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Chapter Text

Chapter I The Tower Of Horror

"They say foul beings of Old Times still lurk in dark forgotten corners of the world,

And Gape still gape to loose, on certain nights,

Shapes pent in Hell."

Justin Geoffrey

Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, Prince of the City, Lord Flea Bottom didn’t know how he went from falling to his glorious death at the Gods Eye to…here.

He had meant for it to be his last flight. Him and Caraxes, one last stand. A heroic final act that would inspire bards for generations, ensure immortality for his legacy. His last victory would have been remembered for generations. A story told for centuries!

Daemon was desperate, his dear beloved dead children whispering reproach in his dreams. So many reproaches and each one of them warranted; Daemon had thrown himself on Vhagar and her rider to try and drown them out. He was determined to prove his loyalty to his family with this last ditch act as dragonrider. It was his right as a prince of the blood, as a Valyrian, as husband and father. It would spare him from his queen's (his niece's, his love's) accusatory glances, but it would certainly have killed him.

Aemond was right about one thing; Daemon Targaryen had lived too long. He had sported mourning attire so often that at times he felt like the only colors he could see besides black were the red scales of Caraxes and the sweet red of blood.

Dark Sister was deeply embedded in the monstrous eye of his abomination of a nephew and they were falling, falling…their dragons screeching…

He had seen Caraxes, enraged by the battle falling alongside him, his majestic body still roaring in a furious attempt to defy their fate, defy death itself.

They were falling, the water getting closer and closer. Vhagar’s unrelenting grip pulling them down, and down…until.

There. Here.

Until he was somewhere else entirely. Splayed on hard rocks. No, not rocks; the smoothness beneath him indicated human intervention. Flagstones?

Daemon had kept his eyes open during his fall, prepared to meet death face to face. Instead he found himself face to face with a midwife dead on the floor, her head turned towards him. Her face was barely a few inches from his, her eyes were clouded over, terror frozen on her features. He could see another lifeless body a little further on his left.

Repulsed, he rolled over as far from the corpses as he could, trying to ignore the indignity of a prince crawling around on the floor. He didn’t have the knees of his youth anymore.

He pulled himself upright, amazed that his muscles answered his command, burning from physical turmoil and his mind still spinning with the thrill of battle. Vertigo seized him and he had to lean on the wall.

All of this was wrong. He shouldn’t be here, wherever here was. He shouldn’t be able to move injured the way he had. Aemond had almost got the better of him, even if he loathed to admit it to himself. But there was no trace of any of the wounds he had sustained. Exhaustion seemed anchored in every fibre of his being, but otherwise there was no trace of his violent fight with the kinslayer.

He looked around and around, until his vision began to spin and he realized he was in a round structure he had never seen before. He made his way to the nearest window and looked out, fighting nausea the whole way. Sand. Sand everywhere his gaze set upon. No Harrenhal, no Gods Eye, no dragons. Wherever he was it was not like any part of the Riverlands he recognized. There was no sand like this north of the Red Mountains. How in the Fourteen Flame was this possible?

He had gone from falling to his death above the Gods Eye to a tower in the middle of nowhere with two unfamiliar corpses. 

A whine tore him from his trance and he spun to face the source of the noise, reaching for Dark Sister as he did. His hand found the pommel of his ancestral sword at his side, in her rightful place before he remembered she should still be buried in Aemond’s skull. He spun around, his eyes falling on the only other living person in the room.

The girl was lying on a bed surrounded by a ridiculous amount of flowers – blue roses, he noted absently, their perfume not enough to cover the smell of blood that permeated the air. She was going to die and it was no wonder why. She was petite, and pathetically young thing to be pregnant. She was little more than a child herself, certainly not a woman by any of Daemon’s criteria. Even lying down it was clear she was short of stature, her curves were still far from blossoming, despite her state of advanced pregnancy and her breasts leaking milk. She must have been a boyish girl before some asshole had put her in this condition. 

Still in shock, Daemon distantly realized she might be younger than Sweet Rheana and Mulish Baela. The girl turned her head toward him, her stare feverish as she tried to focus on the only other human in this oven of a room. Why was it so hot? The room reeked of Death.

What in the Seven Hells was happening? How had his glorious battle with Aemond and subsequent fall (his last gesture of devotion for his wife and their children, the ultimate proof that he never betrayed his Queen) led him…here?

Was this a part of Essos he had never visited? Could it explain the warmth he felt?

Then the woman, the girl, was howling a horrible, heart wrenching sound. A child begging for her mother.

Daemon knew this sound all too well, had heard it before from the women he had loved. Knew their exhaustion from childbirth.

Daemon! Daemon Daemon!

He had often heard men and women comparing the experience to a battlefield. Daemon strongly disapproved. He would have preferred hours on the battlefield any day to ten minutes of being stuck in a birthing chamber. And he had only ever been a spectator, not an active participant. 

The presumed midwives were dead at Daemon’s feet, their eyes blank, their features frozen in a twisted grimace. There was no one else in the room. Daemon’s eyes fell on the door, desperate for a way out. What could he do, already covered in blood and gore, for this unknown child unable to access or stupid enough to forsake Moon Tea?

Daemon couldn’t help. He could not help, but he could not leave either. He could not even say why. It was beyond logic, beyond all reasoning, all rationality. And yet, he couldn’t bear to leave this child alone to die. Because she was going to die, her own spawn sucking out all life from her eyes. Her big, wide, grey eyes. So different from the angry purple eyes of his wife which nothing ever brightened anymore. Not even their children.

Slowly, suddenly afraid for some unfathomable reason, he came close to the bed. She was going to die, Daemon did not need to be a healer to see that. There was already so much blood soaking the bed he was surprised the girl was still alive.

He could see the milky pale skin of the girl, a northerner, if he had to guess, her long hair tangled and soaked with sweat. But she was a noblewoman all the same, no smallfolk girl would have merited multiple trained healers or such luxurious furnishings in such an isolated tower. 

She held her head high despite her pain and exhaustion, a frown of anger and defiance on her long face. All highborn ladies had the same defiance when confronted to the finality of their fate. As if something so undignified as death could not reach the pampered, precious daughters of Lords in their ivory towers. Dying in childbirth was a scary story whispered to one another, the source of tragic tales and meant to elicit pity for orphans whose unfortunate mothers succumbed bringing them into the world. As if Death was something that only happened to other people.

Andal ladies tended to act like they were immune to the realities of childbirth, protected by the Mother Maiden and Crone themselves. As if Death could not reach them, not the pure and fair believers of Westeros.

Northerners should know better, having rejected the Seven as thoroughly as they had, but this one was a child barely off her mother's teats. A child having a child of her own.

Hesitating for only a moment Daemon bent to touch her cheek and found that despite still drawing breath her skin was already cold as marble.

Suddenly his hands were clasped in hers, her eyes boring into him. Daemon was too surprised to immediately pull his hand from her grasp, which was surprisingly tight for someone who had to be tired and in so much pain. He couldn’t even remember seeing her move; she had been so quick about it.

He shook off his surprise and tried to pull away but her grip was abnormally strong and she held him steady. Her fingers curled like claws into his rough hands.

“Help me. Save her.”

Save her.

Daemon opened his mouth and closed it again. He was at a loss for words.

He wanted to run from this room, to flee. Why couldn’t he manage to order his body from this hellish room? Even the stones around him seemed to sweat, humidity building between the crack of the walls.

“Hold on.”

He couldn’t believe these were his own words. He felt disconnected from his body. He could hear a call in the distance. No. Not in the distance. Here. He couldn’t hear it, for there was nothing to hear. He felt it.

“What you destroyed, you will revive.”

Destroyed. What you destroyed. The accusation echoed in his ears and his mind as if it had been shouted in his ears.

Destroy.

Dark curls, a shy smile, and worried eyes. So unlike Harwin’s, no matter what their own family thought. A bloated, deformed corpse, eyes eaten by fish, full Targaryen lips torn apart, mouth open and white teeth in a horrible imitation of a grin. Forever.

Daemon had woken up for months from nightmares of Luke floating in a sea of blood, curled in his dragon remains, brave Arrax's last attempt to protect his rider.

The girl was pleading with him.

“Help her.”

Little Jahaerys was standing near his bed, his throat cut clean open. His orders to the thugs had been ‘a son for a son’. Not this. Never this. It had been a mistake. Alicent was the one he should have aimed at. The ghost had his mouth opened in an eternal silent scream, his eyes full of the purest fear. A child desperately crying for aid, for an adult, for his family to protect him from a nightmarish world. His gaze never strayed from Daemon, even as he faked sleep. The ghostly boy watched his uncle’s strong body, which shielded his aunt and cousins so often. He watched his murderer struggling to breath in his feigned sleep.

Destroy.

Viserys, so young, so clever, following Lucerys into Balerion’s realm, so far away from all of them.

Destroy.

Jacaerys, his spirit dead, dead long before he looked upon the burning ships and gave Vermax his last order. Long tentacles reaching for him, grabbing him to rest beside his beloved brother.

Destroy.

Helaena, sweet soft simple minded girl. No more responsible for the cursed blood in her veins than Daemon’s shame of a brother. Less so even.

Destroy.

Rhaenys who wished to straighten things with Laenor’s acknowledged heirs, the babies his son tried to make her love without succeeding. A son who witnessed her disappointment and rejection, having been himself the recipient of such the last fifteen years of his life. Longer, for his birth had shadowed beloved Laena’s. Rhaenys was forever silenced, now, her tears unseen by the son she had lost too soon, the grandsons she never cooed over, smiled at, ensured of her protective encompassing affection. Emulating their own grandsire's attitude. The Queen-That-Never-Was was not given a Targaryen funeral and her husband had brought his bastards under their roof even as the crows were feasting upon her flesh.

Destroy

Aemond. His mirror. The permanent reminder of his constant failure. Failure as a son, grandson, brother, cousin, father, uncle. Husband. Failure as a Targaryen. A Prince.

“Help me!”

Daemon!

He had not managed to save any of them. He was only able to avenge their deaths, one by one, his rage nourishing itself from smoke and salt.

And this stupid child thought he could help her? Him? He had failed to save almost everyone he had ever loved. How was he meant to help her, whoever she was?

Daemon!

“Help her!”

Desperation bled from every word. How dare she command a Prince?

His body still refused to respond to his panic, to run. To search for Caraxes through their bond. His eyes never left the too smooth belly for a woman in labor.

Daemon!

Daemon!

Terror seized him but, like a walking corpse, for maybe it was exactly what he was, he cleansed his bloody calloused hands in the bowl of gently steaming water prepared near the bed.

He thought of the midwives at Laena’s side, their hasty hushed murmurs, the concern in their glances. They had been careful to scrub their hands clean.

So he mimicked them. And he prayed to whatever god had deigned to bring him here, to this terrible birthing chamber. He cursed them for bringing him here in the same moment calling for their help.

He had known his fair share of female intimacy but there was nothing appealing in the act of birthing. He found himself recoiling multiple times from the sights and smells of the birthing bed lest he become violently ill.

Blood was soaking the bedding and dripping on the floor, saturating his expensive boots in viscous red, coating his arms even as he whispered comforting nonsense to the poor girl. 

