Chapter Text
The maesters murmured amongst themselves for days after the birth, with lesser courtiers chiming in at times, whispering about the queerness of the young prince: silent, yet according to the few maids that were allowed near him by the babe’s mother, he burned hotter than a Dornish summer’s day.
What newborn does not weep? Does not shed any tears at all? Instead just watches those that stand over his hand-carved dragon crib with those deep purple eyes. No smiles, no tears, just staring. And that damned heat.
The royal family must have heard the whispers. How could they not? Yet, it was only when the Prince of Dragonstone confronted Lord Rickard Connington about his gossiping and threatened to disembowel him in front of his young wife and children, that the overt speculation died down. Though Prince Aemon knew there was still talk of his beloved sennight-old nephew within the halls of the Red Keep, at least it no longer happened within his or his lady wife’s earshot, nor that of his brother and their sister.
When born, the prince’s eyes had been the darkest of purples, closer to black than anything, yet with an unmistakable shine to them. As expected, the few tufts of hair on the babe’s head were the traditional Targaryen platinum, but more silver than white. The maesters believed that both might change in time. His eyes could lighten up and his hair might to on more of a blonde or white hue, but decades later, both would remain the same.
The birth of any prince or princess of the blood was always a cause for celebration, and while the King was jubilant at the birth of his youngest grandchild, it was Alysanne who adored the newborn prince above all else. The Good Queen would spend entire days within the young prince’s chambers, just looking at him, while he stared back at her.
Daemon. A name the prince and princess had only settled upon a day prior and which would be formally announced to the court soon enough. While many would assume the newborn prince was named after the Conciliator’s uncle and former Hand of the King, or even the Conqueror’s first Master of Ships and his most loyal of supporters, those who truly knew the Spring Prince and his sister-wife knew better.
Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa, more than any Targaryen since the sorceress queen had perished four decades earlier, had a deep-rooted admiration of the ancient Freehold and its near-mythical prowess. When dragons still roamed the sky by the dozens, grand buildings were erected, perfect roads lay with the magic of blood and fire, and Lords Freeholders were worshipped as gods come flesh, a great dragonlord sat as First Lord for more than half a century… Daemon the Blackhair.
The Blackhair, much like his name suggested, missed the famed Valyrian white hair. Born a scion of the House Volterys, many assumed he was a bastard born of his mother’s dalliance with one of the lower blood, a servant maybe, though his powerful father seemingly paid the rumours no mind. His ascendency to the parriarchy of his ancient house at the age of seven and ten would have been considered controversial if he had not yet claimed the dragon Ghidorax. Nearing her fourth century, the grand she-dragon was considered the mightiest mount in at least ten generations.
Though the Volteryses were considered traders rather than warriors or politicians, Daemon would make a name for himself within the Civic Legions, and be granted command of its most elite of brigades at the young age of one and twenty. There started his meteoric rise: from command of the First Brigade to the entire Civic Legions, Archonship of Mantarys and Consulship of the Gierūlnon – the ancient assembly of lords freeholders – and finally, to the vaulted office of First Lord. The most powerful man in all of Valyria, maybe even the known world. For three-and-fifty years, the Blackhair sat on the Blood Throne and in that time he brought Ghis to heel, forced the Dothraki from their borders, and even settled an outpost in the west.
Who better to name their son for?
─── ⚜ ♛ ⚜ ───
Prince Daemon had always been the most Valyrian of Jaehaerys’ descendants. Even as a young boy he exuded the fire of the dragonlords of old. It’s what made the Old King and his Good Queen particularly hesitant around him. Jaehaerys more so than Alysanne, but even she had a disturbing glint of fear in her eyes when around her grandson in her twilight years. Men and women whispered that while he was a babe the Good Queen could not stop holding her grandson. How she’d sing him Valyrian cradle songs and walk with him for hours through the garden of the Keep, but as the boy grew older, and according to a few brave enough to speak the notion out loud, grew colder and more vicious, the queen grew more distant.
While the young prince never had any doubt that they both at least loved him, they were quite obvious in their preference for Viserys and Rhaenys respectively in their later years. Luckily, Daemon did not care. Fear? Love? Either was fine to him. As long as they were loyal. As loyal to the House of the Dragon as he was.
So, at times he let the fire take control. Like, when the prince was only five-and-ten and he challenged Ser Eden Peake to a duel when the Reacher knight insulted his aunt Gael at a feast. The young princess had been enamoured with the dashing knight but was brought to tears when she heard him call her a lackwit to his friends and family, who all sniggered behind their handkerchiefs.
Though Daemon was still a squire at the time, the adult knight had no choice but to accept his challenge. After all, the Targaryen prince had been quite loud in challenging him and had insulted his honour – and that of his mother – in the process. There were mentions of bovines and the exchange of coin. The laughs were rife after that.
The King and Queen were not happy, and neither was the council at that, but little could be done. Daemon knew that his father wanted to intervene but was ordered by the King not to. The prince was aware his grandfather hoped the duel might show him some humility, if not outright shame upon loss to a knight.
Instead, madness ensued. Ser Eden Peake did not last three minutes. Prince Daemon unleashed such utter violence upon him that it is rumoured even the King had to glance away. Those in attendance claim that women retched at the sight of Ser Eden when it was all said and done.
Ser Harrold had been standing guard on that fateful day. It was only this third moon as a Kingsguard. Before that, he had served in the palace guard and for six years was even honoured to have been the young prince’s swordmaster at Prince Baelon’s request – Daemon had managed to drive away all other instructors. Excluding the Prince of Dragonstone, Ser Harrold might have been the one to know the young prince best of all.
They had spent some time in the Riverlands fighting highwaymen that plagued the region. Daemon was a mere boy, yet his sword was almost an extension of him. A born swordsman that one. He cut down dozens of bandits by himself. Grown men fell under his sword or swords if he was inclined to use two.
Harrold had a great fondness for the prince but even he had felt a sense of unease that fateful day. Daemon exhibited bloodlust and cruelty that he had never shown before. After having disarmed the Peake knight, Daemon had thrown away his sword and used that which he had been granted by the gods: his hands and feet. The sight of it was horrendous, as were the sounds. When the knight’s wailing had died out, Ser Eden was unable to muster up any sounds but soft weeping and grunts, for minutes on end the only sounds that rang through the arena were the shattering of bones and the ripping of muscles and sinews.
Though Ser Eden’s mother begged for mercy, the prince showed her no such regard. Even Septon Barth, some claim by order of the king, very nearly begged the young prince to show Ser Eden mercy but Daemon just went on and ignored them all. The rules of the duel were clear. No one could intervene. By the end of it all, Ser Eden was a mangled mess, his life snuffed out, and Prince Daemon stood victorious, covered in the knight’s blood and having ripped the knight’s tongue out, to offer it to his aunt as a tribute. The whispers would start not soon after… Maegor come again.
What Ser Harrold remembered the most was the prince’s eyes – they shined with an almost unnatural light. A boy of five and ten had just ripped to pieces a man grown, a man of two and twenty. Covered in blood from head to toe. His teeth were stained from when he tore the knight’s flesh off. Maegor come again or not, Harrold knew that Daemon was the most dragonlord out of them all, and if that wasn’t a scary thought.
