Disclaimer : I Own Nothing
After some time, once tempers cooled and courtly duties resumed, I began to notice a curious pattern. Daemon, though often restless, interacted only with Aemma and Gael. He seemed determined to temper my wife's constant need to coddle our youngest daughter—an impossible task, yet one he pursued with quiet persistence.
As for his service with the City Watch, I had little to reproach. From the reports brought to me, he carried out his duties with unexpected diligence. He trained with the men, patrolled with them, even drank with them at the Street of Silk. Yet, each time, he left after the third round, paying for one and refusing further indulgence. He never stayed to whore or to boast. He simply returned to his quarters, where he read or combed through reports long into the night.
It was… strange. For all his wildness, there was discipline buried beneath. Purpose, perhaps.
I had considered calling him before the full court, to announce the formal creation of his new office—Prince Commander of the City Watch. But I knew my grandson too well. In such a public setting, he would seize the moment to provoke, to demand the dissolution of his betrothal or utter some other sharp-tongued remark to sour the air.
So instead, I summoned him to a private audience.
What is it about him that unsettles me so? Saera, my mind whispered back.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen," the herald announced.
He entered with his usual swagger and pride—shoulders squared, chin high, the flicker of calculation in his burning eyes. His gaze swept the chamber, lingering briefly on Barth before he stopped a few paces short of me, choosing to stand rather than sit.
"Skoros otāpagon isse hārenkon issa, muña?" I asked quietly. (Why, grandson, I thought you were not someone who needed permission?)
His mouth twitched, eyes narrowed and spitting flames. "Why, Your Grace, have I ever not given your throne the respect it deserves?"
I narrowed my eyes. "So I am never to be your grandfather, then?"
"Why torment me, Your Grace, with false promises of affection when I am neither loved nor wanted in this keep?"
His exhaustion was plain—not the fatigue of labor, but the weariness that festers in the heart.
"Sit down," I said.
"No."
"Tell me, Daemon—why this continued prodding at my heels? These accusations, this defiance since your betrothal was announced?"
Daemon's jaw tightened, his tone clipped but steady. "Your Grace, your wife—mind you, I mean no disrespect—has a history of making poor matches. Let us not forget the last marriage consummated in this keep, when the bride was but ten-and-three. She was and is my friend. My cousin. And she was subjected to an atrocity I could not fathom—especially after I learned what such a 'union' truly means."
His voice roughened as he went on. "I have to restrain myself every time I see Viserys, resisting the urge to beat him bloody or geld him outright."
I held my tongue. There was venom in his words, but also truth. Even I was against this, but it was pushed by all those idiots. Being a king is not what it should mean—my blood being disrespected in my keep and me not being able to do anything, and the boy Viserys jumping on the girl and making sure she was always pregnant. Even I do not agree with this idiocy, and now it became a matter of their marriage.
"And now," he continued, "Her Grace expects me to marry a woman older than I am, simply to please herself with landing a blow on my father—a man who fought for his niece but is still being punished because of your decision. I am to be sent away because I am an inconvenience and am looking to have more prospects in life. That is the truth of it."
His temper flickered, but his voice never broke. "I pulled Gael from her mother's clutches; she still smothers my aunt with affection until nothing of her is left but obedience. The courtiers mock her—call her a 'sheep in dragon's skin.' She hears them, cries in silence, and her mother turns away, pretending not to notice. But I can't. Whatever the reason for that particular behavior to which you don't meddle—where your daughter is being made into a doll."
For a moment, he looked less like a prince and more like a man fighting ghosts he could not banish—with contempt and exhaustion in his eyes. Then the steel returned.
"And finally," he said, quieter now, "the greatest reason of all—you intend for Viserys to be king. A dragonless king." His eyes met mine, sharp as glass. "And if he is to be king, then I…" He paused, the words catching in his throat. "Skoriot syt īlvon naejot vestragon?" (For what reason must I bow to him?)
He swallowed, and for the first time, I saw the wound beneath the anger.
"He flaunts my place as a second son in my face," Daemon said angrily, restless, starting to move around. "For which I have no opinion on—I am the second son of Prince Baelon the Brave and never cared for the throne. On top of it, he has achieved nothing but being born before me. He drifts from feast to feast, praised as the realm's future by those Andal Seven-worshipping cunts as if he is the Crown Prince—not our father—when he doesn't have any qualities to be king. Instead of learning, he cannot even best a squire in arms. He has no mind for rule, no understanding of power—only the comfort of knowing you favor him because he is easy, and expects loyalty from me but talks down to me when I offered my life and loyalty to him freely."
His next words struck like iron. "And you, Your Grace—I will tell you plainly. If I could leave this family now, I would. I would cut all ties, take my dragon, and never look back. The Free Cities would welcome a dragonlord far more readily than his own kin have."