She barely had the strength to cry. How was she still alive? Humans were not meant to survive this much blood loss. Why was he even helping her? Why was he fighting the inevitable? Because he was Daemon Targaryen and any challenge was to be accepted.

A yell more strident than all the others. A part of Daemon was impressed by this girl’s lungs.

He leaned between the barely covered legs. He noted absently the strong thighs of a horse rider, one with enough experience that their limbs took the shape most suited to their mount. His Bronze Bitch had been the same. He couldn’t stop his grimace at the unwelcome comparison.

Something was battling inside her womb, battling to live, their movement strong enough to make him fear something would break through the skin, phantom fist and foot kicking the lower belly of their flesh prison.

What could he say? What could he do? Cut her to try saving the baby? He wanted to vomit at the mere idea, Aemma’s and Laena’s accusing faces and frightened eyes in his mind.

He wouldn’t. He focused instead on the task at hand. Breathed deeply and steady as his teachers in the training yard, so long ago had taught him. He needed to focus.

Later he would have few clear memories of the half day and whole night spent kneeling beside Princess Lyanna. One of the few things he would be able to call to mind with little effort was holding her imploring, grasping hand and her pleas echoing in his ears.

“Is it going to be alright?”

No, of course it wasn’t. It would be a miracle if the baby made it, this birth was such a mess, but the girl was far too small and skinny for this. Had no one thought to feed her properly?

“Yes, you are almost done.” He had lied. Over. And over. “You have to push.”

Push. That was what the midwife always said, right?

“Push girl, push, in the name of the Fourteen Flames! It will be over soon.”

It never was. Hours and hours seemed to pass, and the sun began to fall, the heat of midday slowly retreating from the birthing chamber.

“You’ll hold your child soon,” Daemon told the girl, swearing under his breath, exhaustion clear in his voice.

If mother and babe lived long enough. More likely, their corpses would be buried together, Daemon thought.

Daemon firmly ignores the voice assuring him he would be the one to do the deed.

Still kneeling, he observed with a sort of detached horror, as the girl dilated a little more, more blood gushing forth coating her tights.

And then, finally a miracle. The crown of the baby’s head appeared, barely visible through the mess.

Relief flooded him. Whatever this atonement, this strange nightmare had been, it would be finished soon enough, one way or the other.

With any luck he would be able to ditch the bodies in a hole before the heat of the next day began to decompose their flesh.

Then he saw underneath the gore, barely visible in the light filtering by the poor excuses for windows, white golden hair so bright even the mess of birth couldn’t hide the truth from the Rogue Prince. Daemon had held a dozen Valyrian infants in his life. He knew immediately.

A Targaryen baby.

He had been saved from a certain death and transported to this place to assist in the birth of a Targaryen baby.

“You will help save for love what you have destroyed for love.”

The clouds in his mind cleared. Any cynical tough crushed by bright, renewed, hope. He didn’t care who the father of this child was. Aegon, Aemond, Jacaerys, it did not matter.

Dead. They were all dead. Or soon would be. There would be no forgiveness from either side.

He could see himself presenting his Queen with this improbable beacon of light, this silver lining in years of endless grief.

No one would ever call this child a Dragon Seed. He would make sure of it.

They were no replacement for the children lost. But they were a sign from the Gods, and destined for greatness. For Daemon should be dead far from here. This was some God’s whim; there could be no other explanation. A God he never put his trust in had brought him here to assist the birth of a Targaryen child and he would honor their trust.

Here was an innocent newborn. Here was a chance for the Dragons. A reason for his continued presence. The sign he had been waiting for without knowing it.

Daemon's voice was no longer hollow when he encouraged the girl but awed and trembling with barely contained emotion. He addressed her directly, the mystery future mother of a child from his blood, abandoning any distance, terms of endearment rising from his tongue, cajoling her.

Darling. My Lady. Sweetheart. Beloved girl. Whoever she was, she was a Lady and had conceived a Dragon.

Pox on Nettles for predicting the Death of his family by his hands. Pox on her for desecrating his love for the one woman he ever loved.

Here was a Targaryen. Here was an heir. Untainted by the hatred of the Dance.

“We are almost there”, plaided Daemon, as feverish as the young girl, suddenly. We.

“I can see your child. They have their father's hair. Please, love, you did good, we are almost here. They are almost with us. You are so brave my lady, a wonderful gift from the Fourteen Flames.”

He firmly flung away any thoughts of stillbirth, malformation, and child dead after only a day. Not this one.

“Push, love. Push, for me. Push for your baby. Our baby.”

He sponged the sweat from her brow for the hundredths time, before returning to the crux of the matter trying to help the child on their way out. His hands cleaned anew, trembling with anticipation. He could almost hold them.

What could he remember of the midwives chit-chatting? The head came first, not the feet, so no breech birth, he knew that much. But what other complications could arise? The umbilical cord came to mind but he couldn’t see well enough to tell if it was wrapped around the child's neck and that was a rare occurrence, wasn’t it? No he could see the neck, no sign of the cord strangling the babe before they were even out of their mother.

He had not dared to pull before seeing the shoulders, but as soon as he could see them through the gore he did not have the luxury of hesitating. The mother had no strength left in her. So Daemon delivered the Targaryen newborn to the world, cursing and praying in the same breath, pulling the child from the poor mother as gently as he could, drawing a resounding appalling howl, more beast than human, from the girl.

A final scream petered off into a whimper, her voice definitely wrecked, Daemon’s ears rang, followed by a little almost affronted cry. A cry neither the girl nor Daemon had produced. The prince felt faint.

The baby lived. The first Targaryen child since his own Viserys had been born. He could feel them feebly squirming in his hands, chest rising and falling with each tiny breath.

Viserys had been a beautiful baby, healthy and thoroughly cleansed before he was presented to his father.

In Daemon’s hands was a small, crimson red newborn, covered from head to toe in blood and birthing fluids. A simultaneously gruesome and beautiful sight.

He was too amazed, too fascinated to be repulsed. He hastened to strip the hideous little face from the…thing covering them, fearing it could impediment their breathing. In his haste, his arms got caught in the umbilical cord, not yet cut and discarded, eliciting a new complaint, void of strength from the now nearly forgotten child bearer.

Daemon inspected the baby with ravenous greed. It was a girl. Too small, too quiet. He couldn't have cared less. She was his blood, his family. Just when he thought he had been cursed to stay alone for eternity, to spend the rest of his miserable existence locked in a deserted Hell, save for a pregnant reminder of the Bronze Bitch as a penance.

He could have cried, as he did when Rhaenyra delivered their first child, Aegon. Aegon, who he had fervently wished to call Gaemon before accepting her argumentation. They needed to rob any legitimacy they could from the ones eager to see Alicent’s child as heir to the Conqueror’s legacy.

The child, under the viscous birth fluids and blood, had pale, unmistakable Valyrian tufts of hair. A silvery golden hue, so like Rhaenyra’s.

Daemon cooed at the little girl. She grabbed the strand of Daemon’s tangled hair caressing her cheek and seized it as if it was some prize. Her grip was feeble, almost hesitant. A sharp contrast to her conduct inside her mother’s womb.

Daemon couldn’t hold a chuckle.

“You already know who you can mess with, don’t you, my little Fiery love?”

She mewled. An offended sound.

She looked like Rhaenyra. Like Visenya should have.

The thought came. Unbidden, almost shameful.

Rhaenyra had also been an eager entitled brat since the very moment she tasted life.

This newborn already bore a serious look demanding the respect of whoever stood in her presence.

A barely audible mumble broke Daemon’s focus.

A supplication.

The purple eyes of the Rogue Prince turned immediately towards the clearly non-Targaryen mother. She was weeping. Pain, exhaustion and knowing her end was near. Daemon could not have said what could provoke her sorrow or if she even knew herself. She must have realized she would not live to see the dusk. He unsheathed his dagger and in one clean movement, severed the cord between mother and child. She didn’t react, didn’t even move to try to protect herself when Daemon pulled out the blade, she was completely focused on her newborn in the Prince's arms. Said Prince was hastily crafting a knot, begrudgingly thankful to Corlys for his lesson on sailor’s knot.

Daemon felt a rare sentiment rise within him. Shame. He was not going to be able to save the mother of this Targaryen child. A death for a life. The gods were satisfied. The Northern Lady had made her sacrifice, bequeathing his family an invaluable gift.

She lay on the blood soaked bed, waiting to meet her daughter. Waiting for the Stranger to take her.

Hastily he used a mostly clean sponge and dry sheets to make the child presentable. He would be able to reassure the little princess her mother rocked her against her breast and covered her with her love for as long as she lived. Not that she wouldn’t be loved by anyone Daemon would allow in her vicinity.

Another spasm and the after birth came, adding to the pile of gore accumulating between the poor girl's legs.

She sighed, almost relieved, and for one second he feared she had breathed her last. But her grey eyes were still shining and were searching for her child.

Daemon was uncertain of how he could further help her, now that the birth itself was done and the child, against all odds, was safe and breathing regularly in his arm, so he just sat beside her, ignoring the blood so she could see the child.

“Look my lady, it’s a girl.”

Daemon’s voice was soft, his smile devoid of anything but joy, careful to clearly show his satisfaction, lest the young woman believe he wasn’t satisfied by this outcome. He was prepared for the girl’s disappointment. Every mother wanted to grant their husbands and lovers, sometimes their own family, with a male heir, to be able to rest in peace knowing their duty was done and the child would be well provided for. Daemon was prepared to swear the newborn would be cherished nonetheless. But he was rewarded by a faint smile of triumph.

“Help…hold…”

There was no way in the Seven Hells Daemon was willing to risk his new family member to the shaking hold of the skinny, dying child. She could barely move her arms. But he humored her, raising her on the pillows and posing the baby alongside her arms, careful to keep his own grip on the fragile little treasure.

She smiled. And Daemon, for the first time, could see beauty in her face. Yes, she could have been, must have been a very pretty girl before the difficult pregnancy sucked her energy and her health. Even now her somber grey eyes were fetching, as if holding some dark secrets that only the lady herself knew.

He felt a certain fondness for the poor thing, imagining too easily how she could have ensnared herself a Dragon.

None of Alicent’s sons, Daemon decided, for the whelps were only Dragon in name only and not in heart; entirely unlike the little hatchling trying to reach for her mother, smacking her lips impatiently.

He could feel it in his very bones.

Daemon was unsure if nursing was a safe idea but once more the dying girl overruled him. “Get her to me.” Then as if realizing what she was giving orders to a Targaryen Prince she softened her tone.

 “Please, Rhaegar.”

The name made him jerk in surprise. Rhaegar? Who in all the hells was Rhaegar? Rhaegar was a Valyrian name, old fashioned, derived from the same root name Viserys chose for his oldest living child. The name had always felt pompous to Daemon, they had all been lucky Rhaenyra grew into it. Rhaegar…A name only a scholar would choose. Like Vaegon son of Jahaerys, the name didn’t hint at a literary background as much as it shouted it.

Both his father and his uncle Aemon had been dead for decades and he could hardly imagine the Archmaester Vaegon littering Westeros bastards anyway. For all that Viserys had claimed him to be an irresponsible whoremonger Daemon had usually taken pains to make sure the whores he did sleep with during his farce of a marriage to the Bronze Bitch wouldn’t end up with a child that could leveraged against him. The odds of having a bastard he didn’t know of and that bastard gallivanting unknown by all and impregnating a Northern lady was laughable. Viserys didn’t cheat. Never, not even during the shameful farce that was his second marriage; Jaehaerys’ lesson about unchecked dragon seeds had stuck in Viserys, like it had in Aemon and Baelon before him. No he preferred to marry his whores before sowing the perfect condition for a civil war and the total destruction of their House.