The prince had always been a little odd, the Kingsguard had been told by many. Speaking to himself in High Valyrian and at times seemingly spacing out for a few seconds at a time. The late Ser Petyr Darry, who had been the prince’s sworn shield until he died when the prince was three-and-ten, had told him once that the prince was frighteningly astute. It was almost as if he could predict what would happen before it happened.
The Spring Prince had once confided in him that Daemon had always preferred the women of their house: his mother the Princess Alyssa, and his aunts, the Princesses Saera, Viserra and Gael, and his grandmother, the Good Queen. Always running behind them, soaking in their affections. At least until his mother died, the princess Saera fled the Seven Kingdoms, the Princesses Viserra and Gael perished as well, and somewhere along the way a rift formed between grandmother and grandson.
Harrold loved Daemon. He shouldn’t for a Kingsguard renounced all previous loyalties, but he had known the man for too long. When he was all alone, he was not above admitting to himself that he preferred the Rogue Prince over the king, and sometimes feared if that love could ever interfere with his divine duty. For while he did not fear the prince, he knew better than to think he was more bark than bite. The opposite was true.
So when news of the prince’s arrival in the city, the morn of the Heir’s Tourney, reached him, rather than tell the king, he told the Princess Rhaenyra. Because while Daemon loved his brother, Rhaenyra was the apple of his eye. The young princess had chests of invaluable jewels, cloths and silks, and even a gem-encrusted dagger or two to prove it. All gifted by the Rogue Prince.
“Gods be good.” The prince sat the Iron Throne, more comfortably than either the king or his predecessor ever sat it, making Ser Harrold think about what could have been.
It had only been recently that the Rogue Prince had returned to the capital after an absence of more than half a decade, having spent his time warring and trading in the east, only returning upon being summoned by his king, returning a wealthy man.
“It's all right, ser,” he heard the princess say, asking him to stay behind while she talked with her uncle.
He did not fear Prince Daemon would harm his niece, but the keep was infested with rats and snakes, and as such, Ser Harrold made sure to always keep a close watch on his charge.
Though the throne room had exceptional acoustics, the knight heard little of the conversation between uncle and niece, stationed at the door as he was, but did notice the prince drape a necklace over the princess’ neck.
“Will you ride in the tourney, my prince?” Harrold queried as the three walked towards the godswood.
“Of course, old friend,” The prince almost whispered, “It would do the city good to remember their prince’s might.”
“His might with a lance?” Harrold mocked his old squire.
“Lance, sword, dragon. It’s all the same. I have no peers in any.”
And just like that, their conversation was over.
─── ⚜ ♛ ⚜ ───
“Commander on the floor!” Randyll Barret, Captain of the Dragon’s Gate shouted with near-uncontainable glee as the men of the City Watch stood tall.
Regal in his Valyrian steel helmet and elaborate armour, topped off with his silk cloak, Daemon walked amongst his men, “When I took command of the Watch, you were stray mongrels... starving and undisciplined. Now... you're a pack of hounds.”
The City Watchmen started howling in unison.
“You're sated and honed for the hunt. My brother's city has fallen into squalor. Crime of every breed has been allowed to thrive. No longer. Beginning tonight, the criminals of King's Landing will learn to fear the colour gold.”
Upon being named Commander of the City Watch two moons prior, Daemon had moved into the barracks of the King’s’ Gate and had reshaped the entire Watch. Through the few spies he had, he was able to weed out the rotten apples. Those corrupt or just corrupted were killed, regardless of their pedigree. Daemon cared little whether they were highborn or lowborn. Death came for all who failed him, regardless of whom their sire may be.
From dawn to sunset three thousand men were honed into fine weapons, to be wielded at the crown’s command, though ultimately loyal to their princely commander. A rigorous training schedule trimmed the herd from five thousand to three thousand, but a fine three thousand. While he would not claim any of them were expert swordsmen, they were a fine vanguard, and Daemon’s lieutenant and seven captains were excellent warriors and strategists, and more importantly, loyal to the House of the Dragon.
However, the prince had not returned to the capital to serve as Commander. No, six moons prior his brother had nearly begged for his aid in the Dornish Marches, where the young Prince Qoren Martell, heir to the reigning Princess of Dorne, had been pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable to the Seven Kingdoms. The ceasefire between the realm and Dorne had always been tenuous at best, with both sides resenting the other’s influence and ambition or in Dorne’s case, repeated resistance to Targaryen rule.
That was his role. Viserys could scorn him all he wanted but Daemon was all he had. Daemon was his sword. Daemon was his dragon. If he had not raised an army, if he had not taken Caraxes to Harrenhal, despite the king’s order not to, and made them remember that while Viserys may not ride a dragon any longer, his brother did, the Velaryon lady would have sat the conqueror’s throne. After all, the Princess Rhaenys had Meleys and the might and wealth of the Velaryon fleet, while Prince Viserys had neither, and while Viserys had the Vale and the Riverlands, the princess had the North and the Stormlands, equalizing them, and thus Daemon was the deciding factor. Though feared and hated equally as much as he was loved and admired, no one could deny the prince’s might with a sword or his dragon. His grand show of force at the Great Council brokered no doubt. He would kill and maim, burn and destroy all in the name of his brother’s claim.
Upon his return to the capital on dragonback and with a small fleet at his back, the People’s Prince was welcomed back with great pomp and circumstance. A grand tourney was organized in his honour, as well as a hunt and a feast. Though he knew why his brother was buttering him up, Daemon did not mind it. Despite not having seen him in six long years, the Rogue Prince had not forgotten his dismissals as Master of Laws and Master of Coin, both within the span of six moons.
For his good-sister and niece, he had brought scores of expensive and luxurious gifts: dozens of rolls of near-invaluable Naathi silk, cloths and laces from the Further East, leathers from the Dothraki, hair dyes and skin paint from the lands of Yi Ti, a few Valyrian steel jewels and weapons, and many others. The opulence bestowed upon the queen and the princess had surely raised the hackles of the female courtiers, but the prince cared little about the parasites that resided at court.
Soon after the feast, the king asked him to command the assembled royal armies and put an end to the skirmishes on the Reach and Stormlands borders. It was Otto’s puce face that convinced Daemon to accept the responsibility.
It was Lyman who had told him that Ser Otto Hightower had tried to convince the king to name his eldest son, Ser Gwayne, commander of the royal armies the king was assembling, and thus be allowed to put down the Dornish rebels but had the king laugh in his face. A puppet Viserys might be at times but even he knew that Daemon was needed here, and at the advice of his queen had him summoned home to face the grave threat from the south.
The prince’s decisive victory in the Dornish Marches had the king offer Daemon command of the City Watch, against his Hand’s wishes, with Viserys hoping to repair the fractured relationship with his beloved little brother.
So, command he took.
That faithful night, for hours on end the City Watchmen would butcher rapers and thieves, as well as corrupt septons and maesters. Though the exercise was certainly brutal, the city was cleaned up. No more brothels and fighting pits that used children and no more septons and maesters that abused them. Men who beat their wives had their every finger broken and merchants that overcharged the poor had their wares confiscated and handed out amongst the smallfolk. It was a dark night for the city but its people remembered. They remembered their prince.