He inhaled slowly, his voice lowering. "But I remain for my blood, for the blood of the dragon is thick. I need nothing from you. I have never been interested in the throne. I have seen what it does to men—it devours them. I have watched you my entire life, sacrificing kin for peace, peace for pride, pride for the realm. I despise that. I would see the throne burn before I let it rule me."
He stood straighter, a ghost of that familiar arrogance creeping back, though it now felt like armor. "My children, if and when I have them, they will inherit nothing but what they earn. No crown, no lands bought with blood not their own. I will see them educated, capable, and free from this endless cycle of duty and disappointment."
His voice softened then, not with submission, but with fatigue. "That is all, Your Grace."
I did not answer at once. In truth, I did not know what to say. I saw before me not merely a defiant youth, but the reflection of every dragon this family had ever tamed—and perhaps, in doing so, broken.
Daemon stepped closer, his frustration tempered now by thoughtfulness.
"Then let me offer a solution rather than just complaints."
I raised a brow, intrigued despite myself, and gestured for him to continue.
"Call Rhaenys back," he said firmly. "Make her Hand in training. She deserves it. She has the mind for it. And if you truly wish to ensure no other daughter of House Targaryen is passed over again, then give her the power to learn."
I studied him carefully. "And what of Viserys?"
"He will learn as well," Daemon replied without hesitation. "Place him under the Master of Coin. Let him understand governance, wealth, and trade. If he is to be king, let him be a ruler who wields wisdom—not one who relies on leeches."
It was not an unwise suggestion.
"And you?" I asked.
Daemon smirked faintly, though there was little humor in it. "I will learn with them. Let each of us take on the duties of different councilors so that, in the future, there is no ignorance among us. You have always ruled with knowledge, grandsire. Why not ensure your successors do the same?"
I exhaled slowly, studying him. There was more to this than good intentions; Daemon never spoke without a hidden edge.
He did not disappoint.
"Nyke ūndegon se jorrāelagon hen ñuha lenton." (I understand the love of my house.)
"I know why you rejected Rhaenys," he continued. "I see the reasoning behind it—I even agree with it. You should have married her to my father or Viserys, for that matter. But I understand your logic. Corlys Velaryon would never have left the throne alone had Rhaenys ascended. He would have turned it into a Velaryon dynasty and bound it there. You were right to prevent that. But if you do not want this same situation to persist, then write succession laws that ensure it never happens again."
I leaned forward, intrigued despite myself. "And what would you propose?"
"Ensure that any man who seeks to wed a Targaryen princess comes with no lands of his own—only wealth enough to care for her." His tone gained conviction as he spoke. "Let him court the princess for six moons. If she accepts, they may wed, and he will be named Prince Consort. No political games, no houses gaining power through our women. Only her will deciding her match."
A bold idea. Clever, even.
"Further," he continued, "we build castles for the princesses and their consorts—strongholds loyal to the Crown, not their husbands' families. Their children will marry back into our line, ensuring no other house ever claims dragons or Valyrian blood."
I let out a quiet chuckle, shaking my head. "So, you would keep our blood pure while preventing others from reaching for power through our women?"
Daemon's smirk returned, sharper now. "You always say our blood shouldn't be disrespected. Shouldn't we then let them get that respect properly?"
Before I could respond, the herald's voice broke through the chamber.
"Prince Baelon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne. Prince Viserys Targaryen."
The great doors swung open. In strode Viserys, his expression drawn tight with irritation, his father beside him—a silent warning at his shoulder. The younger prince bore himself as though his title were a burden he wished to look heavier than it was.
Before any courtesies could be exchanged, Viserys spoke, his tone taut. "I hear talk of canceling the betrothal between Daemon and Lady Rhea Royce." His eyes flicked toward me. "Surely you are not entertaining such foolishness, Grandfather? Aemma is distressed over this."
Daemon's lip curled. "Foolishness, you say?" He leaned forward slightly, his voice edged like a blade honed on old resentment. "How could Aemma be distressed when we all know what truly troubles her? She is ten-and-four, and pregnant again after losing her first child. And now she must endure another so soon. Shall I tell you what truly distresses her?"
Viserys stiffened, fists clenching at his sides.
Daemon did not wait for permission. "'I must procure an heir for the throne,' you prattle everywhere when you are not even the heir—you are the heir's heir." He mimicked his brother's tone with cruel precision before glaring up at him. "So tell me, brother, why do you need an heir so desperately? We have a great king and his queen—who may yet give us another aunt or uncle at the rate they go."
Baelon exhaled sharply, warning in his gaze, but I felt my face warm. Daemon's smirk widened at my discomfort, with amusement dancing in his eyes.
"We have our father. Then you. Then me. And not to mention Rhaenys, who was the rightful heir of our uncle, Prince Aemon." Daemon's voice hardened, eyes gleaming. "So tell me, Viserys—what drives this frantic need for a son? What compels you to keep that poor girl beneath you whenever she is not with child?"
