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Jaehaerys POV
The chamber was dim, quiet but for the faint hiss of the hearth. The years weighed heavier on Jaehaerys tonight than they had in a long time. He sat still, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying age more than emotion — though emotion, he realized, was not absent.
Daemon's voice still rang in his ears — sharp, young, raw, and honest in a way that only youth could afford to be. Insolence was one thing; truth, spoken without fear, was another matter entirely. And gods, the boy had spoken truth.
He rubbed his thumb against his temple, as if he could scrape the words off his mind.
Alysanne sat across from him, her back straight, every line of her body controlled, yet he could read the tension in her stillness. The faint tap of her finger against the armrest gave her away.
To her left sat Barth, his expression thoughtful, the flicker of candlelight playing across his patient face. The man looked like he had seen this coming long before Jaehaerys had.
Baelon stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight — every inch the dutiful son and weary father.
"He is out of control," Baelon said, his tone disciplined but bleeding frustration. "Drunkenness, whoring, insolence — he wears his disobedience like armor."
Barth's eyes flicked up, calm but piercing. "Or perhaps because he sees no honor elsewhere, my prince."
The words hung in the air, quiet but cutting.
Jaehaerys let out a low breath, slow and deliberate. "Abandoned? He is my blood. Raised in this very keep, tutored, fed, armored, educated — blessed by fire and name both. He has everything a Targaryen could ask for."
Barth inclined his head slightly. "Everything, except affection that means something."
The king's eyes flickered toward his son. Baelon looked insulted — wounded, even — but said nothing.
"Father," Baelon finally muttered, his voice like iron against gravel, "I have had it with this family feud. There must be something that can be done. You are pushing Daemon dangerously close to self-exile."
Alysanne's voice, when it came, was soft — but it carried a sharpness that made the other three fall silent. "And pray tell why should such concession be made," she said. "The betrothal has been agreed upon and sanctioned by your father. There is nothing else to be done."
The old king's breath caught. He had not heard that tone from her in years — not since Aemon's death; she was still punishing Baelon for being the one who named him heir instead of Rhaenys.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost sacred.
He stared at the candlelight, the way it quivered against the stone wall, and thought of Daemon's words again: Everyone in this family who tried to do their duty has either died or been exiled.
A cruel line — because it was true.
Aemon. Alyssa. Rhaena. Aerea. Even Rhaenys, spirited away by pride and disappointment. Duty had cost them all something.
Baelon broke the silence first. "He is a boy with too much fire and too little restraint. I will not let him destroy or exile himself."
Barth's voice was calm, but the conviction underneath it was solid stone. "Then give him something to burn for, rather than against."
Baelon frowned. "You mean to use him as a weapon?"
"I mean to let him become one properly," Barth replied. "The Stepstones have once again started to bleed our ships dry. Lord Tarth has begged for aid. Prince Daemon is young, yes, but he is no longer a child. Let him prove himself where it matters. Let him matter."
"No." Baelon's answer came instantly, sharp enough to slice the thought clean in two. "He is fifteen. You would have me send my son to war? To pirates and cutthroats?"
Jaehaerys did not answer immediately. His eyes were far away — somewhere between memory and calculation. He saw again the fire in Daemon's eyes when the boy spoke to him earlier, that mixture of pride and wounded yearning. A wildfire left untended.
And Alysanne — gods bless her perceptiveness — saw it too. "Do not send him, Jaehaerys. He will think this has been a tacitly approved exile and he will not return even for our deaths," she warned. "He expects to be cast aside. That is why he mocks us — he's already made his peace with it."
Baelon exhaled, tired, furious. "Then what do you propose? Let him rot in taverns while whores sing his name? While our sigil becomes a jest among the smallfolk?"
Barth looked to the king. "There is a difference between indulgence and direction, Your Grace. Prince Daemon's hunger is not for wine or flesh — those are simply the things he uses to fill what you have left empty. Give him a purpose, or he'll make one for himself and we may not be ready for it."
Jaehaerys' hands steepled before his lips. For a long moment, only the crackle of the hearth spoke. When he did answer, it was quiet — the quiet of a man who already knew the shape of the future, and did not like it.