Though they knew of the king and his queen that resided within the keep, neither had been seen amongst the people in nearly half a decade. The queen used to have her programs but they had been abolished in the past few years. No more public fountains, no more healers for the poor or toys for orphans, and certainly no more bread for the starving. The smallfolk yearned for acknowledgement and the prince had given it to them.
In some corners of the capital, the people wished for a new king. A better king. A stronger king. And though no names were mentioned, everyone knew whom they were talking about.
In the Keep, however, a son spoke to his father about the atrocities committed that night, and the father held hope to strike a blow at his foe.
─── ⚜ ♛ ⚜ ───
Clad in his armour, caked with blood and grime, Daemon sat to the left of the king’s empty chair in the small council chambers. To his left, the Master of Laws, the Grand Maester, and the Master of Coin, while opposite the king’s chair sat Lord Corlys Velaryon, the wealthiest lord in the realm and Master of Ships.
Daemon knew there would be mention of his campaign during the small council meeting. Better his brother hears from him, rather than just his Hand.
“It was an unprecedented roundup of criminals of every ilk. Your brother made a public show of it, meting out the summary judgments himself. I'm told they needed a two-horse cart to haul away the resulting dismemberments when it was done.”
Daemon smirked at the grating voice of the Hand.
However, it was the king’s sigh and reply that annoyed Daemon more than anything else, “Gods be good.” The prince doubted he meant their gods – the Fourteen Flames. No, his brother probably meant to invoke the Andals’ false gods.
“The Prince cannot be allowed to act with this kind of unchecked impunity.”
Both noticed him as Ser Otto trailed off.
“Brother,” Daemon greeted almost mockingly.
“Daemon.”
With that, the king sat down and Daemon turned his damned smirk toward the Hand. “Carry on. You were saying something about my impunity.”
“You are to explain your doings with the City Watch.” Otto puffed himself up.
Daemon merely chortled, “I do not answer to dragonless men.”
Otto grew redder by the second, “I am the Hand of the King. I speak…”
“You speak for the King when he is not present. And even then I might not listen.” Daemon interrupted with his usual flair for impertinence, “And while I know he is not the most imposing of men, I can at least see him sitting to my right. Can you not, Ser Otto?”
The entire council knew exactly why the prince used Otto’s true title. A second son with no lands and no titles he was, and it had always rankled the man. While Lord Hobert Hightower was not incompetent by any stretch of the imagination, it was clear that the difficult relationship between the two brothers could be lain at the feet of Ser Otto believing himself to have been fitter to succeed their deceased father as Lord of Oldtown.
“Nobles from every corner of the realm are right now descending upon King's Landing for my brother's tourney, which is to commence in a mere few days. Over the past decade, the city has descended into lawlessness. Wealthy merchants rob the poor. Pickpockets steal what little the smallfolk have left, as do home robbers. Maesters and septons fuck children. You mightn't know this unless you left the safety of the Red Keep, but much of King's Landing is seen by the smallfolk as lawless and terrifying. Our city should be safe for all its people.”
Grand Maester Mellos started blustering, as Daemon knew he would, “I am sure the prince is mistaken. Men of the Citadel or the Faith would never lower themselves…”
“I decapitated four Maesters and two acolytes and castrated three septons and a sworn brother. One of the septons I caught with his cock in a ten-year-old girl, while another had brought a dog into a whore’s chambers and attempted to… do things with the two,” the distaste on the prince’s face evident for all, “Do not tell of what these men would do because I have seen what they do.” Daemon said, adding his title almost mockingly, “Grand Maester.”
“I agree that such acts are atrocious and should be punished, Daemon, but the smallfolk whisper amongst each other. The brutality you inflected upon the guilty will reach the ears of the lords and ladies, and this only days before our queen is to welcome the Prince of Dragonstone to the world.”
From the corner of his eye, Daemon could see Otto smirking at the reminder of the Rogue Prince being displaced as heir soon, but ignored it for the time being, “Let it, brother. Let the lords remember who commands and protects this city. Who commands and protects its people. I am but your sword, brother.”
“It is not merely mine own reputation that I worry for, Daemon. I will not have any speaking ill of the man cleansing the streets of King’s Landing of rapers and thieves.”
“I care nought for what lesser men think of me, Your Grace,” Daemon smiled at his elder brother. It was times like these, when Viserys attempted to protect him from those that may speak ill of him, that the Rogue Prince loved him most, “This council does not see what I see. People starving, and children being abused by men of the cloth. Brutality and violence were necessary, Your Grace. Let them remember that the laws of the land apply not just to the poor but also to the faithful and the nobility.”
“Nobility?” The ever-loyal Lord Beesbury questioned.
“Oh, yes, my lord coin. The third son of Lord Graceford was found whipping a whore, who was crying out to the gods for mercy. Her back was mangled. So he received quite a lashing of his own. Ser Adrian, Lord Swyft’s grandson, apparently likes his bedpartners quite young. Four years old, to be exact.” Even Otto winced at that, “He will have no more bedpartners at all because he has no more cock… and no more head. Several others were caught and several others were punished. The law of the land for all.”
“If only the Prince would show the same devotion to his lady wife as he does his work,” Otto interjected snidely, “He has not been seen in the Vale or at Runestone for many years.”
“I think my bronze bitch has been much happier for my absence.”
“Lady Rhea is your wife, a good and honourable lady of the Vale.”
“In the Vale, men are said to fuck sheep instead of women. I can assure you, the sheep are prettier,” Daemon mocked his wife of five and ten years.
Though he held great affection for the second son of his late friend, even Lord Lyman could not help himself, “Dear me.”
“You made a vow before the Seven to honour your wife in marriage.”
“Even if I cared about your false gods, which I do not, I believe it was my grandmother who made the vow,” Daemon mocked the Hand. After all, his unwillingness to wed Lady Rhea was well-known throughout the realm. He had been dragged to the sept by the Kingsguard, and his vows had been said by the late Good Queen, “I'd gladly give Lady Rhea to you, Otto, if you're in want of a woman to warm your bed. Your own lady wife passed recently. Did she not?”
Otto jumped up in anger.
“Careful now, Lord Hand, we wouldn’t want to get blood on your pretty pin,” Daemon snidely baited him, “Who would take care of that pretty daughter of yours if you were to trip and fall on Dark Sister?”
All men blanched at the covert threat before Viserys tries to restore the peace, “You know how my brother makes sport of provoking you, Otto. Must you indulge him?” the King turned to his brother, “This council has, at great expense, bettered the City Watch to your exacting standards. I understand the need of enforcing my laws, it is why I made you Commander, but in the future think about how this might reflect on your king. Some discretion in dealing with the beasts that roam the streets of King’s Landing may be needed, at least to ensure none speak ill of me.”
Daemon wished to sigh at his brother’s attempt to make lawkeeping and ensuring the smallfolk’s safety about him but instead bowed his head in respect for his monarch, “Understood, Your Grace.”
As Daemon made his way from the council chambers, he heard his brother continue, “King's Landing has been in decline since my grandmother passed. In the end… this new City Watch might be a good thing.”
─── ⚜ ♛ ⚜ ───
“How was the small council, dear?” his lovely queen queried as he sank into the armchair by the window.