The silence that followed was a blade pressed to the throat.
Viserys' face flushed red—whether from shame or fury, even he might not have known. "Aemma knows her duty," he said at last, though his voice trembled slightly.
"Ah, duty," Daemon sneered. "As if I do not know her duty." He leaned forward, his tone dripping with mockery, his eyes looking at something like he was talking to a worm. "Then tell me, what is this duty that makes you so desperate? Even our grandfather, in all his wisdom, did not hound his queen when there was no heir at the start of his reign. Except, of course—" he smiled thinly "—for two women."
He let the implication hang.
"Go on, brother. Enlighten me."
Viserys' lips pressed into a line, his chest rising with restrained breath.
Daemon's voice lowered to a coaxing murmur. "Well?"
Viserys's composure cracked just slightly as he exhaled. "I had a dream."
Daemon went still. The air thickened—his muscles became taut, his breathing stopped, and his eyes burned, locked onto Viserys.
"I saw my son," Viserys said, his tone heavy with belief, "wearing a crown of black iron—Aegon the Conqueror's crown—seated upon the Iron Throne. The realm prospered beneath him. I would be the father of the Prince Who Was Promised."
The words fell like iron in water—silent, heavy, irreversible.
A long moment passed.
Then Daemon laughed.
It was not the charming laugh he used at court, nor the sardonic one he wielded as a weapon. This one was raw, jagged, almost wild. It echoed in the chamber like a thing unbound.
"Enough," I ordered sharply.
But Daemon only laughed harder before wiping his eyes, breath unsteady. "Tell me, Viserys," he wheezed, "do you even know High Valyrian? Or your histories?"
Viserys' nostrils flared. "Of course I do."
"Then you'd know there is no word for prince or princess in High Valyrian." Daemon's smirk was razor-thin. "And yet here you are, breeding a child for a prophecy you cannot even translate." His voice turned sharp. "Aegon's crown is made of Valyrian steel, not steel, you imbecile—even the word should feel shame to be used on you."
The laughter faded, leaving only disdain.
Viserys' face darkened, hands trembling at his sides. "You mock what you do not understand."
"No," Daemon said softly. "I mock fools who kill their wives with dreams."
"Enough, both of you," Baelon interjected, voice firm, cutting clean through the air. His gaze lingered on his elder son. "Viserys, we will be speaking of this later."
Viserys said nothing. He turned on his heel and strode from the chamber, anger and shame trailing in his wake.
Daemon leaned back, smirking faintly. "Well, that was fun."
I rubbed at my temple. "You are a menace, boy."
He grinned. "And yet, you keep me close."
Baelon exhaled through his nose, patience thinning and slumping in his chair. "Daemon, you push too far and fast, my son."
Daemon only shrugged, languid and self-satisfied. "Someone had to say it, Father. Viserys really thinks himself correct on every thought he has."
"And it had to be you, of course," I replied dryly. There was no true reprimand in it; there never was. He was a dragon—he could not help but burn.
Baelon rubbed at his temples, as though warding off an ache. "Your brother bears the weight of a crown, and the fear of failing it."
Daemon snorted. "Viserys wears a crown, aye — but does it truly weigh? When has he ever borne a burden without finding another to carry it for him? He clings to dreams he doesn't even understand. Our forebears had dragon dreams not to chase prophecy, but to fear it. They were warnings, not promises — and yet my brother mistakes them for destiny."
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "This division serves no one, Daemon. Least of all our house."
His smirk faded, but his eyes still burned with that restless light. "House Targaryen will endure, as it always has. Even when its kings and heirs lose themselves chasing ghosts."
Baelon fixed him with a steady stare. "And if that ghost is real? If Viserys is right?"
Daemon barked a short, humorless laugh. "Then the gods must have a wicked sense of humor." He glanced toward the door his brother had stormed through. "He is not Aegon the Conqueror. He is not Maegor. He is not you. And he is certainly no dragon dreamer like Daenys. He has one dream and crowns himself a prophet."
Baelon's silence was thoughtful, not defensive.
Finally, he asked, his voice quieter now, steady and searching:
"You say he is not Aegon, nor Maegor, nor Jaehaerys. Then tell me, Daemon—if your brother is unworthy of his dreams… what is it you dream of?"
For once, Daemon had no immediate retort. His smirk faltered, and his eyes darkened — something shadowed flickered beneath his gaze, half-buried, half-formed.
"I dream of a simple life, roaming on Caraxes, touring the world, living with family. If I marry someone, then taking them with me. And if I have children, making sure they are not in even the vicinity of their uncles' clutches."
I watched him carefully. Daemon was many things — brash, proud, irreverent — but at his core, he was a man searching for something beyond the confines of his brother's future rule.