Daemon seethed, his teeth grinding, raising an army and a dragon for his ungrateful brother's cause had been the first in a long list of thankless tasks thrown his way over the years.

The Rogue Prince shook himself. He could think about his older brother’s foolish choices later. He had more important things to work out at the moment, he pushed down his confusion at the name that hadn’t been used in his family line in centuries and did as the dying girl asked.

Within seconds the baby was suckling with gusto to the exhausted delight of the Northern lady.

Well that was one problem delayed for the moment. For he had no idea where he was going to find a wet nurse for a Targaryen princess in the desert.

All of the sudden, he heard a commotion outside, men yelling in surprise and terror- so they were not as isolated as he had feared- followed by the unmistakable shriek of Caraxes.

Chapter Text

Chapter II « Promise me, Daemon »

'Those that are the most slow in making a promise are the most faithful in the performance of it'

Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Relief rushed through Daemon. He was lost, angry, thirsty, and famished. But he was no longer alone.

Thank the Gods for that as the scars in his very soul began healing by the simple thought of his other half nearby. The presence of Caraxes, their bond singing in his veins, as intense and solid as ever, a bond only other dragonriders could ever hope to understand, shook him from the haze he had been plunged into since his…unexpected landing.

His One and True Love screeched, producing this amused little hiss the dragon invariably made when faced with wannabe adversaries beyond his notice.

Naturally, he could hear renewed cries and invectives.

His Blood Worm has that effect.

Crimson colored the Rogue Prince’s vision. All while the Lady North had been screaming in agony while birthing a Targaryen child, a member of the royal family, people, potentially more experienced people than Daemon Bloody Targaryen in childbirth, had been within reach.

These filthy traitors were dead! Dead, for not actively trying to save a child with Dragon’s Blood. Daemon hummed in contentment as the chaos outside resumed. 

Presently, his most pressing problem was the young girl bleeding to death, too weak to hold her own newborn. So young. Too young. Gods be gracious, was she meant to birth the child alone as some kind of sick punishment? What was the reason everybody ignored her call for help? A premature birth, judging by the child’s diminutive size, a mother barely out of childhood, with these simple midwives dead of some fright for aid? That was as good as a death sentence. She was almost as young as Aemma when Rhaenyra was born! Maybe younger!

Daemon reflected on the possibility of the child belonging to a Black supporter, and wished dead by the Greens, for the Prince Consort refused to imagine Rhaenyra would have condemn a maid to such a fate. Not after everything they suffered through. Not after… Helaena. Not even now. Plus, Aegon already had bastards aplenty, even if they were unmarked by the gods unlike the marvel in his hands was. Why would Rhaenyra worry about one more? As a matter of fact, she had raised the subject of picking her half-niblings from the street. Well-cared-for youngsters were far less likely to create trouble. But Alicent? No, not saintly Alicent. Even so, while Alicent always acted as if the poor, dirty children were unrelated to her pristine Princes and Princess, as would any hypocrite, she never schemed their demises.

The fever had seemingly begun to gain ground on the young girl will.

‘Rhaegar… Rhaegar, you were right. It’s a girl.’

Daemon, once more, checked the new unexpected addition to his family. A girl, indeed. This didn’t change in the last half-hour. Was it a half-hour already?

Birthing a girl would have brought lament for many parents, for every man wanted an heir, but the child’s mother was beaming, as if she had realized some triumph this “Rhaegar” had demanded from her.

What was this madness?

Despite her fever, the young girl was still bright with happiness, the imminence of her death postponed by her relief and pride in her daughter. She sent him an enamored look, one which spoke of first love. Ill-informed love.

“Your Visenya.”

“Visenya?”

Daemon choked.

Anxiety fought the joy on her young face.

“Do you think her unfit of being the third head of your dragon?”

Daemon, aware she had little time in front of her and, with a courtesy few would have suspected in him, tried to offer her reassurance. He awkwardly patted her arm without withholding the newborn.

“No, Love, of course not.”

Lady North became almost irritable, forgetting her woes for the sake of endorsing her newborn girl.

“She would be the Ice dragon, the Ice to Rhaenys and Aegon’s Fire. Theirs would be the song of Ice and Fire.”

Daemon’s blood froze. Theirs would be the song of Ice and Fire. No, not that cursed prophecy again! That foolish dream which drove half his family to madness. And…

“Aegon and Rhaenys?”

He only knew of one Rhaenys, His cousin was gone, her remains lost. As for the two Aegons…

“Your three headed dragon…” sighed the girl, weary after her one-sided quarrel. “You have your three headed Dragon.”

Three. Three?

Daemon, contrary to some allegations bordering on slander, was smart. Not book smart, nor inclined to intellectual pursuit, granted. But sharp.

He quickly added two and two together and concluded than an obscure Targaryen named (or going by) Rhaegar had fathered three children, the latter of whom was by a far too young northerner noble maiden, all in the pursuit of some old dream their ancestor may have had, and probably only understood half of it. If that.

Cloaked in this poor, naïve child’s blood, holding a baby, who he could only hope would live, Daemon ardently wished to meet this Rhaegar and pass his regards to him through Dark Sister.

He needed to shed light on this abominable swindle.

“What might your name be, love? So I can praise it to your beautiful daughter?”

She was not aware enough to be surprised by “Rhaegar’s” request.

Daemon felt insulted to be mistaken for the worthless cunt. As if a man abandoning the mother of his future child here, of all places, would help deliver said child. Even Daemon could not believe he had done exactly that. No one could know. No one. No one would. There was to be no witness’. Oh, the Gods be good, if Viserys and Rhaenys were still alive they would never have let him forget it. The japes would never have ceased. Minstrels would sing about the Rogue Prince turned Rogue Midwife.

No, this Rhaegar sounded like a scoundrel who would have fled at the first sight of birthing fluids, or whatever the Grey Rats called it. He wouldn’t have been of any help. Let alone care for his daughter himself, to care for her as she clearly deserved.

On the contrary, Daemon intended to make clear to all that the Princess in his arms was to be acknowledged as his beloved daughter. He intended to raise her as Baela and Rhaena should have been raised. He would not make the same mistakes twice. Maybe the twins would be taken by the idea of a new young sister? Rhaena, at the very least, loved children.

Then the girl spoke.

“Lyanna Stark. Only daughter of Lord Rickard Stark. The Knight of the Laughing Tree. Second wife of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

The words struck the Prince like a hammer on a bronze gong.

Because there was no Lyanna Stark in Winterfell. No more than there was a Rhaegar Targaryen or any pretender using that name. There had not been a Rickard Stark for generations. And no Mystery Knight to be known as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. A tourney hadn’t even been held since his brother’s demise.

Second wife? No Targaryen had taken more than one wife since Maegor the Cruel.

Nonetheless, he doubted the girl has still enough spirit in her – or the wits - to weave a ridiculous and easily proved false tale.

It crept on Daemon; all these questions, previously discarded for the newborn sake, coming back to the forefront. He had known since the moment he did not meet the end he sought at the Gods’ Eye that sorcery had to be involved. Sorcery which did not take source in Old Valyria’s myths. Maybe these Old Gods Northerners were so protective of, enough to refuse to align with the other kingdoms, enough to proclaim House Stark as Protector of their obscure rituals, had been affronted a Valyrian would dare try ending his life in their sacred lands. His blood was boiling under skin, his scorched nerves now exposed anew.

“What’s your name?”

Astounded, Daemon ripped himself from his brooding.

A veil had been lifted and, for the first time since he was thrown in the birth room, the profound, huge grey eyes were lucid. Their clarity unnerved him more than their previous delirious lights ever did.

“I am Daemon Targaryen, Prince Consort of Queen Rhaenyra first of her name.”

The new mother laughed. Pain marked each feature of her thin, etched, face but the laughter didn’t stop.

At last, Daemon, still, uncomfortably close, for he refused to let the newborn Targaryen without his supportive hands to guide her fragile head while falling asleep at her Mother tits, spat.

“Does my name amuse you?”

Lyanna Stark forfeited any amusement, and Daemon regretted his words when this unnerving stare laid on him once more. Not a ghost of a former lover or husband, but him. As he presented himself. Daemon Targaryen.

“You… you have to promise me…”

Daemon had just spent all night helping the ungrateful brat birth her whelp and was of the general opinion he owned her nothing. He was going to say as much, in colorful ways, but Lyanna disentangled the Targaryen child from her, despite muffled protests on the child’s part and pushed her against his sullied armor.

“Promise me, Prince Daemon, promise me.”

Daemon swallowed any snarky retort and his pride, keeping silence. The lake of yells and curses was deafening after so many hours spent in uproar. The lack of sound coming from the outside was eerie.

“Promise me you will protect her. Even from family. Promise me she will be safe. Promise me, Daemon.”

The Rogue Prince voice was oddly soft and warm-hearted. Rarely had he been more enchanted by a demand. The newborn was his by her mother’s own volition.

“I will raise her as my own child. She will get everything she is due and more. She will be treasured beyond measure and spoiled beyond imagination.”

“Promise me, Daemon.”

Blood came to the corner of her pale lips. A touch of crimson lightening her last smile.

“Promise me, Daemon.”

“I promise. I will care for her as if she was my own daughter. She will bear the title of Princess and grow with both a loving family and Westeros bowing on her path. None will dare touch a single hair of her pretty head.”

The promise had flood from his mouth without stutter or hesitation. Daemon Targaryen spent what had seemed like days assisting a Stark to birth a baby Targaryen only to get on his merry way from the incident. From the moment the little girl had breached into the land of the living, guided by his hands, his decision had been made: she had been his. Such was Daemon.

No one has ever asked for his word. No one. He had once been too young, too unimportant, then he had been known as thoroughly unreliable. No one. Only Lady North.

The promise was his first personal oath. Not one dictated by some obscure Maester on the value a Knight should hold or the duties of a Prince toward his kingly brother.

He intended to keep it. Lyanna fought to keep her eyes open. He had to leaned against her to hear her last words.

“They are dead. The two first heads. Rhaegar’s children. Dead. Like Father and Brandon.”

Was she delirious again? What happened here? What was she talking about? Where was he?

“I heard the Kingsguards talking. They must have assumed I was asleep, or too sick to understand. They bashed Aegon’s head against a wall, and Rhaenys…”

Tears flooded Lyanna’s cheeks.

“The usurper… Baratheon… He will kill her too.”

Daemon head reeled. Aegon. Rhaenys. The sibling of the child he now holds, had been assassinated. Lyanna had been in close quarter with Kingsguards. Presumably, they had been guarding her and her child. And another usurper? A Baratheon of all people? None of this made any sense. Desperately, he searched in Lyanna Stark’s eyes the trace of fever, the trace of a lie.

“She will be Queen”, whispered the dying young girl. “Queen Visenya.”

Daemon did not even counter Rhaenyra was Queen.

Dread bloomed, root by root, in his chest. He was beginning to envisage what he should have suspected hours, upon hours ago.