“Madness,” he answered truthfully. Viserys had always done his utmost to keep the stresses of court away from his beloved, but at times he needed her warm comfort. Much like his grandmother had been for his grandfather, he had hoped Aemma would be his Good Queen but she had proven not quite as fertile as Alysanne. Children perished in her womb or barely lived past their first breaths, and while the king strived to not blame her, he struggled with it.
“Daemon…”
“Ah,” his lady wife understood, “What has he done to offend Ser Otto now?”
Viserys gave her a berating glance to which she raised her hands from the chaise she was laying on, “Otto is a good man, who is merely trying to protect the realm from my brother and his excesses.”
Aemma furrowed her brows but said nothing.
“Do not give me that look, love, Daemon has gone too far and I have once again had to defend him to all.”
“What did he do?”
“He went on a rampage in the city. He painted the cobblestones red. His gold cloaks… they butchered anyone he told them to. They needed two full carts to haul away the severed limbs and dead bodies.”
His lady wife grimaced, clearly as uncomfortable as he was with his brother’s wanton violence, “If he broke the king’s laws, then he must be held accountable, husband. Who was it they killed?”
“I do not see how that matters,” he replied primly, but upon seeing her stern rebuke folded nonetheless, “Daemon claims they were all rapers and thieves, but Otto doubts that. He believes it was merely a ruse for Daemon to unleash his rage upon the city and eliminate those he had gripes with.”
“Ah, Otto says so, so it must be as such.”
Viserys had never understood his family’s hesitance towards his best friend and closest advisor. Aemma had once even liked the man, and had gravitated towards spending her time with the Hand’s lady wife, but in recent years, she had soured on him for whatever reason, “You know Daemon, Aemma. He is not above using violence to suit his needs.”
To that, his wife had to agree, “Yes, but he did exactly what you demanded of him. Did you not name him Commander of the City Watch for this exact reason? He is ridding the city of its ails. Even I, isolated as I am up here, have heard how the city has fallen into squalor in recent years.”
“Squalor? Is that not a bit of an overstatement?!” Viserys did not like how she seemed to imply it was his or Otto’s fault that the city was not as it was under the Old King. The Crown supported the Faith in their attempts to clean up their streets but it was seemingly in vain, no matter the coin flowing from the treasury to their almonry efforts. It was the people of King’s Landing who did this to themselves.
“When is the last time either you or the Hand descended into the city below for any other reason than riding to the Kingswood for a royal hunt or the tourney grounds outside the walls?”
Viserys did not like that and looked away. He was king, he did not need to go into the city, Otto had always impressed upon him. A king needs to be felt, not seen, as his Hand had claimed.
“My maids do spend time below and they speak of merchants price gouging and men preying on young girls and women. Floor and even beets have risen in cost over the past sunturn. Daemon might not be perfect and his anger might even get the better of him at times but he is doing what you commanded of him, husband.”
“Must he always do so with violence? Must death always follow in his wake?”
Kind as she was, his lady wife knew exactly how to hurt him, “You did not seem to mind death clinging to him when he brought the Dornish to heel.”
“My brother is an agent of chaos, and I had hoped that his time in the east had given him some peace of mind, but he is ever so belligerent and unrepentant.”
“Then dismiss him,” Aemma was exasperated with him, he knew, “Do as your Hand says and remove him from his post and the small council.”
“The Hand is not king! I am!” Why must they all turn on him?
“Are you?”
Viserys ignored her hurtful jibe and peered out of the window to the sky. He was merely doing what his grandfather had asked from him: to keep Daemon close enough to guide him, but not let him too close to the crown for his brother was not meant to ever wear one.
Jaehaerys had always been weary of Daemon’s wild nature and had attempted to tame him by binding him in marriage but his brother was nothing if not combatant and had abandoned his bride at Runestone to wage war in the east. One more way for Daemon to force Viserys into his shadow. It was not enough for him to be better at the sword and the letter, no, he had to have people whisper about his might at the king’s own court.
Yet, despite all of that, he still attempted to bridge the gap between them by asking he remain at court and serve on the Small Council as Commander of the City Watch. Viserys kept giving him opportunities despite Otto’s hesitance in allowing his brother such powers.
The king was hesitant to admit it even to himself but sometimes he feared for any son that would be born to him. While they had sunk in their cups, not that long ago, his Hand had slurred how Maegor had been loyal to his brother but upon his death seized the throne nonetheless, even slaying Aenys’ blood. Daemon would never harm him, he was sure, but his son?
─── ⚜ ♛ ⚜ ───
Later that day, the Prince made his way toward the Dragonpit. Whilst riding his horse, with no Kingsguard by his side, having dismissed Ser Lorent for the day, Daemon looked upon his domain. The streets were cleansed of blood, it almost looked like nothing untoward or unpleasant had occurred the night before. He knew better though. The smallfolk that ambled the street bowed to their prince of their own volition, without any prompting from men with swords, while merchants flinched at him for the losses they suffered the day before.
‘Good, let them remember what their unchecked greed will lead to,’ the Prince of the City thought.
Daemon had a disturbing love-hate relationship with the City of King’s Landing. As a young man, and even now, to be completely honest, he had spent his evenings fucking whores in the pleasure dens and gambling in the unsanctioned betting houses. Yet, he despised the luxury merchants’ avenues, as well as the Gold Quarter, where the wealthy lived in city manses.
King’s Landing had always been a cesspool of crime and deviancy, yet contained to the poorest of districts and streets.
His grandmother had attempted to freshen up the city, and better the plight of its people.
When the prince had been serving as Master of Coin he had written out countless proposals to better the city and the realm. Daemon had never even brought more than two before the council before he had been summarily dismissed as a spendthrift, who would beggar the realm. The Hand had declared him unfit to serve as Master of Coin and his weak-willed brother had followed.
Viserys had not always been this easily guided and manipulated. Though never particularly so strong, he had once been headstrong and stubborn in his own opinions. Two-and-a-half years after Daemon had bonded with his Blood Wyrm, Viserys had done the same with the Black Dread. He had attempted to convince his brother to see reason and mount Dreamfyre instead, proclaiming the Conqueror’s mount to have been too weathered and ill but Viserys had known better, stating that he deserved Balerion. Eight moons after he first flew him, the great beast died deep within the dragonpit. His brother had not flown him since that first time.
Though Daemon never said so out loud, he knew that if his brother had listened to him, he could have been bonded with a living mount. Their mother had been dissuaded from claiming the dragon by the dragonkeepers more than two decades earlier. Even then the dragon had grown hoary and near-blind.
When he was in one of his more uncharitable moods, earlier in Viserys’ reign, Daemon mused that the dragon had been so weathered by the time his elder brother claimed him, that if a sheep with Valyrian blood had stumbled upon the old dragon, he would have been able to fly the Dread as well.
Having left behind the Street of Looms sometime earlier, the prince was finally approaching the great pit. Daemon had never been particularly fond of the building, its existence a threat to the dragons he had always believed, and one of Maegor’s greatest follies.
Riding into one of the many gates, Daemon was met with Ser Harrold, who seemed to have been waiting for something or someone. Probably his niece, who had taken to the sky. Present as well was his niece’s little pet Hightower, who sat on the coach’s step, reading a rather large tome.
