Chapter 63: Blackwater Lineage
The cry of a newborn echoed through Maegor's Holdfast, bright and sharp as a drawn blade.
The babe came small but strong, his skin flushed pink and his hair pale as moonlight. When the wet nurse raised him, even his eyes gleamed with the unmistakable violet of Valyria.
Prince Daemon Targaryen watched as the midwives cleaned the child and wrapped him in soft white swaddling. Beside him, Princess Gael Targaryen — frail, flushed, and trembling — lay back against the crimson pillows, tears streaking her face.
"It's a boy," Daemon said quietly, his voice unsteady.
"Our son, Gael."
Gael reached for the child, her fingers shaking as she cradled him against her chest. "He's beautiful… Daemon, I didn't think I could do it."
He smiled — not the cruel, mocking grin the court feared, but something gentler, rawer. "You did. You gave me a son."
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A Child of Fire
Word spread through the Red Keep like wildfire: Prince Daemon and Princess Gael had a son.
It was the first male child born of their generation, and the court rejoiced.
King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, long burdened by loss and age, smiled as they had not in years.
Prince Baelon clapped Daemon on the shoulder, his laughter booming through the hall.
Even the normally solemn Princess Rhaenys came bearing gifts.
The babe was named Aegon, in honor of the Conqueror himself.
"This name," said King Jaehaerys, cradling the child, "has passed through greatness. My grandsire bore it, and now it lives again in Daemon's line. May this Aegon rule dragons with the same fire as his forebears."
Viserys, ever eager to join in celebration, smiled. "Then I'll name my next son Jaehaerys, so our children may mirror their grandsires."
Alysanne's voice, soft but firm, cut through their laughter.
"Name them what you will — but remember, it is not names that make men great. It is the choices they make."
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A Gift of Flame
When the feasting was done, King Jaehaerys presented Daemon and Gael with a cradle — carved from weirwood, lined with white ermine, and covered with a silken cloth bearing the seven-pointed star.
Inside lay a dragon egg.
Black as obsidian and veined with faint gold, it shimmered in the sunlight filtering through the chamber's tall windows.
A hush fell over the room. Placing an egg in a newborn's cradle was an ancient Targaryen rite — one as sacred as marriage or knighthood.
The King's voice softened. "So was it with me and my sister Alysanne. Rhaena placed a dragon's egg in our cradles, and from them came Vermithor and Silverwing. Let the same blessing fall upon young Aegon."
Daemon's hands lingered on the shell, feeling its faint warmth. A flicker of light moved beneath its surface — or perhaps it was only his imagination. Either way, the moment branded itself into his mind.
Viserys leaned over the cradle with boyish eagerness.
"When Aemma bears my son," he said, "I'll ask for an egg as well."
Queen Alysanne chuckled. "I have one waiting. But take better care of your wife, Viserys — not every birth is as merciful as Gael's."
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The Future of Fire and Blood
In the weeks that followed, Daemon spent hours beside Gael's bedside and more in the vaults beneath the Dragonpit, where hundreds of dragon eggs were guarded by firelight and iron bars.
He took the King's gift as a sign — not just of blessing, but of trust.
With access to the dragons, Daemon now oversaw both the Dragon Guard and the city's inner defenses. He was already thinking ahead.
Aegon's birth, he believed, was the first spark in a greater flame.
He dreamed of sons — dragonriders bound by blood and loyalty — a Dragon Knight host to secure House Targaryen's future long after Jaehaerys was gone.
The Sea Snake's children, Laena and Laenor, were older. Daemon knew their father's ambitions all too well.
Once Vermithor and Silverwing were left riderless, Corlys Velaryon would seize the chance to place his blood upon their backs.
Daemon meant to ensure those dragons — and all their fire — remained in Targaryen hands.
He would breed riders of his own.
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The Weirwood Whisper
One night, when Gael slept, Daemon left Maegor's Holdfast with Alys Rivers and Terra Uller.