Wherever this place was, there was no Queen Rhaenyra. No sons or daughters to amend his previous behavior. Only this newborn.

He heard Caraxes hiss outside and knew his other half could feel his turmoil and was as dumbfounded as himself.

“Promise me, Daemon, promise me.”

He sat on the bed, amongst the scattered dried blue petals, as lost as the newborn in his arms.

He carefully touched Lyanna’s brow with his own.

“I promise.”

He was not home anymore. He tightened his grip on the ill named child as her mother, the Knight of the laughing tree, closed her eyes one last time.

Daemon only thought it was lucky the dead woman did not include the child’s name in her desperate plea. He would never call another of his daughter Visenya.

Outside he found three White Cloaks, looking at his dragon with terrified eyes, as though they had never saw one in their life. 

The Blood Worm had managed to find what is to be considered as a high spot in the flat land surrounding them. Caraxes didn’t show any sign of unease, his red scale shining in the oppressing heat. The lazy lizard had rolled around as if he was as a gigantic, scaly cat and was basking in the warmth. Traitor.

The three men sporting the White Cloaks of the Kingsguards were petrified, swords in hands, their gaze fixed on the dragon. Totally oblivious to the metaphorical dragon who just joined them in this Hell of sun and sand.

The Tower Daemon just exited was the perfect place for a surprise attack, the seasoned warrior within him noted. It was a miracle the young girl managed to both hide and give birth in that damn place. When he was going to put his hands on that Rhaegar, he will end that miserable waste of Valyrian blood.

Daemon was still hoping in a corner of his mind that the mother has just been totally delirious, plain mad, or that Aegon the False King had extended his taste for variety to Northerner maiden. However, he knew what disillusion was and he couldn’t deny suffering from it right now.

Vexingly, no one looked the wiser to his presence.

He had to clear his throat. Clear his throat. Him. Daemon Targaryen. He was a Prince of House Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, once Heir to the Throne then Prince Consort, father to the future king. He did not need to clear his throat. Men should know better than to take their attention from him. Or ignore him altogether. Especially as he was, according to the raving of the chil…Princess, holding a newborn Princess. As far as he was concerned, Lady North was the daughter of a Lord Paramount, the mother of a Princess, married in good faith, and should be referred to accordingly.

He dared hope she was just not another stupid maiden seduced by honeyed words from some whelp Prince.

The presence of the Kingsguards were a good omen in this sense, and a bad one for the remains of Daemon’s sanity.

So, he was currently holding the so called Kingsguards’ charge. No less than three White Cloaks had been dispatched to guard Lyanna Stark and her offspring. Or maybe it had been to avoid the mother to escape. She had seemed spirited enough.

By the time the first White Cloak managed to detach his eyes from Caraxes and discovered a Targaryen Prince, newborn in hands, almost pristine, Daemon could have kill them all twice over. Maybe thrice. With the baby (whom he still refused to name Visenya) in one arm. And without them realizing he was there.

The observant White Cloak, bald with bushy brows and burnt skin, took one look at him. Then a second. He didn’t seem to manage to comprehend what he was seeing. He tottered, devoid of any coloring, almost letting his sword fall at his feet. Daemon could have been a spirit from the Seven Hell, according to the reaction he was rousing. Ser Bald opened his mouth but produced no sound. He then yelled to alert his more useless brothers.

Daemon felt another strand of hope die within him. Specifically, the hope of which he was in coma following his fall, and hallucinating this whole ridiculous scenario. He recognized none of these men. And he should. He knew all Kingsguards and Queensguards alike. Trusted knights, aspirant ones, shameful fraud included. On both sides. These were none of them.

 The youngest of the gathering was a comely dark haired man clinging - Hold on, was this Dawn? Daemon felt flabbergasted for a moment. He had seen drawings. As a youngling, he had even considered stealing it in the night to studying the craftsmanship, but in five decades he never so much as laid his eyes on the legendary sword.

The three men were paralyzed. Which, retrospectively, may have save many lives. Daemon was more confident than ever that he could have annihilated the three of them with his new Grand-Daughter – Daughter, Niece? Family. Who cared? Targaryens were all close enough by blood for either epitaph to apply, Daemon was self-aware enough to admit it, thank you – sleeping in the crux of his elbow. Plus, Caraxes was only one dracarys away.

He tried to stand regally – as regally as possible when boiling in his own armor, reeking of birth mess, inwards, dejection, covered in blood, and holding a miraculously clean newborn. Daemon avoided thinking of this specific glow up. It would have helped if Caraxes had been by his side, but the ungrateful scaly brat was having too much fun bathing in the sun and terrorizing the knights to care about aiding his rider to impress his own royal statute on stupid flesh shields.

“Present yourself,” he ordered niftily. He was proud of his composure. Because, Seven Hells, despite the unrelenting heat, his teeth were beginning to clatter. Maybe the shock had just settled down. If something like shock could ever occur to Daemon Targaryen.

He felt darkness summoning him. Not the shade welcoming wounded warriors, or exhausted partiers, but a new brand of darkness forged by the trauma of being uprooted from all he ever held true and thrown into another reality.

But Daemon had to will himself to consciousness a little longer. Not for his own life. For the poor child lying dead in that tower. For the only remainer of his blood he knew of to be present. The Princess.

Daemon voice never raises. He was never required to raise it. He had inherited from Baelon a deep throaty voice, which managed to sound as amused as it was threatening, which had made his father a favorite at the council. Granted, Daemon developed his own brand of mockery that added another layer of complexity. Or so he liked to think.

The dark haired man (Dornish if his tan skin was anything to get by, in addition to the presence of Dawn in his right hand) collected himself and without marks of daze or hesitation, was now directing his focus on him and the baby, his face devoid of any emotion. At long last, someone was considering doing their duty. Daemon almost liked him. He was a vast improvement on their last Dornish White Cloak, Sir Crispin. The elder, the one who spotted him first, presumably their Lord Commander, began to circle him by his right, as the last one seemed satisfied to observe the situation from afar and evaluate the possible outcome.

Daemon was in favor of cutting their heads and feeding them to Caraxes. If only because they let a Princess to die alone with a Targaryen child imprisoned in her flesh, never to see the light of day if the Old Gods had not decided Daemon Targaryen was the best qualified person for such a situation. Suffice to say, Daemon Targaryen was not impressed with Them. He had, in fact, just spent the most trying hours of his life (counting his first wedding) and would gladly explain to the Old Gods where they could shove their prophecy and magic trick.

“Release the King and you may be spared,” stated the old man, dauntlessly. Judging by his alarmed complexion and his disbelieving tone, Lord Commander was aware of the futility of his demand.

Ah. So “Rhaegar” was dead or presumably dead. And his two other children either dead or unfit to wear the crown. An apparently vacant crown. Little Lyanna had not been that delirious. Marvelous.

Elation muddled his mind as he realized his Precious Heart was Trueborn, by whatever trick had been pulled by her parents.  

Seemed he was mistaken after all, presuming the midget would be a Princess. Her mother had been right to call her a Queen. Queen since the moment he held her, gluey and squirming. A Princess who never was. Hardly a good first impression of one’s monarch.

Lyanna had been the Princess in the Tower. The young, foolish girl had been legally bonded by holy vows to the foolish father of her child.

A child from two Great Houses. Lady North’s assertions were reinforced by the presence of half of the Kingsguard. Maybe the Royal family, for the sake of diplomacy, would have spared one White Cloak for a paramount’s daughter and a bastard. Never three. Let alone the Lord Commander.

The newborn girl’s mother’s family had held the North for eight thousand years. Her Father was a Dragon Lord, Heir of Aegon the Conqueror and the Iron Throne. Her claim would be strong. Well, he didn’t know who she inherited her claim from, exactly, which support she had, but he would deal with it.

King. Hopefully that little mishap wasn’t going to be a problem. If it was, Daemon was more than happy to return to his first plan. Feed them to Caraxes.

The men hadn’t made their move, his good boy deterring any foolish behavior, despite his current unwillingness to show aggression. Daemon suspected his soulmate found the whole scene hilarious. Traitor!

“If you want the Queen you would have to pry her from my dead body. And Caraxes’s.”

Caraxes, finally, conceded to swing his head, smoke coming off his nostrils.

Of all things, that statement made them recoil. In the direction of the actual living, fire breathing dragon.

Several, infinite, minutes passed, then, the eldest, the presumed Lord Commander of the Kingsguards, with all appearances of a man who knew he was going to be mocked for his words for as long as he lived, took one long breath full of sand, before asking with barely concealed incredulity.

“Caraxes?”

The three men were staring at him. Which, rude. Daemon was very self-conscious of the blood all over his armor, the stank of Dragon and delivery bed. Birth was the dirtiest spectacle created by the Gods, the fucking cunts.

“Caraxes. As the Rogue Prince’s mount”, the Head apparent of the Three Idiots articulated slowly.

Was he slow minded?

Daemon, in truth, was miffed by their reaction. They were not running for their life or pleading for his inexistent mercy – shortened further by having to deliver his very first newborn, with surprising success, a newborn who happened to be a Targaryen Queen. No one could accuse him of ever doing anything by half.

Daemon, or at least a particularly desperate small part of his brain, was still grabbing at straws by this point.

Most of his brain had caught up, fortunately.

The simple fact Daemon was alive and not nourishing fishes was a glowing sign that the last few hours were beyond his comprehension. Lyanna Stark confirmed his fears. He wasn’t home. He was in a place where unknown Targaryen Prince gallivanted through the desert with a Northerner maiden as his second wife before getting themselves killed by a Baratheon. That last information, Daemon was willing to believe. He should have burn Storm’s end to the ground the day after Luke’s assassination.

“I am the Rogue Prince. Even if I prefer Prince Consort these days.”

He made a show of pointing Dark Sister threateningly, his eyes but a slit, annoyance shining through.

Recognition and amazement both had settled in their eyes. The weakling who didn’t dare approach him and stayed as far as possible from Caraxes, looked like he was strangling himself.

So, they weren’t soft minded. Would wonder ever cease? He noted a version of him might’ve exist in this strange world. A version bonded to Caraxes. Good. Would have been awkward to prove time and time again his identity.

No. Not another world. If this was another world, it was terribly familiar. There was…Princess Lyanna recognized his name, as the White Cloak just did. Still his mind refused the evidence.

“This is…it’s impossible” spluttered the cowardly White Cloak.

“Who do you think I am!”

Even his Red Worm felt insulted in his behalf. He grumbled, the low, deep vibrations making the three Kingsguards jump, eyes lost and wild with fright. What did whoever in his family employing them select them for? Being pretty? You would think they never approached a dragon! The symbol of the House they served! He conceded that, these past years, dragons were synonymous with carnage and destruction.

“Where am I? Who are you?”

The Dayne knight hold one hand in a universal sign of peace and lowered Dawn. Daemon gave a small nod of approval and didn’t lower Dark Sister.

His voice trembled a little.

“Queen? It’s a girl.” The revelation didn’t seem to bring any distress in the White Cloak. He simply sounded like he was seeking confirmation. Dorne used simple primogeniture, remembered Daemon with unexpected relief. The Dornishman probably didn’t care as much as his Westerosi counterparts. Daemon secured his child against his chest. The uncooperative hatchling was trying to turn her face downward, gripping the Prince’s arm like some monkey on a branch.