Both had turned to look at him upon his arrival.
Descending his trusty destrier, Daemon looked at them both, his eyes shifting between the knight and the maiden fair, “Am I to presume my niece has taken to the sky on her Golden Lady?”
It had been the shy maiden who spoke up first, rather than the princess’ sworn shield, “Yes, my prince. She has taken Syrax…” at that, Daemon saw a flinch, small as it may have been, “… for a short flight. We are awaiting her return.”
“Do you have no ambition to take to the sky with her, Lady Alicent?” the prince questioned, “There is no greater feeling than doing what no other man alive is capable of. To conquer the sky.”
The girl was clearly afraid of the Targaryen’s greatest weapon, “I am far more comfortable on the steady ground, my prince. I will leave the conquering to your niece.”
At that he smiled, “She would make a fine conqueror, indeed.”
Daemon nodded to the knight, receiving one in return, and walked into the caverns to greet his beloved Caraxes and follow his darling niece’s example.
─── ⚜ ♛ ⚜ ───
Gods, he despised it when his brother came to the capital. Few could truly anger Ser Otto Hightower but his elder brother was surely one of them. His nephew had been forced to wed one of the Redwyne girls a few moons prior for he had turned three-and-twenty and any longer without an heir would destabilize the Hightower. With Hobert within the Keep, his disdain at Otto failing to convince the king to betroth Ormund to the princess was ever-present. There was little the king opposed him on but his only child could always bring out the fire in the weak man. Though if Otto had been honest, he had not tried that hard. He had no intention to allow his brother to reap the successes of his hard work.
The princess was to be the linchpin in his ambitions, even though the Hand had little affection for the spoiled girl. Alicent had told him she excelled in her classes, as did the maesters and the septas, but they also informed him that she had little patience for the teachings of the Faith, which had raised his hackles but Otto had wisely kept his annoyances to himself. It would not do him any good to anger the king.
Since her uncle had returned from Dorne, her antagonism had gotten even worse. The princess had become a real thorn in his side. Much like Lord Flea Bottom, she believed herself above all because she flew one of those ungodly beasts. She had become belligerent towards her septas and had refused to pray within the Royal Sept any longer.
Prince Daemon had always been fond of his niece, bringing her gifts from all over the world until he went into exile, and even then he sent envoys to spoil the already spoiled-rotten girl even further. His love for Rhaenyra over his brother was known all over the realm. One time when the princess had been only six or seven name days, one of the septas had used a switch on her fingers when she had been impolite and upon hearing it, the prince had inflicted unimaginable pain upon the septa, which had been enough for Viserys to dismiss him as Master of Laws. The woman had been so traumatized by the torture that she had suffered that she had willingly joined the Silent Sisters and had her tongue removed.
Though the prince was rarely seen within the Keep since taking up command of the City Watch and rarely had time for his brother, he did seem to be able to spare regular moments for his niece. The two would be regularly seen together within the Godswood, on the courtyards or in the library. The prince would always dismiss the maesters, acolytes and septas, and only allow Ser Harrold to keep watch over them.
Ser Harrold Westerling had been the princess’ sworn shield since she was born and before that had served the Rogue Prince in the same position. Otto had never been fond of the Westerman, and nor he of him, but it was his closeness to the prince that worried the Hand the most. On a few occasions in the past few moons, he had seen the Kingsguard whisper to the Rogue Prince, with the two even sharing a laugh and a stein of ale. The Kingsguard was to be loyal to the king above all, but at times Otto worried about Ser Harrold’s fondness for Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra. It was made even worse knowing that the man would no doubt be succeeding Ser Ryam Redwyne as Lord Commander upon the elderly man’s passing.
Luckily for him, it was not Ser Harrold standing watch outside the king’s chambers, but Ser Willis Fell. A pious man if ever – far more than any of his kin – and more than willing to serve the Hand as he does the king.
“Lord Hand,” the man bowed deeply, showing him the respect he deserved.
“Is the king in his chambers, Ser?”
“Would you like me to announce you?”
“Please.”
The Kingsguard immediately knocked on the door and upon receiving a positive reply, opened the door, “The Lord Hand, Your Grace.”
Otto could not hear the muffled reply but upon Ser Willis stepping aside, he waltzed into the king’s chambers, “Your Grace.”
The Hand gave Viserys a shallow bow despite him not even looking at him. Instead, the man sat at that blasted model of Valyria. The amount of time the king spent on it was farcical, but better he does that than involve himself in the governance of the realm. ‘No,’ Otto pondered, ‘Let the man tinker with his little towers and temples, and I shall do what need be done.’
“Otto, did we plan to see each other?”
The Hand sneered behind the king’s back, “No, Your Grace, I just wished to talk to you about Prince Daemon and whether you had given any thought to my solution?”
The king sighed deeply and put down the little building he had been working on, turning towards him, “I believe I made myself clear at yesterday’s small council meeting, Otto. My brother will always have a place at my table. I shall not banish him to the Vale or anywhere else. Better he remains by my side, where he belongs.”
Otto despised these moments when the king resisted him. Viserys had always been quite swayable. His need to be beloved had caused him to be more docile than his younger brother, as had his lack of martial prowess, and a young Otto had surely used it to ingratiate himself to the Spring Prince’s eldest son.
The then Master of Laws had been far more careful while Baelon was alive for the Prince of Dragonstone had not been particularly fond of him, but after his fortunate passing and his ascension to the Handship, Otto had found a surprising ally in King Jaehaerys. The Old King had always feared the fire that burned deep within Daemon’s gut and so had Viserys. The Rogue Prince still prayed to the Valyrian heathen gods and indulged in their ungodly ceremonies and traditions. His refusal to abide by the true faith was a threat to the House of the Dragon and Jaehaerys’ alliance with the Starry Sept, Viserys had always believed, with his Hand loudly agreeing, using it to repeatedly drive a deep wig in between the two brothers.
“Your Grace, I must insist. The prince is a danger to all as long as he remains at court. Think about the queen and the future–”
“Enough!” the king snapped at him, making Otto clench his jaw in anger, “Enough about my brother. How goes the final preparations for my son’s tourney?”
Even now the king was divided. Stuck between the love he had for his brother, which had been nurtured by Prince Baelon, and his deep fear, which had been instilled within him by his own best friend. Otto knew better than to press when Viserys did not wish to be pressed, so he allowed him to change the subject, “The tourney grounds have been readied and the cooks have been working diligently for the past few days. They will speak of this tourney for years to come, of that, I have no doubt.”
“I would hope so, it is to honour the next king,” Viserys smiled widely, seemingly having already forgotten about his annoyance a few seconds before.
“Yes, it is.”
“I assume Ser Gwayne is competing?”
The Hand puffed up at the mention of his son, “Yes, he is. Gwayne has not lost a single tourney for nigh three years, Your Grace. I am certain he’ll be victorious in this one as well.”
If Otto had looked upon his king, he would have seen the doubtful furrowing of his brows, for Viserys knew that his brother would be entering the tilts as well, no doubt hoping to steal glory away from the king and his new heir, “I am sure he will do fine, old friend.”
