(99 AC)
Runestone was not a home; it was a tomb built for the living.
Two years into his marriage, Prince Daemon Targaryen felt his soul turning to grey stone. The Vale was a land of echoes—echoes of winds against the mountains, echoes of waves against the cliffs, and echoes of his own frustration bouncing off the silent walls of the castle.
He tried to find solace in the sky. Every morning, he mounted Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, and tore through the clouds, terrifying the mountain clans and scattering the sheep herds of the local lords. It was the only time he felt like a Targaryen. But dragons must land eventually, and the ground was always waiting.
"You burned Lord Redfort's pasture," Rhea Royce said. She didn't shout; she stated it like a judge reading a sentence.
They were in the dining hall. Daemon was picking at a plate of venison, bored out of his mind. Rhea stood at the head of the table, dressed in her riding leathers, smelling of horse and rain.
"It was an accident," Daemon drawled, not looking up. "Caraxes sneezed. The beast has a cold. This damp air does not agree with him. Or me."
"Do not mock me, Daemon," Rhea said, slamming her gloved hand on the table. "Lord Redfort is a bannerman of House Arryn. His grievance is my grievance. You are not in King's Landing. You cannot burn what you please and expect the smallfolk to clap."
Daemon dropped his fork. The clatter rang in the hall. He stood up slowly, his violet eyes flashing with dangerous amusement. "I am a Prince of the Blood. I am the grandson of the Old King. Do you truly think I care about Redfort's sheep?"
He walked towards her, invading her personal space. Most women would have stepped back. Rhea Royce stood her ground, her hand resting instinctively on the dagger at her belt.
"You may be a Prince," she said, her voice dropping to a icy whisper, "but here, you are merely my husband. And a poor one at that. You produce no heirs, you govern no lands, and you offer nothing but headaches. You are useless to me, Daemon."
The insult hung in the air. Useless.
Daemon's hand twitched towards Dark Sister. For a second, he imagined drawing the Valyrian steel. But he saw the look in her eyes—she wasn't afraid. She was disappointed. And that stung more than fear.
"One day," Daemon hissed, leaning down to her ear, "I will be free of this bronze cage. And when I am, I will not look back."
"Then go," Rhea retorted. "Fly away, little dragon. See if the world tolerates your tantrums better than I do."
(101 AC)
The escape did not come from a fight, but from a funeral.
The raven arrived in the dead of night, its black wings wet with the storms of the Narrow Sea. Maester Hyle brought the scroll to Daemon's chambers, his hands trembling.
"My Prince," the old man said. "News from King's Landing. Dark news."
Daemon broke the seal. He read the words once, then twice. The parchment crumpled in his fist.
Prince Baelon Targaryen is dead. A burst belly. The Spring Prince is gone.
Daemon sat on the edge of the bed, a sudden hollowness in his chest. His father. The man he idolized above all others. The heir to the Iron Throne was dead, and the succession was now in chaos.
Grief hit him, yes, but close on its heels came something else: Opportunity.
With Baelon dead, the Old King Jaehaerys would need to name a new heir. The realm would fracture. Viserys, Daemon's brother, had a claim. Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, had a claim.
A war of words was coming. A Great Council would be called.
Daemon stood up, his grief transmuting into purpose. He began to pack his things—not clothes, but weapons. Armor. Maps.
The door creaked open. Rhea stood there, holding a candle. She saw the open trunk, the frantic energy in his movements. She saw the letter on the floor.
"Your father," she said softly. It was the first time her voice held something akin to sympathy. "I am sorry, Daemon."
Daemon didn't look at her. He was buckling his sword belt. "I am leaving at first light."
"For the funeral," she assumed.
"For the Crown," he corrected, turning to face her. His eyes were burning with a fire she hadn't seen in four years. "Viserys will need me. The lords will try to bypass him for Laenor Velaryon. I will not let that happen. I will gather an army if I have to. I will remind them that House Targaryen is the blood of the dragon, not the seahorse."
Rhea watched him. She saw the ambition radiating off him. He wasn't just grieving a father; he was chasing a destiny. And she realized, with a sudden clarity, that he was never coming back. Not really.
"You are going to fight for your brother's claim," she said.
"I am going to make him King," Daemon vowed. "And the brother of the King does not live in the Vale herding sheep."
He walked past her, stopping only for a second at the doorway. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't kiss her. He simply said, "Do not wait for me, wife. The Iron Throne calls."
Rhea listened to his boots fading down the stone corridor. She walked to the window and looked out at the dark silhouette of Caraxes in the courtyard. The dragon was stirring, sensing his rider's intent.
"Go," she whispered to the darkness, extinguishing her candle. "Go and play your game of thrones, Daemon. But do not think the Vale will forget that you left us."
As Daemon took flight an hour later, the roar of Caraxes shook the foundations of Runestone one last time. He soared towards the south, towards the capital, towards Harrenhal and the Great Council. He left behind a wife he hated and a land he despised, convinced that he was finally free.
He did not know that fate has a cruel sense of irony. He thought he was leaving the Vale forever, but the gods of the First Men were patient. They knew he would return. And when he did, the debt would be paid in blood.