“Yes.” He answered deliberately leisurely, flaunting his low opinion of the brain capacity of the White Cloaks. “That would be why I called her Queen.”

“A…girl.” The two other knights seemed somewhat disappointed, and Daemon fought to keep his nonchalance. At least some things never changed, no matter what place he landed himself in. He also needed information. And he doubted Dayne, his new favorite Queensguard, would be forthcoming if he slaughtered two of his sworn brothers at the beginning of their acquaintance.

“A Queen. Your Queen. Daughter of Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen and Princess Lyanna of House Targaryen and House Stark.” stated Daemon, showing his teeth in a sneer, daring them to contradict him, trusting the late mother had provided him with the correct information on the matter.

No one corrected him. Good.

He felt his shoulders relaxing. This simplified the situation a great deal. He now had three reliable witnesses to swear for all to hear that this child was Princess Lyanna’s. He quickly addressed thanks to whatever Gods for the Queen’s – it was a challenge to consider a baby currently acting like Baela’s monkey pet as a Queen, he would admit – looks. Undoubtedly a Targaryen child. Jace, Luke and Joffrey had taught him the limit of people credulity.

He hid his relief and quick calculation behind snap and disdain.

“Your Queen. The Queen you were sworn to protect. And you let her mother die alone in this tower.”

Dayne lost his poise at last.

“Princess Lyanna is dead?” His face was distraught, grief and guilt battling each other.

Daemon was more and more convinced that holding his oath - protecting the baby and raising her as he wished to have been able to raise his daughters and sons – all seven of them – will be formality.

“If you’re talking about the poor girl just out of childhood lying in a pool of her own blood, then yes, the Princess you should have protected is dead.”

As the two others seemed equally stricken as the Dornish, Daemon concluded they were more incompetent than malicious.

And so much dangerous for it. They let a heavily pregnant Princess, carrying a presumptive Heir to the throne, if not the Sovereign, alone with two midwives, if they were even midwives and not simple servants. No Maesters, or any other kind of help – as useless of the Grey Rats had always appeared to him.  

Dark Sister sang a familiar song of revenge. Revenge for the poor young Princess Lyanna who should have survived to watch Daemon hold his oath by crowning the child they brought into the world together.

Daemon suspected Lady North had been nothing more than a convenient womb by the end and the three Kingsguards were, in fact, standing vigil for the child. The Heir. Whom they were praying to be a boy. Too bad for them.

Maybe Daemon would have a chance to kill them after all, if they became too loud in their protest on the claim of the newborn Queen as the legitimate heir of her insignificant Father.

“What happened?”

Incompetents and idiotic were they. Or they had a great future as mummers.

“Birthing happened. Were you all deaf?”

The Lord Commander faltered.

“…We…the dragon.”

Ser Bald shook his head, stunned.

“We…we though the midwives…”

“They were dead when I arrived. Cold on the floor. Caraxes should feast on your corpses for failing the mother of your Queen,” thundered the Dragon Lord, his eyes burning, the crust of blood blemishing his once pristine armor begun to blacken under the heat.

The eldest fell on his knees.

The Commander, if Daemon was not mistaken (and he was fairly certain he was not) finally crossed his dark purple eyes with Daemon’s, his gaze lingering on his long silver hair, his high cheekbones.

“Prince Daemon.”

It felt great to be acknowledged. He didn’t even bother to correct the White Cloak on his appealing lack of court’s manners.

‘You are dead.”

It felt even greater that the abnormality of the situation was being addressed bluntly.

“On that, we agree. I was falling to my death, a death I choose for the sake of my family and instead of the Eye, cold water, peace, I crashed near a dying Princess birthing an apparent Queen.”

All patience had left him at once.

Viserys would have been proud. He beat his own record in holding polite conversation in stressful situation.

He brandished Dark Sister, his eyes glowing with murderous glee. Death has robbed him from his sought end; Death will be paid in return with the blood of these fools. None made a move. None opened their mouth to plead. They stood there silenced by stupor. Awe plain on their face. They shared looks.

“What. Is. Happening?” bellowed Daemon.

The Commander took a deep breath.

Daemon knew what he was going to reveal before he heard the words. He knew.

“My Prince, we are in the year 283 AC.”

Daemon, despite being prepared to it, despite the voices’ warnings, despite the Princess’ various declarations, despite the evidence pointing toward such a scenario, if such one was possible, and despite all his senses advertising him of all the anomalies around him, in a world he recognized and yet didn’t, felt the ground turning under him. Turning and turning. The sun was aggravating the worst headache he ever had, reflecting on the white sand. Too white. He was going to faint. No, no with the baby. He scrambled toward Dayne, the less stupid of the lot, or, failing any brain quality the presumed better swordsman as the Sword of the Morning, and an adept of simple primogeniture. He had lavender eyes. How strange. He barely managed to put the Queen securely in the dornishman’s arms before losing consciousness.

In all fairness it was a miracle it took him that long.

Chapter Text

Chapter III: The Prince’s Pass

‘I have found that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.’

Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer abroad

Daemon knew he had a reputation for being impetuous, foolhardily. To be guileless, he had been called mad more than his fair share. More than once, his own brother forewarned him of the consequences for his reckless actions, Viserys had despised action more than anything. Although, even him would never have dreamt an outcome of such magnitude.

By what means his rebellious strike had managed to own him a trip two hundreds years in the future, he couldn’t phantom.

He was alone in the desert of Dorne, in the companionship of three White Cloaks – with a Hightower, among all people! – holding what was presumably left of his house. A little girl no more than a day old with golden silver hair glowing in the sun.

Not to forget the corpse they had managed to place in a badly put-together trail, covered by draperies and protected by wooden planks. By some miracle, they hadn’t attracted all the desert’s scavengers yet. Gave it some time.

He had woken up on a horse on which he had been unceremoniously thrown across. Daemon was not tied or bind in anyway. Once the Kingsguards, who had been concerting between themselves about their current location, the North of Dorne, of all damned place, had realized Daemon was conscious, they had halted and had given him water. Sweet, lukwarm, delicious water. The Rogue Prince had gulped without thinking once of poison. He had ignored unflavored water, quenching a thirst draining the blood in his veins could taste better than Gold Arbor. Afterwards, the dragonrider had eaten what was probably one week of the White Cloaks’ provision. None had seemed to mind or, if they did, none had raised protests. Caraxes followed them with uncommon docility. Maybe he was confused too.

Daemon had reclaimed his heir as soon as he he had been able to articulate a coherent sentence. Which had happened to be “Give me my daughter”. His. Daughter. To his surprise, the White Cloak, presenting himself as Oswell Whent, bowing with all the respect Daemon was due, had given the newborn to him without any sign of hesitation or defiance. He had placed her into his waiting arms without protest with the carefulness some would have afforded an inestimable breakable artifact.

The newborn, so frail, premature, had been carefully nested in what could only be a hastily repurposed White Cloak. A quick look had confirmed that Dayne wasn’t displaying the symbol of the Kingsguard, his armor now devoid of its most recognizable ornament.

Daemon had been busying himself by inspecting every inch of the priceless child, searching for the smallest scratch he could have fault the morons for, when the Lord Commander had jadedly presented himself as Gerold Hightower.

Fortunately, the Queen had grabbed a strand of his hair at this point, in a surprisingly accurate aim, her grasp feeble. The child would probably have looked astunded, if she had been able to feel and express such emotion. As a result, Daemon hadn’t been able to reach and unseath Darksister quickly enough. By the time he found his balance and dignity back, Hightower had cleverly retreated behind his sworn brothers, while Arthur Dayne Sword of the Morning was hastily introducinghimself.

Daemon had been more than willing to force Dayne to prove he had earned his title by saving the Hightower fiend from his Valyrian blade. However, the Queen hadn’t appeared to agree as she had mewed in displeasure. Daemon had stilled himself, alarmed. Was the newborn sick? She was so small, almost fitting into his palm. He had deemed her premature but maybe she was destined to join so many Targaryen babies in ashes. Victim of their blood waning, far from Old Valyria. Lady North had been so pale. Did she suffered from malnutrition or another affliction passed down to her, his, child? What had the brutes feed her? Did they even care to summon a Grey Rat? Was she too hot? Dorne desert wrapped its heat, heavy and dry, around his throat, slither and smooth as a snake, suffocating, rangs buried deep in his flesh. So many children lost…The baby stretched herself and returned to her slumber, contented.

“I am loyal to House Targaryen my prince”, had sworn Gerold Hightower, shameless, using Daemon panic to his advantage, his tone reasonably steady, pale as a maiden’s sheets “I swear on my honor as a Kingsguard I would protect the Queen against any foe. I swear it, my Prince.”

Daemon had tried once more to grabb Dark Sister while securing the newborn. Dayne had intervened, his voice quiet and soft, carrying more sorrow than command.

“Your enemies have been dead for centuries, my Prince.”

Daemon had felt like he had just received a basket of ice in the face. The last words he had heard before…taking a few hour of well deserve respite, echoing in his memory.

The year 283 AC.

Gone. His wife, children, grand-children, friends and foes were all gone. Dead. Dead long before any of the men surrounding him were even born. Everyone he might have once known. Dust. No one to remember them. Remember Rhaenyra softness – too soft, he had though at the time -, his daughters’ dreams – they had been so youthful- his sons’ brashness- he had been so proud, then his heart had been torn out, again and again. No one remembered them. Not as they had truly been.

Except himself.

Their murderers, Highcunt and his bootlickers, his little hypocrite bigoted daughter, his revolting degenerate nephews were no more than skeleton, their bones impossible to distinguish from the ones of his allies.

Daemon Targaryen, gritted his teeth, fighting against an overpowering need to lie down.

Dayne was observing him. The dornishman expression was smooth, his body language one of deference. His eyes bore no judgment. Daemon desire to throw sharp insults at the knight blazed, overshadowing his consuming grief. He yearned to shatter the perfect equanimity of the White Cloak. A White Cloak who offered the convoyed garment to shelter a newborn from the blinding sun. Daemon secured his hold of the infant, her featherweight anchoring him, as his rage dissipated. The tissue was silky under his fingers.

“My Prince you should rest. It had been a…trying few days.”

“It had been a nightmarish few years”, snapped Daemon. He nonetheless accepted to mount the horse they had prepared for him, a grey dornish mare bred for endurance. None bothered proposing to relieve him of the child. They were fast learners, at least.

Hightower, once insured his life was safe from Dark Sister wrath, at least as long as the Kingsguards didn’t outlive their usefulness, presented his excuses for their surprise when he turned up in the tower unannounced.

During his untimely lost of consciousness, the White Cloaks had decided he was, in fact, the genuine Rogue Prince and not a madman with the physique of a Targaryen, in possession of Dark Sister and a red, long necked, dragon matching the description of Caraxes having appeared mysteriously in the Tower they were – badly- guarding.

“None offense was meant, my Prince, we were unprepared for your arrival. I apologize for not having been able to welcome you as is proper.”

Daemon stared at him. What tales exactly had this man heard about him? Even Daemon realized that no one could have anticipated a Prince of Old being transported by unknown means through Time.

He abstained himself from responding.  