─── ⚜ ♛ ⚜ ───
Three days after the prince’s campaign of terror within the capital had near-eradicated the criminal element, the tourney commenced particularly well for the prince himself. The day before, Daemon had made his way through the early jousts quite easily. Unhorsing all his opponents on the first or second try. It was not until the semi-finals that he would gain a semi-worthy opponent: Ser Gwayne Hightower. Though not a knight of great renown, the eldest son of the Hand was a known and competent jouster, who spent his time travelling across the realm, fighting and making coin in tourneys. As the son of a second son that was to be his plight in life. Make enough coin to wed the younger daughter of a lord, get himself a minor keep, and maybe even become a landed knight with his own household and smallfolk to rule over.
He would gain no aid from his father, Ser Otto, who was a knight in name only and had focused himself on acquiring political power, rather than coin or land. Ser Otto’s father, Lord Trystan, who sat as Lord of Oldtown for only three years, though then just his father’s heir and a knight, had knighted his younger son, not because of his prowess with a sword but out of pride and his refusal to have a son without even the basest of titles.
Since then Otto had risen through the ranks of the kingdoms quite swiftly. Starting as the Treasurer of the Oldtown and then the Steward of the Hightower, only a few years later he was recruited by Highgarden to act as its Master of the Fields, overseeing its agricultural activities. From there on out he rose to Steward until he was named Master of Laws to the Iron Throne in the year seven and ninety after the conquest. It was the Spring Prince’s unfortunate death that led to his ultimate rise: Hand of the King. Within a decade and a half, he had gone from a newly-knighted second son to the most powerful office in the land.
‘Man might be a cunt but he manoeuvred himself quite well,’ Daemon thought to himself as he was readying himself to make battle with the man's eldest son, ‘I could kill him,’ Daemon thought to himself, ‘A carefully placed lance and I’d decapitate the knight before anything could be done.’
Clad in his ceremonial armour, Daemon clambered onto his trusty Highgarden destrier, giving Dark Sister to his squire for the day – young Alan Beesbury – the grandson of Lord Lyman. A favour to his late father’s oldest and greatest friend.
Ser Lyman Beesbury was Lord of Honeyholt and as such a bannerman of the Hightowers of Oldtown. Though much like his predecessors in the lordship, he was fiercely loyal to the Targaryen dynasty. They fought against the Faith Militant during its Uprising and have since been considered amongst the most loyal of the Reachlords. Lyman had served as Master of Coin for more than twenty years now and before that he had been Warden of the King’s Mint and Captain of the Guards of the Red Keep for another two decades.
From the moment he met the younger prince, Lord Lyman and Prince Baelon had been tight friends. A considerable warrior in his youth, the Master of Coin and the Spring Prince were sparring partners and could be found together on the training grounds nearly every day.
Upon the new king’s ascension in the year one hundred and three after the conquest, Lyman had been relieved from his seat on the small council in favour of the king’s heir presumptive. While other men might have taken such a dismissal as a slight, the Lord of Honeyholt did not, nor was he blind that to Prince Daemon the office of Master of Coin had not been the one he was expecting, nor the other lords of the realms. Yet, Ser Otto remained as Hand and Prince Daemon only served as Master of Coin for six moons until he had been dismissed and Lyman had returned to the office. The Rogue Prince had been named Master of Laws and the dance started over once more.
The prince’s dismissal from the offices of Master of Coin and Master of Laws had remained a great bother to the Reachman over the years. Daemon had grand plans for the king’s treasury, as well as the betterment of the smallfolk all o’er the realm. Lyman had crafted these plans with the prince himself and had penned proposals for public works, like canals and harbours, new roads and more cities, public bathhouses and drinking fountains because for the prince the office had been an attempt to improve the realm where his brother’s predecessors had failed, but despite their due diligence, the prince had been dismissed for the Hand had declared him a spendthrift.
His tenure as Master of Laws had not ended any better, for his suggestions of rewriting the Old King’s Books of Laws, especially those about the powers of wardens and lords paramount, but as well the Faith and the Citadel, had caused the Hand to declare the prince a tyrant, and once more he had been dismissed. Yet, now there was no more office for him to hold because the Master of Ships was a near-hereditary seat held by the Velaryons. The King had suggested for Daemon to return to the Vale and start a family, no doubt at the insistence of his Hand, but instead one early morning, the prince had left on dragonback and not returned for nearly seven sunturns.
The Master of Revels announced the semi-finals of the joust, “Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King will face Prince Daemon of the House Targaryen, Prince of the City and Commander of the City Watch, in the first semi-finals of the King's Tourney.”
The roar as he rode out into the arena was deafening. Say whatever you want about the Rogue Prince, he was quite popular. Even amongst the nobility. Well, amongst some of them at least because the prince was sure that most of those screaming were women.
Daemon readied himself, accepting his lance from young Alan. The prince rode out on his first charge and only narrowly missed Ser Gwayne’s torso. Hoofs stomped the sandy ground of the tourney grounds and the crowds roared their approval.
Three times it took the prince to finally unhorse Ser Gwayne, who now lay prone on the ground. The knight had lost his helmet when Daemon aimed his lance at the knight’s head, smacking his skull into the rock-hard dirt and the right side of his face was tainted by blood abrasions caused by his horse dragging it on the rough ground.
Riding to the royal box, Daemon thought about provoking the Hand but after having nearly crippled his eldest son, even he was not that cruel, so he turned his head towards his niece instead, “Now, I'm fairly certain I can win these games, Princess, but having your favour would all but assure it.”
The smile Daemon received could lighten up any room, as Rhaenyra hung her favour on Daemon’s lance, “Good luck, uncle.”
“Kirimvose, dārilaros [thank you, princess],” Daemon whispered, and then spoke louder in the Common Tongue, “Don’t worry, dear niece. You’ll be queen soon enough,” the prince’s world caused titters amongst the spectators in the royal box.
The second semi-finals were won by a lesser hedge knight, named Criston Cole, who according to Ser Lorent, was the son of the Dornish steward of Blackhaven. Though he had spent some time at Blackhaven during the skirmishes in the Dornish Marshes, Daemon could not remember the knight, who claimed to have fought during the conflict.
As he readied himself to fight this Dornish knight, Daemon glanced at the royal box where his brother had disappeared and Rhaenyra was looking around restlessly. Though he would never claim to have the ability to dream, even Daemon knew something was wrong when Ser Harrold whispered in his niece’s ear and she ran out of the royal box like a bat out of hell.
For a split second Daemon thought about beating Ser Criston and basking in the adoration of his people, but changed his mind for his family was far more important.
─── ⚜ ♛ ⚜ ───
As Queen Aemma screamed, her King hurried his way into her chambers, pushing aside maesters, to make his way to her side. Having been summoned by his Hand, who told him the queen was giving birth and having some difficulty, he could do nothing but cling to her side.
His lady wife’s screaming continued for several minutes, while he held her hand. The King asked the maesters, “What is happening?”
“The infant is in breech, Your Grace. All attempts to turn the babe have failed.”
The screaming just got louder, so he commanded, “Do something for her!”
“We've given her as much milk of the poppy as we can without risking the child. Your Queen is a strong woman. She's fighting with all her might, but it may not be enough.”