They crossed the moonlit bridges to the Godswood. The air was still and cold, the heart tree's face pale and knowing.
Daemon pressed his hand to its trunk. "Aegon will have his dragon," he murmured. "He will not want for strength."
Alys Rivers smiled faintly, her eyes like pools of shadow.
"There will be many Aegons, my prince — red, green, black. When too many dragons rise, the sky burns."
Daemon frowned. "Viserys spoke of naming his son Jaehaerys, not Aegon."
"Dreams change," Alys whispered. "Names, too."
Terra laughed softly, her fingers tracing the carved face of the tree. "The queen your brother loves is shadowed by death. She labors beneath ghosts. No child will survive that bed unless the gods intervene."
Daemon turned sharply. "You speak in riddles, witch. If Aemma comes to harm—"
"No harm," Terra said calmly. "Only truth."
Then, almost carelessly, she placed a hand upon her stomach. Beneath her cloak, the curve was faint — but Daemon's eyes widened.
Alys met his gaze and said gently, "Terra and I share more than secrets now. We both carry your blood."
For once, Daemon was speechless.
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The Blackwater Bastards
He stared from one to the other, unsure whether to curse or laugh. "You jest."
Alys shook her head. "Witches don't jest about children."
Daemon turned away, pacing. "If this is true, and it becomes known, it will bring scandal — ruin."
"No one will notice," Terra said. "We wear loose gowns. We keep to your chambers. The court sees only what it wishes."
Daemon looked from their calm faces to the heart tree looming above. Its carved mouth seemed to twist in something like a smile.
At length, he said quietly, "Then their names will be Blackwater — after the river that flows beneath our walls. They will bear that name proudly."
Alys touched the bark. "Bastards they may be, but bastards can still serve. Our children can be your shadows — your guards, your knights, your dragons of flesh and bone."
Daemon hesitated — then, slowly, he nodded.
"Let them live. But Gael's son will inherit my name and lands. That is the law."
Terra smiled faintly. "And we will obey it, my prince. Witches are loyal — to those who give us purpose."
A raven croaked from the branches above, and a chill ran through the air.
Alys Rivers whispered, "But beware the tower. The snakes within are restless."
Daemon's eyes narrowed. "Oldtown?"
"Perhaps," she said, "or perhaps Dorne. The vision shows fangs in shadow, not faces."
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Viserys's Grief
A week later, Queen Aemma went into labor.
The Red Keep swarmed with midwives, maesters, and anxious attendants. King Jaehaerys, Queen Alysanne, Baelon, and Daemon waited outside the chamber, while Viserys paced endlessly, clutching a small Valyrian toy fortress he had carved for the child.
From within came the screams — long, sharp, and terrible.
Hours passed. Then, at last, silence.
When the doors opened, Grand Maester Yalar stood pale and trembling, his robes soaked in blood.
Viserys rushed forward. "My son—?"
Yalar bowed his head. "The babe was malformed. It never drew breath."
The toy fortress fell from Viserys's hand and shattered upon the stone.
Daemon stepped forward quietly. "And Aemma?"
"She lives," said the Maester. "Barely. I have stopped the bleeding, but she is weak."
Viserys sank against the wall. Queen Alysanne placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"I lost many children too," she said softly. "The gods are cruel, but time can still be kind."
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Whispers in the Hall
Later that night, when Daemon walked the outer courtyard, he heard murmurs from the shadows.
Corlys Velaryon and Otto Hightower stood together, their faces half-hidden by torchlight.
"The younger prince surrounds himself with witches," said Otto, his voice sharp as a quill. "Do you recall Maegor and Tyanna of the Tower? Such women bring only ruin."
The Sea Snake gave a low chuckle. "Ruined or not, Daemon now has a son — and more followers than you think. The city loves him. So do the dragons."
"Dragons burn what they love," Otto muttered. "In time, they all do."
Neither man noticed the shadow that lingered beyond the wall — nor the raven that took flight from the heart tree, its wings black against the moon.
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End of Chapter 63
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