Dorne was hot. And the sand seemed to infiltrate every tears in his armor. They had left the dunes for more solid ground, mountains reliefs beginning to surround them. Arid lands, unwelcoming and sterile. The vegetation was unlikely to yield any resource, as they passed thorny bushes, more yellow or red than green, not even fit for the horses to sample. Why his ancestors had ever wanted to conquer the cursed place, he couldn’t begin to apprehend.

The Queen, who had been until then a perfect gem, unorderly peaceful and compliant, began crying her lungs out, be it because heat or thirst. Daemon could relate to both.

Had Daemon mentioned that Dorne was hot?

Fortunately, they had been riding toward a little town where the dornishman had been clever enough to search the service of a wetnurse as Princess Lyanna’s pregnancy was approaching its term.

Daemon was left to wait leaned against Caraxes, profiting of his large shadow, the Queen loved in his arms, while Dayne went to fetch the woman.

Hightower and Whent kept a respectable distance, eying their charge wearily, as Daemon began to hum a lullaby he half remembered one of the servants sang to his youngest sons. The lyrics escaped him. She did not cease her pathetic complaints, little uncertain wails, testing this new capacity of hers, until Dayne returned.

The wetnurse was a sturdy thing. Black of hair and black of eyes, her skin was burnt by the sun, and, more to the point, her bosom full of milk. At the sight of Caraxes she looked like she was going to faint from terror in the Sword of the Morning arms. The knight had probably forgotten to mention him. Them. What a shame.

Daemon hoped her milk hadn’t turned sour.

Caraxes was one of the rare dragon known for his sheath. Daemon couldn’t imagine Vermithor being able to hide his massive body or even being willed to. The Blood Worm was concealed well enough in the harsh environment scales almost the shade of the earth and rocks. The Red Mountains indeed.

Dayne payed ‘Willa’ generously, handing her the majority of their coins which was a clever move. She seemed too shocked by the dragon to dare question their little party. Fear and greed. A perfect combination in Daemon’s mind.

Anyway, they didn’t need the coins. He could use his dragon to get whatever they needed from nearby towns if any emergency arose. Few people snubbed Caraxes.

Willa processed to dote upon the baby with the ease only born from practice, instinctively gently rocking her, voice lulling and tender.

The Queen ate ravenously, latching on the brown nipple, and a sight of collective relief could be heard amongst the winds.

Higtower was recovering some confidence.

“Oswell, Willa would have to ride behind you,” deemed the Lord Commander. “Arthur we can’t have you impeded by another rider. You are our best fighter.” Oswell and Dayne both raised their eyebrows with meaningful glances toward Caraxes at the order, Hightower realizing a moment later than no threat would be given the chance to become a danger. He reddened a little, under Daemon amused eyes. How could a White Cloak forget the presence of a dragon?

A question he should have ask earlier hit him as if one of Harenhall’s tower had fallen on his head.

Did the so called “usurper”, Baratheon have dragons under his control? Like his abomination of a nephew had? Did he join another Dance?

Worry seized Daemon suddenly, like a barded rope had been wrapped around his chest. Physical agony shot through him. His breath became unsteady, his hands shaking.

“My Prince, I think the Queen will be more comfortable with you, if you would permit it.”

Dayne was handing over his descendant, carefully holding her head, with a small, sad smile. The newborn was peaceful, her little chest raising with heartening steadiness. The dornisman had sheltered her eyes from the burning sun with a bend of the improvised swaddle, mindful of keeping her in his own shadow.

Daemon didn’t find any retort, nor did he wish to. He snatched the newborn, who was already sleepy once more, pressing her against his filthy armor.

The former white cloak would be forever soiled.

The Lord Commander bowed his head toward Daemon. The Hightower valued his own skin, noted the Rogue Prince, entertained by the knight’s sensitivity around him.

“My Prince, we are hoping to avoid any pursuit. We had received reliable information about numerous search parties for Princess Lyanna.”

Daemon scoffed.

“I’ll be glad to be find. Caraxes is growing restless with hunger.”

His dragon, recognizing his name, turned his muzzle toward him, his breath spoking the horses. The knight fought to keep their mount from bolting, lips tight. Hightower, after regaining some composure, uncovered enough courage to defend the White Cloaks assessment of their situation.

“My Prince, I held no doubt about your dragon ferocity. Although, if I may be so bold, your…yours and Caraxes existence might bore more fruit for our cause if we conceal your apparition from the Usurper knowledge.”

Daemon mused over the assertion. He lacked too much intelligence to discard the knights’ judgment.

“I guess we will be shunning the roads, then.”

“You are very gracious, my Prince. We are counting on the chase leading any unwanted company to Starfall.”

Starfall. The seat of House Dayne. The dornish were loyal to their own, House Dayne priding themselves of their honor, rooted in their First Men blood. They would have protected the White Cloak and his charge.

“And why aren’t we riding to Starfall?”

“We will not cower in a dark corner as the Usurper relish his victory.”

Hightower was straightening himself, righteousness glowing from every inch of the Lord Commander.

Daemon scrutinized him. Otto had wrapped himself as righteous, a cheap cloth under which ambition and covetousness were barely masked. His daughter inherited his falseness. The knight was either extraordinarily competent at disguising deceitfulness or he was genuine.

“Alright, I will abide your advice…for now.”

The Lord Commander appeared surprised, then alleviated. How bizarre. How queer.

On Hightower signal, with Daemon’s reluctant nod of approval, they mounted the nervous horses and they rode.

They rode toward the North, slowly following the ‘Prince’s Pass’, while avoiding the most used paths, suffering through the rougher tracks. Dayne was both their guide and the one covering their trail, always arguing for the safer and convoluted trajectory.

Daemon repressed his irritation, heedful to observe and memorize every details to trump his exhaustion and impatience.

The night was nearing, the sun, at long last, beginning his descent in the horizon. As the stars brightened slowly over them, Daemon missed the dullness induced by the day’s heat. The freshness carried by the evening winds sharpened his mind, the sentiment of being adrift sharply renewed. Hightower ordered for their outfit to stop, after having deferentially asked for Daemon permission, as per usual.

A camp was crafted with the few possessions they had retained in their escape. Princess Lyanna fortuitous coffin set at a respectable distance. A fire was lit, clear water and dry food shared. Daemon remarked the White Cloak had abstained from drinking or eating while Daemon and Willa had their full. 

He sat against a rock, too tired to care about comfort. Unless it was an evil rock haunted by whatever equivalent of the Old Gods lingered in Dorne, he intended to sleep as profoundly as the baby herself, who were dozing against her wetnurse breasts.

Halas, the White Cloaks held different views.

He was assaulted by an onslaught of information. Once the Lord Commander decided on addressing the situation, nothing would bring him to cease.

The year was 293 AC. Daemon Targaryen had been presumed dead for more than a century and a half ago. Disappeared. His remains were never recovered. There had been tale of his survival under another identity, nothing concrete, just fisher’s wives gossip. His sacrifice had been remembered through centuries.

His sacrifice had been for naught. Rhaenyra, his niece, his wife, his beloved, had been slaughtered in the vilest way by the pretender. Hightower hung his head in shame as he glossed over his wife execution. Daemon wanted to question him, learn every specific, but the knight would not be distracted from his tale.

The pretender died from poison himself later, without male heir.

His two youngest sons had been crown Kings, Aegon the third of his name and Viserys the second of his name.

At what cost.

No dragon survived the Dance. None.

Well, maybe the Cannibal, for all the good it did his House.

They were jesting. They could only be jesting. But here they were and Daemon knew he had been cursed. Cursed to hear what fate befallen his House after his failures.

Daemon couldn’t conceive a reality without dragons. His House would crumble on itself without the power of Old Valerya. Every grand-children of Jahaerys had been aware of the fragility of their dominion. They had only enforced their authority in the Seven Kingdoms through the incentive of their dragons, the Fields of Fire and the end of Harren the Black still impressed in the Great Lords memory. Without their more powerful weapons, House Targaryen were just men and women, easy prey to reach.

Against all hope, his line has continued since then, although he could sense the White Cloak were withholding information. They even rallied Dorne by marrying a Martell.

Daemon, in a strange bout of diplomacy, barely sneered.

House Targaryen had endured.

Until, once more, the House of the Dragon insisted on destroying itself.

Aerys, Second of his name. The three Kingsguards had a hard time concealing their disgust and contempt at this name, even Hightower, who were still afraid of unfeathering Daemon, and was careful with each of his word.

Aerys, who killed a Lord Paramount, Lord Stark, by burning him alive and strangling his son to death, giving the rest of these lechers an excuse for seizing power.

The “kidnapping” of Lyanna Stark was a pretext more than the reason for the rebellion. Baratheon and the other traitors must have been been too happy to be provided a romantic dimension for their treachery. And Aerys had offered them an excellent motive, more so than a jilted lover‘s cry for ralliement could dream of. Executing two of the most important Lord in the Realms without so much as a trial. The brother and father of, as he must have known despite his madness, the noblewoman who were at the very least the mistress of his heir.

And what could a sick, paranoid, man do against greedy Lords, who might have waited for such an opportunity since generations?

Although Daemon believed House Stark, without the implication of young Lyanna, then the murder of the Warden of the North, would have remain faithful for, Daemon was begrudged to admit it, there has yet to live a Stark who did not hold their oath.

He would have to make sure this particular streak did not pass to his newest descendant. His Heir. The newborn Queen. Whose conception was the reason for most of this mess, or so it would sound to many. Daemon knew better.

Lyanna, only daughter of that Lord Paramount of the North, had fled with the Crown Prince and married him in front of the Old Gods. As idiotic maiden whose brain had been filled with tragic ballad were wont to do. By chance, Ser Gerold Hightower had been left in possession all the paper, regularly signed and witnessed, that the Queen’s parents had been, according to Westeros law, which afforded all legitimacy to “Weirwood Union” as the Faith called them with disdain, bonded by the sacred vows of marriage. In addition, the Targaryen beneficed from the exceptionalism law. They were allowed to take two wives, even if none had apparently done so since Maegor the Cruel, had admitted Hightower. An unfortunate precedent, but a precedent. And, if the second marriage was valid beyond the Old Gods, the Faith had, in fact, no agency in the question.

No one in Daemon memories had taken one wife in front of the Faith, another in front of a Weirwood.

He swept the though of legal matter from his mind.

The girl was legitimate, and anyone who argued otherwise would answer to Dark Sister. Not to mention that, according to the White Cloaks, Caraxes was the last dragon alive. Daemon glanced the slander form perched near the camp, in the cover of the night and the nearby mountains, watchful. The last dragon. A profound melancholy threatened to envelop him and he barely managed to rip himself from its alluring claws by coercing himself to concentrate on the baby who had been handed back to him and slept soundly on his lap, appeased by the dinner and good care provided by her wetnurse.

Lyanna Stark. She was the poor child who died in his arms. The soul who made him swear he would protect her daughter. As if his word had any value.

And, against all odds he meant to hold his vow. He had known it as soon as he held the future Queen in his arms, covered in the inwards of her mother. He stroked her beautiful hair. She was still a wrinkle, red thing, but he could already tell she would be a pretty baby, as all Targaryen were intended to be. She yawned, satisfied by his attention. In the light of the fire her eyes shined in a weird fashion. He tried to discern her features better in the semi obscurity, now that the sun didn’t hurt his own eyes.