Baelon sighed, pushing himself to his feet. "I will speak with Viserys. You—" he pointed at Daemon "—will keep your tongue in check. There is already too much division in this family. Do not add to it."
Daemon waved a lazy hand, as though dismissing the very concept of restraint. "Yes, yes, I'll be on my best behavior."
The glint in his eyes betrayed the lie.
Baelon saw it too, but chose silence with a slump of his shoulders and a sigh. He turned and left the chamber with the purposeful stride of a man already weary of mending wounds no one else wanted healed.
Daemon leaned back, stretching out his legs, the picture of unbothered satisfaction. A man who had said his piece — and, in his mind, won.
I sighed, rubbing at my temple. "You truly enjoy setting things aflame, don't you?"
He grinned, teeth flashing like a wolf's. "What's the point of having dragons if we don't?"
Later, I watched my grandson's crimson cloak disappear down the corridor after his obligatory farewells. When the doors shut, silence returned to the chamber — heavy, almost reverent.
Baelon sank into the chair beside me. The flicker of the hearth painted his face in lines of gold and shadow. The silence that stretched between us was the kind born not of peace, but of exhaustion.
Then the herald's voice echoed through the hall.
"Her Grace, Queen Alysanne."
Alysanne entered with the composed confidence of a woman who had ruled beside me for half a century. Her gaze swept the room before settling on us both, sharp and assessing. She read tension the way others read scrolls.
"You sent for me?" she asked, tone measured but carrying the faintest edge of curiosity.
I gestured for her to sit. "Yes, my dear. We have spoken at length about Daemon's… predicament."
"His predicament?" she repeated, arching a brow.
"His betrothal," Baelon clarified, his voice firm. "It has gone on long enough. I have decided that it must be annulled."
Alysanne stiffened. Her hands curled against the armrest of her chair, though her tone remained calm. "You would undo a betrothal sanctioned by me? One that we agreed upon? One that you promised me would be upheld?"
"Yes," I said before Baelon could reply. "We have both come to the conclusion that forcing this match upon him will only widen the divide within our family. It serves no purpose now."
Alysanne's gaze darted between us — angry and smoldering, clamping it down smoothly, she asked,
"He must be married? Who will it be then? Where will he be settled?"
Baelon scoffed lightly. "Settled? The boy is miserable, Mother. He's made his hatred of the match clear. If we force it, the marriage will rot before it begins."
I leaned forward, steepling my fingers. "I have watched him closely these past months, Alysanne. He has not given himself to excess — no whoring, no reckless brawls, no wasteful pursuits. He spends his time with Aemma and Gael, and with the Watch. He reads, he trains, he learns. This is not the conduct of a feckless rogue. He is trying, in his own way, to build something resembling purpose."
Alysanne's lips thinned, still trying to push for the match. "And what purpose will he have without a wife? He is a prince, Jaehaerys. He must wed. He must secure the line."
Baelon exhaled sharply through his nose. "He is not the heir, Mother. That burden does not rest upon him — and yet you would press it upon him as though it did. Enough."
Her eyes narrowed. "And you think indulging him will bring him closer to us? That leniency will breed loyalty? That, suddenly, he will not insist on a Valyrian bride — the only match being Gael?"
I met her gaze evenly. "If we force this, we will drive him further away. He may still leave, yes — but better he leave on his own terms than in resentment. Not as a man bound to a fate he despises."
Alysanne's jaw tightened. "If he leaves, he will not return."
I sighed softly. "Then let him leave as a dragon by choice, not as one chained who burns his kin behind him."
Her lips parted, ready to argue, but she faltered when she saw the resolve in both our faces. This was not a debate — the decision had already been made. The queen's posture eased, the steel in her spine giving way to reluctant understanding.
"And what do you propose instead?" she asked quietly.
Baelon and I exchanged a brief glance before he spoke. "We let him find his own path. He's proposed something... constructive. Structured education for the royal line. Rhaenys to serve as Hand-in-training. Viserys under the Master of Coin. And Daemon himself will rotate among the Small Council, learning each post."
Surprise flickered across Alysanne's face. "And you believe that will satisfy him?"
"Not satisfy," I replied with a faint smile. "But occupy. And with Daemon, that is victory enough."
She huffed — not in amusement, but in resignation. "And if it fails?"
Baelon's expression hardened. "Then we meet that storm when it comes. But forcing his hand now will ensure we lose him for good."
I reached across the table, taking her hand in mine. Her skin was warm, her pulse steady. "We have already lost too many of our children to pride, to grief, to duty. Let us not lose another because we refused to bend."
For a long moment, she held my gaze. Then she sighed — the fight leaving her shoulders. "Very well," she murmured. "Let it be done."
I gave her hand a soft squeeze before releasing it. Baelon leaned back, the tension in his frame easing just slightly.