“No!” Aemma shouted after which she merely kept grunting in the hopes of expelling the child within her womb.
“Aemma,” Viserys tried to soothe, “Aemma... I'm here.”
“Help me, please…” The Queen begged.
“I'm here. It's all right,” Viserys tried to reassure her but his voice shook, “It's all right.”
“I don't want to do this.”
“You're going to be all right. You're going to be all right.” More empty reassurance from the king.
The labours went on for nearly an hour without any progress until Viserys was taken aside by the Hand and the Grand Maester, “During a difficult birth, your grace, it sometimes becomes necessary for the father... to make an impossible choice.”
“Well speak plainly, Mellos.”
“To sacrifice one… or to lose them both,” The Grand Maester explained, “There is a chance that we can save the child. A technique is taught at the Citadel, which involves cutting directly into the womb to free the infant. But the resulting blood loss…”
A pale Viserys could do nothing but mutter: “Seven Hells, Mellos.”
A tense silence took over the corner of the queen’s chambers, only disturbed by Queen Aemma’s loud grunts and screams.
“You can save the child?”
The Grand Maester enthusiastically nodded, “I believe I can, but we must either act now or leave it with the gods.”
“Your Grace,” Otto laid a hand on his shoulder in comfort, “Your son must be born. Imagine the alternative… your brother remaining your heir. The kingdoms will burn.”
Viserys loved Daemon but his rage was not what he wished for the realm. Their grandfather had always instilled within him a need for peace, and his brother was the opposite of peace.
The Hand tried to say something else to reassure the king but before he could the door slammed open, the Princess Rhaenyra ran into the chambers and towards her mother.
Though no one else noticed, Ser Harrold witnessed a strange glance between the Grand Maester and the Hand of the King and narrowed his eyes. The Kingsguard had never been fond of the Hand, who was utterly dismissive towards anyone but those he considered to be important enough, and that did not include the royal guard.
“Princess,” the Hand interjected before the king could, “the birthing bed is no place for a young girl,” Turning towards the Kingsguard that had escorted her there, Ser Otto Hightower said: “Take the princess to her chambers, Ser Harrold, and keep her there.”
When the Kingsguard did not move and instead kept his guard at the door, the Hand raised his voice: “I gave you a command, Ser Harrold! Take the princess to her chambers and keep her there! That is an order!”
Turning towards the Hand, the Westerlander knight had enough: “I do not take orders from you, Ser Otto. I am a Kingsguard, not a Handsguard.”
The Hand of the King flinched at the sneered words from Ser Harrold, and turned to the other two Kingsguard, who stood beside the chamber doors, “Ser Willis, Ser Rickard, do your duty and escort the princess to her chambers.
“They will not, Lord Hand,” and with a single raised finger the two knights stood back.
Ser Otto was enraged but refused to show it, “Your Grace, the birth of a child is not the place for a young girl,” the Hand turned towards the King, hoping to appeal to his love for the spoiled girl, “especially not one as difficult as this one.”
The king merely stood there, looking at his daughter while she comforted her mother. Dabbing her forehead with a damp towel, holding her hand in support, and whispering in her ear.
“Your Grace, time is running out,” Grand Maester Mellos interrupted, “I am to do the procedure, it must happen now before it is too late.”
Though it seemed the princess was completely focused on her mother, at the grand maester’s words she turned towards the men, “What procedure? What is happening, father?”
The King merely looked away, almost ashamed.
“Viserys?” Aemma croaked out, “What is happening?”
“Nothing, my dear. Everything will be fine.” The King turned to the Grand Maester and merely nodded, as Mellos went to work on his tools in the corner of the room.
Turning towards the maesters, the princess notices them preparing several blades, and grew tense, “What is happening, father? What are they doing?”
Taking a deep breath, the king straightened his shoulders and looked at Ser Harrold, “The Hand is correct. The birthing chambers are no place for a young girl. Escort her to her chambers, and keep watch there.”
When Rhaenyra tried to protest and the Kingsguard did not move from the door, the King raised his voice, “Now!”
At that, Ser Harrold tried to cajole the princess to come with him, but she repeatedly refuses, “I will not leave until I know what is happening!”
“Take her from the room now, Ser Harrold!” The king loudly commanded.
At that, the Kingsguard hoisted the princess over his shoulder and tried to carry the kicking and punching girl out, as she screamed obscenities at her father and tried to escape the knight’s clutches, with her struggles becoming even worse when she noticed the maesters making their way to her mother.
“What are you doing to her? Leave her alone!” The princess screeched, tears streaming down her face as the chamber doors were closed behind her and she was carried out by three Kingsguard.
─── ⚜ ♛ ⚜ ───
It took him a little while to relieve himself of his armour, but with the help of his faithful second, Ser Luthor Largent, he managed to do so nonetheless. Onward they rode for the Red Keep, with half a dozen more City Watchmen following their commander. After nearly thirty minutes of hurried riding, they arrived at the royal castle.
Upon their arrival, the frazzled prince and his men were immediately let through by the palace guards. After all, only a madman would stop the Rogue Prince when he truly wanted something.
At the entrance to Maegor’s Holdfast, Ser Steffon Darklyn stood guard. The honourable knight had been a remnant of his grandfather’s Kingsguard, and merely lowered his head at the prince, and immediately let him and his men through. The Crownlander knight was loyal. Steadfastly so.
Steadily making their way through the halls of the Holdfast, the closer Daemon came to the queen’s chambers, the louder the shouting and screaming got. As he entered the hallway that housed Queen Aemma and her household, he witnessed Ser Harrold Westerling, Ser Rickard Thorne and Ser Willis Fell dragging his screaming and weeping niece from her mother’s chambers.
Within seconds Daemon has unsheathed Dark Sister and severed Ser Rickard’s head from his body. Before Ser Willis could respond, the same had happened to him.
Two Kingsguard dead. Blood spurting from their necks onto the floor and the walls.
Screams rang throughout the Holdfast as the acolytes that lined the walls bore witness to the prince’s bloodlust.
The prince raised his beloved sword towards his old master, “Lower my niece to the ground, Ser Harrold, and do so slowly, lest you lose your head as your sworn brothers did but a mere second prior.”
The Kingsguard carefully put the princess on her feet and raised his arms to signal he was no threat.
Not even on the ground for a millisecond, the princess jumped into her uncle’s arms. “Issi jāre naejot ossēnagon zirȳla, Daemon [they are going to kill her, Daemon],” A hysterical Rhaenyra begged as she clung to him, reverting to High Valyrian, and uncaring for the blood that was splattered over her fetching dress and her uncle's hastily-buttoned doublet.
Daemon did not answer her and instead kept his sword pointed toward the Kingsguard, “Unsheathe your sword and dagger, and throw them to the ground, Harrold,” which the Westerlander knight immediately did.
“Keep the princess outside for the moment, at least until I ensure the queen’s safety,” Daemon nods towards his men.
Setting his sight on the chamber doors, he immediately marched towards them when a single maester’s apprentice stepped into his path.
“My pr–” The acolyte’s body was cleaved in half, from left shoulder to right hip.
The few acolytes still loitering outside of the doors screamed, in fright at the prince’s wanton viciousness and rage. The prince merely nodded to Ser Balon Byrch, the Captain of the Dragon’s Gate, who unsheathed his sword and butchered them quickly. Three bodies dropped quickly.