He could saw, to his right, Dayne gazing at them. They must be quite the sight. A warrior in full armor, full Targaryen regalia, covered in dried blood and other fluids he didn’t want to touch ever again, carefully tending to a newborn.

They were so much more the knights didn’t disclose.

Not that he blamed them. He belonged to History. He had generations to contend with. Centuries to explore. Even the Sea Serpent would never have traveled so far.

“So. A mad King. An Idiot Prince in love who got himself killed while absconding with a Lord Paramount daughter. A Lord Paramount and his heir little better than assassinated. The Capital fallen in the hands of a Usurper. A kinslayer. Is there anything else I should know?”

Of course there were other things he should know. Presumably, it could and should filled volumes. Well, it probably did. One century and a half lost to him. All his family nothing but names in books wrote by persons who never met them. As he himself would be if, the Gods didn’t throw him in that Tower in what may be their concept of a jape.

The three men exchanged sly looks.

At last Whent, the more discreet so far, drop the tidings they had been withholding.

“We received a raven, a few days ago. We didn’t inform the Princess. We were afraid of upsetting her. The…little princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon are dead. The oldest children of Rhaegar. But the Queen Dowager and his second son Prince Viserys are still besieged on Dragonstone.  We hope. Hoped. They could be dead too by now. Aerys had named Viserys his heir, persuaded Rhaegar betrayed him. We don’t know how Queen Rhaella had reacted to the news from Port Real.”

Daemon managed to extricate the bone of the diatribe.

So, Lyanna had heard right. She hadn’t fallen victim to nightmare or fancy terrors. Another succession crisis in the making. Wonderful.

Well, this time only his Queen had a dragon at her side.

“And most of the Lords will declare for Viserys?” drawled Daemon, feigning, idleness.

“No.”

Even Dayne was taken by surprise by the Lord Commander cut.

“Viserys is…his father’s son”, Hightower explain carefully. He still dreaded to woke the anger of Daemon.

“He is inapt for the role,” guessed the Rogue Prince.

“He is still young. He may outgrow it.” Even Whent sounded unsure of his statement.

“And who would take that risk?” taunted Daemon.

They stayed silent. Because no one with any sense was going to wage a war in the name of the son of a madman who nearly put an end to a dynasty. None of the rebels would accept Viserys as an alternative. Baratheon will relieve the Princeling of his head as soon as the child will be at reach. That might even solve Daemon’s problem.

 He had sworn to protect the child in his arms, their best chance to salvage the situation. And there would be no surety for her if she was perceived as a threat by her own blood.

Hilarious how fate made and unmade one path in life. Once upon a time he had been the bane of the Targaryen. It now sounded like he was the only one to sort out the mess created by their family.

“Can the Dowager Queen be reasoned with?”

Hightower wore a sinister smile.

“She would probably be the first one to want Prince Viserys far from that thing.”

Well, that sounded promising. But Daemon knew nothing was ever that easy.

He was, for the first time in his life overwhelmed. The baby emitted a pitiful cry and years of fatherly reflexes -even if he hadn’t passed so much with his children when they were that young, another regret – led to the Queen of the Seven kingdom trying to flex her ridiculously tiny fingers around the Rogue Prince index.

The Dornishman looked very emotional for some reason. Daemon hoped he was not going to have to deal with another “Criston Cole” situation. Dayne has been the perfect White Cloak since their meeting, astute, attentive and dutiful. Having to dispose of him would be a shame.

“Queen Visenya”, the Sword of the Morning said reverently.

Daemon jolted. No. He gripped his temper before decapitating anyone who might serve among his closest allies.

“Certainly not.”

Daemon harsh voice wasn’t inviting discussion.

He had discarded the idea to call her Visenya as soon as her mother had uttered the name, her arms holding her daughter for the first and last time, before she was trusted upon him. Now that he knew she was to be ruling Queen of Westeros, he would never allow her to be cursed so. Visenya had been a Warrior Queen. She had been suscpected of dwindling in the darkest craft. She had raised a cruel tyrant and almost jeopardized everything their family had fight for. She was no role model for this precious burden. His, if the feverish ramble the princess delivered and the succinct History lesson he just received was to be believed, last descendant. If the Queen Dowager and the Princeling were dead as the Kingsguards feared. Daemon’s head turned at the though.

He rejected the notion of naming her Rhaenyra. The wound was too fresh, the knowledge of her fate lighting a fire for vengeance he could never extinguish. His love had become more infamous than famous. Another injustice to set straight.

Restore his house. Restore their power and their dragons. Defend Rhaenyra and his own reputation. Slowly he found his footing. He looked at the red little being on whom his family future laid and memories submerged him.

He felt more guilt for Haelena that he would ever admit even in this pit of Hell.

Aemma was an ill fitting name in his mind, for all he had love her sister-in-law and cousin. She had been too docile, too sweet for the court, never the strong partner who could have balanced Viserys flaws.

Rhaenys…Well apparently the Deserter Prince had already had a child named such. That would be morbid. Shame. He sincerely missed Rhaenys, dearly. Rhaenys would know what was to be done in this new life he had been condemned to lead.

Baela and Rhaena only summoned pain. He had been a poor father, indeed.

How long had he stayed silence? Too long. Everyone was frozen staring, at him, fear plain on their face. He frowned. Did they tough him another usurper? He set the White Cloaks straight.

“The Queen name will not be Visenya.”

He almost spitted the name.

The Dornish looked affronted. Maybe he was more entangled with Rhaegar, Lyanna and whatever had transpired in that badly written ballads of theirs.

“It was the will of Prince Rhaegar…”

“Prince Rhaegar began a civil war for a girl barely flowered, chasing prophecy.”

If Prince Rhaegar had been in front of him, Daemon would strangle him himself. Killing the three Kingsguards who had been unable to protect their Prince from his own madness in the same move if they tried to shield the underserving fool.

Fortunately, none jumped to defend his legacy. The Lord Commander seemed, in fact, to agree. Trust a Hightower to be pragmatic. .

Daemon looked into each man eyes, one by one. The violet one’s full of the rectitude of the youth of Dayne’s, the unremarkable blue one of Hightower’s – he was going to find a surname for him, he could not keep calling an ally Hightower, his brain refused the possibility - and the non descript watered brown of Whent’s.

Dayne tried his luck again. Few people could boast of having done the same and surviving the Rogue Prince’s ire.

“Anyway Queen Visenya claim…”

“We are not naming the Ruling Queen of Westeros Visenya.”

The tone he used were dropping with disdain and venom .

Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya. Prince Rhaegar sure hold himself in high regard and had high expectation for his children. As if being Targaryen deprived of Dragon with such moron for father was not a sufficient hardship.

Hightower, a last seemed to follow his pattern of thoughts about the Queen’s name. Trust a Hightower to be all least a little politically savvy, even if Otto had not been half as clever as he had believed himself to be.

The Lord Commander sent a severe glare in the young Dayne direction.

“Prince Rhaegar didn’t think his child by Princess Lyanna would sit on the Iron throne. Prince Aegon was his heir and he would have probably been married to little Rhaenys.”

Daemon noted the fondness the memory of ‘little Rhaenys’ elicited in the relatively stoic man.

“What should be the name of the first Ruling Queen of Westeros, then?”

Daemon was pretty sure Dayne was putting.

For the following five minutes the three men shared ideas before discarding them. The tension had abated, for now at least.

Daemon got the weird impression of being in the middle of a conversation with Laena or Rhaenyra about their children names.

Rhaella was judged in bad taste as the Queen Dowager was still alive. Rhaelle was the Usurper Grand-mother’s.

Jaheara was presented as a solid option. Or Jacaera, a proposition of the Lord Commander. The Prince allowed this bout of sentimentality. Jacaera would bring freshness into the Targaryen dynasty while Jaehaera would insure to inscribe the Queen in their dynasty.

Daemon never forgave the “Wise King” for condemning their family by choosing the weak, easily swayed Viserys. The Crown should never had ended in Viserys’ hands.

Jacaera…Daemon couldn’t burden one of his child with the ghost of another. Maybe. If they didn’t find any alternative. Daemon could reconsider. Even if a wound he ignored existed hurt at the memory of brown, prideful and angry eyes. Jacaerys had had Rhaenyra’s eyes, whatever their color had been.

Daera, Viserra, Daema and Daena were added to the list without much enthusiasm.

“As the eldest male of your House, my Prince”, bowed Hightower, “the honor should be yours.”

Damn. Damon was taking a liking to the man. Everything was possible in this new world of his.

And he liked most of this names. But…they somewhat did not fit a Queen. Daema and Daena were names for laughing little girls playing in a palace’s garden. Viserra…he had been both gleeful and shifty when settling for naming his youngest’s son in honor of a brother who would wish to never have seen him born. He liked Daera a lot. Daeron had been the only Hightower whelp worthy of the dragon’s blood, as painful as it was to admit, and some King named Daeron II had been, according to a chattier Whent, the greatest King from his blood. Despite his unfortunate marriage to a Dornish Princess.

Objectively, Jaehaera was the reasonable, boring choice. Daemon had no memory of the little niece who had bore that name. Guilt was here, still tender, but did not choke him each time he heard this name.

The baby opened her eyes, and Daemon almost shout in surprise. Despite her few hours of life – a day? – the Queen was already showing more Targaryen traits that her golden silver strands – now shinny and cleaned. Her left eye was a muddle clear bluish, and Daemon knew it would turn toward a more purple tone later in her life, for it was Rhaenys and his own daughters’ eyes. Her right eye was a grey so dark it seemed almost black. Mismatched eyes.

The right name immediately come to him, as natural and evident as breathing. The name he had desired to gift his own daughters, being rebuffed each time. Not enough Valyrian, had argued each of his wives. The Princess bearing that name had been known for her untamable thirst for life. Viserys had been scowled by her own sire when he advanced it as a apt homage at Rhaenyra’s birth. Daemon gritted his teeth. He has no doubt that, had she not offered his father two healthy sons before dying an honorable death following birth complication, his mother would have built a reputation of her own. Princess’ Saera sister in truth. Aerae come again. He heard the whispers as a child in the Red keep.

Alyssa. Alyssa, in honor of his mother. The baby with mismatched eyes would be named Alyssa.

Disguising his slight discomfort, the old scar of one parent’s death, he raised his head high and stared at the Kingsguards – he was going to have to rename them…Damn he should make a list of things needing to be done at the earliest opportunity.

“Her name is Queen Alyssa, First of her name.”

Silence fell on the little group as everyone was processing his decision.

For a moment, surprise prevailed. Dayne and Whent seemed totally taken aback, by the westerosi name. Hightower smiled and nodded with glowing approval.

“A most wise choice, my Prince. Alyssa in honor of the good Queen Alysanne. It would gain her some support.”

Well, Daemon had not tought of that argument but he committed it to memory for the next time someone questioned him on the subject. As if he would name any child of his in the honor of this hag. Alyssa Valeryon, Good Queen Alysanne’s mother, had been a competent enough Dowager Queen, though, one who was always spoken of with respect.

The wholehearted support and – could he dare venture it – regard of Gerold Hightower was a component he would have hardship to accustomed himself to.

Dayne and Went shared a side look.

Daemon was not in the mood to heard complaint on his baby naming skills.