"No," he said softly. "We will not send him to Tarth. Not yet. But my Hand is right. He needs a place. A reason to stay."
He closed his eyes briefly, and in that breath, he felt the shadow of prophecy — not the divine kind, but the simple inevitability of fire meeting wind. "If we do not give him a place," he said finally, "he will make one for himself — but not amongst us."
And that, he thought grimly, would be the day the realm remembers his name forever.
Daemon POV
Caraxes coiled in the torchlight like a living storm. His red scales glistened under the dim light of the Dragonpit, steam curling from his nostrils. I placed my hand along the warm ridge of his snout, feeling the faint vibration of a growl rumbling beneath the surface.
He looked at me — not like a pet or a mount, but as something equal. That was the only kind of bond worth having.
"Valzȳrys," I whispered, pressing my forehead against him.
(Brother.)
The word hung in the still air before I turned away.
My black courser waited outside. The reins were cool against my palms, the air thick with the smell of salt and smoke. The ride through the city was familiar — the kind of familiarity that sank into your bones after years of wandering these streets.
The city stank of sweat and fish and burning oil — real smells, unperfumed and honest.
The tavern wasn't much to look at, but it welcomed me like an old scar. The moment I entered, voices rose — laughter, shouts, the sound of tankards striking wood.
Here, I was not the second son or the forgotten prince.
Here, I was Prince of the city, Daemon Targaryen.
I tossed a few silver stags on the counter. "Drinks for everyone," I said, and the roar that followed was genuine, unpolished, and hungry.
Hands clapped my shoulders, women whispered promises against my ear, men called my name with drunken loyalty. It wasn't love, but it was something that filled the hollow.
But beneath the laughter, I heard the whisper — soft, cautious.
"Your Grace… it's not safe for you. The watch has abandoned their rounds. Thieves rule the streets. The guards haven't been paid in moons."
The words snapped through the haze like cold water. I drained my cup, slammed it down, and stood. The noise around me died almost instantly.
I wanted to laugh; all I could manage was a hollow sigh.
If the crown wouldn't protect the city, then I would.
The barracks of the City Watch were a disgrace. Half the men were drunk, the rest asleep or pretending not to see me. I could smell the piss and spilled ale before I reached the doorway.
"Gather every man," I ordered, voice cutting through the rot. The sound of command made them stir, confused and wary.
As they assembled, I paced before them — the old wood creaking beneath my boots. "You shame yourselves," I said. "You shame this city. You shame the name of the Watch."
Murmurs. Fear. A few angry stares.
"I've heard you're not paid," I continued. "Fine. From this night forward, you'll be paid double. By me. You will have proper armor, cudgels, and daggers forged at my expense. You will walk the streets again — and the people will sleep without fear."
They were silent. No one dared move.
"Any man who doesn't want this can leave. Give your name to the scribes. You'll go without punishment."
No one moved.
"Good," I said. "Because those who stay will answer to me. I will train with you at dawn. I will fight beside you. You will not steal from the people, nor harm them. But if I find out any of you try—"
A roar cut through the air, deep and primal. Caraxes. The walls trembled. A few men flinched.
"I'm sure we understand each other now," I said with a cold smile.
"YES, MY PRINCE!" the Watch bellowed back, the words half fear, half devotion.
"Good. Tomorrow we begin."
When I left, the night was quieter. Ser Harold Westerling rode beside me, hesitant. "Is this wise, my prince?"
"No, Ser," I said simply. "But it's necessary. The people of this city still call me their prince, and when they have to warn me for my own safety, how safe can they be?"
My voice hardened, not from pride but from something sharper, heavier. "They still look at me and see something worth following. The rest of them—Father, the King and his precious council—don't see the rot beneath the marble. They talk of peace while the streets decay. But I see it."
Ser Harold said nothing for a long moment. Then quietly, "And if the council disapproves?"
I let a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. "Then they'll finally have a reason to fear me."
The wind bit against my face as we rode, cold and clean, carrying the smell of smoke and the sea. Far off, Caraxes roared — a low, rolling thunder across the dark.
I looked toward the sound, feeling something old and fierce stir inside me.
It's been a while since I set something ablaze.