon's squires — Tom Staunton, Tylan Lannister, and Matthos Tyrell — armed him in dark red steel chased with rubies and sapphires. The three-headed dragon on his breastplate gleamed like living fire beneath the sun.
The opening joust pitted Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, against Ser Cameron Mandler, the sworn brother of the Night's Watch who held Snowgate, the very castle Queen Alysanne had gifted the Watch long ago.
"North and South," the King mused aloud. "A fine match — the Wall's black against the Arbor's white."
The crowd thundered as dragons wheeled overhead — Vermithor, Silverwing, Dreamfyre, Meleys, Vhagar, and Caraxes, Daemon's crimson beast, whose scream rolled like thunder.
Blow after blow they traded until the black brother was unhorsed, to wild applause.
Then came Daemon's turn. He met Ser Coleen Stark of Winterfell — gray-eyed, broad-shouldered, but no jouster. Daemon's first pass sent the northerner sprawling.
Next came Lord Lyonel Strong of Harrenhal, Robert Tarly of Horn Hill, and a Braavosi water dancer named Mendes — all fell before him.
But in the semifinals, Daemon met a mysterious challenger — a knight clad in silver armor and a weirwood mask carved like a face without expression.
Their lances shattered again and again — seven times in all — before Daemon's eighth strike split the mask in two.
As the shards fell, gasps rippled through the stands. Beneath the broken wood glared the furious eyes of Lady Rhea Royce, heir to Runestone.
Daemon's smirk was cold. "Lady Rhea, you almost reached my skill — when I was six."
Her voice quivered with rage. "You won by armor, not honor! If I'd worn bronze scales instead of this farce—"
"Then why didn't you?" Daemon asked mildly.
She glared. "Because then I wouldn't have been a mystery."
Daemon turned away, lifting his lance in salute to the roaring crowd as flowers rained from the stands.
Above them, the dragons roared again — and for a fleeting instant, it sounded not like celebration, but a warning.
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