Looking back at his men, the prince commanded, “Summon the full City Watch, Luthor. The keep is under our command for the time being. Any guard that tries to intervene is to die. No raven is to be sent from the rookery and the gates are to be closed to all who do not reside within the keep. Anyone tries to intervene with your tasks? Kill them. Highborn or lowborn, I care not.”
With that, the lines in the sand were drawn as the prince threw open the chamber doors, and loudly smashed them against the wall, as every head had already fearfully turned towards the doorway when the brutal sounds and screams from the hallway made their way through the door and into the birthing chambers. However, nothing could have prepared them for the sight of a furious Rogue Prince with the famed Dark Sister in his hand.
“What is this madness!” Daemon demanded.
Ser Otto immediately erupts in anger, “How dare you! These are birthing chambers. By the Gods, you have…”
“Be quiet, cunt, or I’ll cut your pinched little head off,” Daemon raises Dark Sister and turns towards his brother, “I’ll ask again, what is this madness?”
No one speaks up, not even a single sound, so the prince continues, “The princess claims you are trying to kill her mother, and judging by the rather large knife the grand maester is holding in his hand, I am inclined to believe her.”
“Daemon, this is the only way,” the king stutters.
“Aemma, are you okay?”
Though still in great pain, the queen manages to croak out a yes.
“Did they cut you, cousin?”
“No, not yet. They were holding me down because I struggled.”
An emotional Daemon let out a short laugh, “Of course, you did. The blood of the dragon indeed.”
The prince closes his eyes and with a sudden flash of his sword went on a blood-filled rampage. Though only seconds, to the king and the Hand it seemed to happen at a snail’s pace. The Rogue Prince cut through every man and woman in the birthing chambers. Heads rolled and limbs were severed. However, it was the spurts and rivers of blood that caused the king to retch.
Two dead septas, five dead maesters and a dead grand maester later, a blood-splattered Daemon turned towards the only maester still alive, a man Daemon knew to be named Orwyle because he had given him a soothing salve for his horse only yesterday, “You will find a way to get this babe out without my cousin dying because if you do not, your order will cease to exist. I will butcher every maester in the realm and burn the Citadel to the ground, exterminating your ancient order.”
Not even Otto doubted the prince’s words, and maybe for the first time, he was truly fearful of the Rogue Prince. Where before he was sure he had the king’s protection, he doubted even Viserys could do anything to stop his younger brother now. King or not.
Daemon turned towards the door, where his Watchmen were standing, “Find me some fucking midwives, and some lowborn women who have given birth. Preferably those who suffered a breach birth. There must be some in the keep,” nodding his head, he continued, “Run as fast as you may humanly can. Go.”
Turning towards the birthing bed, he assessed the shivering Orwyle and sneered, “Why in the fuck do we depend on these old men who have never given birth themselves?”
When most of the City Watchmen have run off and only Ser Balon remains behind, Rhaenyra pops her head through the door, “Uncle?”
Softening, he tells her: “Sit with your mother, princess, calm her down and hold her hand.”
Rhaenyra sprinted towards Aemma, roughly pushing her father and the Hand aside, with the King tripping and clinging to Ser Otto, causing them both to fall to the floor. Embracing her mother without any regard for her father, Rhaenyra goes back to soothing her.
Slumped against the wall, Viserys turned to his brother and begged, “Daemon, my son, please.”
“If he lives, he lives. If he dies, he dies. You may pray for him, but I suggest you pray for your queen instead because if she does not live, you will be the first Targaryen since the Uncrowned to die by dragon, brother.”
Viserys looked away, hating the disgust on his little brother’s face. In any other situation the King may have had the upper hand, but now, faced with his incensed brother and his beloved Dark Sister, Viserys knew he had no power, and resigned himself to whatever was to come. Daemon’s chaos ruled the keep for now.
“Escort my brother and the Hand to the King’s chambers, Harrold,” narrowing his eyes at the two pitiful figures laying on the ground, “neither are to leave their chambers or talk to anyone for the time being. Understood?” While the knight hesitated for the barest of seconds, he eventually nodded, resigning himself to the state of things, “Anyone tries to talk to them?” Daemon raised his eyebrows, “Kill them.”
“Yes, my prince,” Harrold said, having chosen a side. Better die at the prince’s side than fight for a failed king, “Let us go, Your Grace, Lord Hand. The halls of the Keep are not safe today.”
With a clenched jaw but aware there was little he could do now that Daemon had taken command of the Red Keep, Ser Otto shrugged off the Kingsguard’s hand and followed Ser Harrold and the king out of the chambers.
While a shaken Orwyle tried to do his best to keep the queen comfortable and alive, Daemon stood by the end of the bed and watched as his niece soothed her mother. It was clear that unless the maester came up with a solution within the next few hours, the queen was going to die.
As the clock kept ticking, Maester Orwyle tried to slow down the birthing process and seemed at least the tiniest bit successful because the queen’s breathing slowed down and her painful croaks seemed to lessen.
When it almost seemed like hours had gone by, one of his City Watchmen returned with one of the maids from the kitchen, “She claims to have been a midwife before becoming a cook.”
“Is this true?” Daemon questioned.
“Yes, yer grace. I still help sometimes in the Bottom,” the Northern woman spoke, “It pays better to work the kitchen and I get shelter, so my son can live in our house with his family.”
“Well, my sister is in breech. The head is turned. Is there something to be done?” Daemon could see the woman sweating. She must have been petrified and fearful that the slightest mistake could end her life, but the prince did not care, “If you find a way to get this child out, you will never have to work again, nor will your son for that matter.”
“I know of a few ways, but it may not be easy, yer grace,” the woman stuttered, “it does not always work.”
“Well, try.”
For nearly half an hour, Daemon watched as the woman tried to shift the babe’s head through the stomach and even had the queen crouch and rock back and forth. It was in the middle of this that one of his captains returned with several smallfolk midwives, who at the prince’s command immediately started aiding the cook.
“My prince,” one of them addressed him, “we must know. If the choice has to be made. The mother or the babe?”
Daemon looked at the sweaty and exhausted Aemma and his strong niece, and made the easiest decision he ever had to make, “The mother. Always the mother. The queen is the priority.”
With that Daemon stepped into the hall to speak with his captains, “Have the Princess Rhaenys, and the Lords Beesbury and Strong escorted here immediately.”
With nothing to do, the prince sank to the floor and leaned against the wall, catching a little respite. Only two hours prior he had been jousting and now he had pulled a semi-coup, killed two kingsguard and a dozen other men and women, and sent his king and the Hand to bed without supper. Daemon was no fool, he knew there would be repercussions but if it meant his cousin lived, he could not care any less.
Having closed his eyes for what seemed to be just a few minutes, while his men stood guard, the prince was wakened by a shout from the old cook, “Yer grace, the prince is here.”
Daemon jumped to his feet and sprinted into the queen’s chambers, “Aemma?”
“It’s a boy, uncle,” Rhaenyra whispered.
“What is his name, sister?” the prince asks the Queen.
Looking up at her good-brother with tears in her eyes, she spoke, “Baelon.”