“It was also the name of mine own mother. She had mismatched eyes, alike to the Queen’s.”

Dayne and Whent bent over Alyssa as one with some agitation, way too close for Daemon taste. He had to remember himself he rode the only living dragon and yet, these men who could have kill him tenth times assisted him. Not that they would have survived for long in the aftermath. The White Cloaks actually cooed at the newborn’s eyes, awed to observe the beautiful mark of Targaryen’s ancestry. The Lord Commandant beamed like a proud Grand-father.

Three Queenguards swore fealty in the middle of nowhere, to a few hours old baby girl.

One by one Sir Gerold Hightower, Sir Oswell Whent, and Sir Arthur Dayne recited the Queensguards’ vows in front of Daemon and Caraxes, the dragon acting as a silent and attentive witness, swearing their life and honor to Queen Alyssa, First of her name.

Daemon hadn’t even needed to use threats, a disturbing shift.

In the deceptive peace of the night, Hightower kneeled in front of Daemon.

“My Prince, Prince Rhaegar had prepared a gift for his child by Princess Lyanna.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, weary of the great prudence with which the Lord Commander spoke.

“Was this gift so important?”

After all, it had been a long day. Too long.

 He will never be able to actually get some sleep, won’t he?  

Dayne grabbed one of the satchel he kept on his horse and handed it it down at his Commander.

Without another word, Hightower presented a dragon egg. The egg was beautiful. White with one long streak of gold. He seemed sculpted with fresh snow and Daemon could understand why his descendant would choose to offer it to his child by a Stark. It was perfect. Maybe Rhaegar had had a few redeeming qualities. More likely, Lyanna had picked it herself.

He reached for the egg, wondering why Higtower showed so much anticipation. Daemon has juggled with dragon eggs since he was a toddler. A Targaryen had every right to possess one. More so the Queen.

Of course, it was always a very ceremonial and poignant event for a Valyrian child.

He could feel the heat from the scales protecting the hatchling. The promise of fire.

Daemon felt the rage to won burn within him. He never balked in front of a defy after all.

He bided goodnight to the Queensguards, isolating himself and the Queen, egg firmly clutched alongside the baby.

He installed both of them against the now lying down Caraxes, fire made flesh keeping their dragon’s blood from the cold night of the desert.

The brat was suckling on his dragon scaled armor.

He didn’t bother him as it ought to.

The Queensguard kept their vigil. Daemon put the egg against his other half flank, owing a resigned sight from Caraxes. His red warrior never possessed much patience even with his progeny. The newborn cozied herself against the dragon, visibly enchanted by the warmth, if he was the best of blankets and all wrinkles seemed to disappear from her delicate face.

. Queen Alyssa was his incontestable Heir. And Westeros would burn if needed for her.

Chapter Text

Chapter IV:  The Singing Towers

‘ Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the graves with the song still in them.’

Henry David Thoreau

Nightsong was a formidable Castle, the seat of steadfast loyal Stormlanders, who had guarded the Dornish Marches for centuries, long before Aegon’s Conquest and the fall of the Storm Kings, House Durrandon.

In the last millennium the stronghold had suffered through no less than thirty-seven sieges. He was burned in 10 AC during the first Dornish war by Lord Fowler, remembered Arthur, but the Vulture King failed to clutch it in his claws. Still, its walls stood proudly before them, the Singing Towers a sight for sore eyes after days spent in the wilderness.

 Arthur would never have believed, a few weeks ago, he will come to agree – even if only in the secret of his heart – with the near incessant stream of complaints about his own homeland from Prince Daemon Targaryen, sprung back from the Seven Hell. Alas, one can only be attacked by flying thorny bushes so many times before admitting the prideful, conceited and disdainful man may have a point.

Dornishmen liked to boost how their marital prowess defeated the dragons themselves, but Arthur was a reasonable individual who could sympathize with strangers thrown into Dorne’s beautiful, but uninviting, environment.

Prince Daemon Targaryen rarely used words as courteous as uninviting. The Prince had profited of their ride to cajole the Queen, with absolute devotion, discoursing in High Valeryan about all his current grievances and pledging himself to insure she would never suffer such indignity again for as long as he drew breath.

Arthur could only catch the gist of it, and he could only be grateful for Ashara’s passion for inventive, long forgotten, slurs. His little sister unexpected and vast vocabulary of High Valeryan’s insults was the sole reason he was able to appreciate Prince Daemon Targaryen diatribes.

He was beyond happy the Queen was too young to understand a single world of these enthused tirades, but a nagging feeling forewarned him she would progress quickly in her comprehension of the dead language if Prince Daemon Targaryen persisted. And he appeared to be a very persistent man.

His refusal to stay dead was a substantial proof on that front.

Arthur had beheld as a horrific specter, straight from his childhood’s nightmares, had materialized in the middle of the Red Mountains. For a moment he had tough Aerys had escaped from the Abyss and resolved to avenge his demise at the hand of one of their Sworn Brother.

The knight in Arthur would accept such a fate, the consequence of his own foolishness for trusting and knighting a Lannister. The son of Tywin. The son of the Lord responsible for the Castemere ruthless annihilation.

The man who knew the King’s treatment of his wife and family, who witnessed the contempt on Aery’s face when presented to an adorable Rhaenys, heard his words disgust as he rejected his Dornish’s reeking first grand-child, the man who had learned, impotent, far away, of Lord Stark and Brandon deaths, had wanted to scream at the idea of Aery’s absconding from the just punishment the Gods must have in store for his deeds. Arthur refused the simple notion of the dreadful man resting in peace. Life was unfair to all, he rejected the suggestion Death might be equally as iniquitous.

Even now, given what he had learned of the Rogue Prince, he suspected Death might not be as unbiased as he previously hoped.

The vision had presented himself as Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen, and, even if Arthur had blanked out for a moment, his mind trying to find sense where there was none to be found, the dragon and ancestral artifact had made compelling arguments in the obviously Targaryen man’s favor. Especially the unmistakable red, long necked, battle scared red dragon. Aerys had sent his vassals rummaging across Westeros and the Free City, and no one had ever reported a dragonrider, let alone one naming himself Daemon Targaryen.

Daemon Targaryen was currently mounting Caraxes in front of the Three White Cloak, after trusting Queen Alyssa to Arthur’s arms and menacing him of retaliation if he judged his protection unsatisfactory, as per usual. Arthur was the undisputed favorite of the Prince, as far as childcare was concerned, an honor he was dumfounded by. Sword of the Morning wasn’t a nickname begotten on the best wetnurse of the Dayne lineage, and he had wondered if he should felt slighted by the presumption of the man. However, holding Rhaegar’s last living child was too valuable to be worth confronting the dragon rider about his eccentric picks.

 Prince Daemon Targaryen was all grace and swiftness while climbing on Caraxes back, as if each moves had been ingrained in him from toddler’s years. He had no saddle or ropes to assist his flawless soar. The dragon shared a look of pure fondness and tolerance with its rider, who patted him between his horns – was horns the right word? – like he was flatting his favorite horse and spoke lovingly soft secrets known by them alone.

How?

How?

He hadn’t been able to discuss the matter with his Brothers, after the Prince recovered from his black out. The three of them had implicitly and unanimously agreed that their new Royal Family Member, if less erratic than Aerys and almost reasonable, as far as Targaryen Prince were, was still unpredictable and wouldn’t approve of questions about his identity. Especially if he really was Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen thrown by witchcraft almost two centuries after his confrontation above the Gods Eye. If the Rogue Prince hadn’t been mad before, he certainly had excuses to embrace madness now.

He probably didn’t need much push.

The Lord Commander had cut any controversy but stating that the man was indisputably a Targaryen – carefully avoiding the Blackfyre, dragon sized, reasonable assumption in each of the White Cloak mind - and should therefore be afforded adequate protection for a Prince of the Blood.

If the man was a pretender who infiltrated the Tower using his Caraxes twin for distraction, he was incredibly committed to the farce. Arthur couldn’t believe anyone could incarnate a privileged condescending Targaryen Prince with such unnatural ease without breaking character once for days. His High Valeryan was absolutely perfect, flawless. His mother tongue, not one learn through book and tedious lesson.

Also his dedication to the Queen was so heartfelt and profound, Arthur couldn’t detect any charade.

And what would be the purpose? The man had an adult dragon. He could have killed them all in one world.

Dracarys.

Arthur had learnt the world from a young, bookish Rhaegar. Dracarys. The final sentence of numerous men, civilian or soldier, guilty or innocent. Details, for the Targaryen of old.

The Sword of the Morning had witnessed what could only be considered a miracle, at the Tower of Joy.

And now the Prince uttered a simple command, Soves, and his beast sprang his large wing, flapped them as a monstrous giant bat and fly toward the blue sky.

Caraxes let out one of his piercing abominable screech, far from the majestic roar associated with dragon. The White Cloak instinctively covered his ears. Worse was, Arthur was reasonably positive it was a manifestation of thrill and delight.

“Better to note sheath in not one of Caraxes’s leads.”

Trust the Lord Commander to asses every strategic approaches.

Arthur felt peeved. He should be able to help Gerold strategize instead of uselessly musing about the origin of their good fortune. The Queen’s good fortune.

“Lord Caron is probably pondering why a sickly wild dog is at his gates.”

“Does a dragon even need sheath?” pointed out Whent.

Whent had been the more bent on the craziness theory. Whent having been born and raised in Harenhall, Arthur couldn’t blame him for reaching for the more evident explanation in everyone having lived in that wretched ruins experience’s. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lyanna and Rhaegar had been rendered senseless by some malediction impregnating each stone of Harren the Black folly.

“As there is no one with dragon to counter him, or even functional scorpions, it’ll not be very decisive in battle. No. However, I am hoping to keep the Usurper ignorant of every advantages our Queen possess.”

Before a dragonrider improvised himself midwife, guardian and Regent, these advantages had been nonexistent. Each of the three men knew it.

They had discussed addressing Prince Daemon as “Lord Regent” or “Prince Regent”, solidifying their allegiance and courting his tentative trust, but the Prince hadn’t made any remark in this sense.

As of yet.

Caraxes dived, right into the sanctity of the fortress. Arthur hoped Prince Daemon has heeded his plead of sparing the Singing Tower. He dearly wished to visit them and hear the famed melodious resonance of the wind of their unique stones. Enormous, smooth boulders, far from the sea who crafted them, pebbles, shingles and black rollers. They finalized the otherwise strict and conventional structure, tricking assailants in believing the edifice was built with an inherent weakness.

The Towers had refused to burn, centuries ago. They wouldn’t endure under dragonfire. 

A crash, then hollers echoed against the ramparts. 

The White Cloaks stood idle as inarticulate yells of terror and shock came from within, protected by a naturally curved formation. Arthur deeply commiserated with the oblivious guards who had probably already been celebrating their Lord Paramount victory. Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance, in this precise scenario was also a painful course toward death, without glory or honor to be sought.

The blunt, bitter, incentive behind Prince Daemon resolve to claim the castle in the name of Queen Alyssa, the first of many doomed to surrender or burn – the Rogue Prince had been only to glad to describe the finer points of his policy on the matter – was that Nightsong was in their way. The first “proper” castle since they left the Tower, a fortress with efficient defense, provision, clean water, beds and all sort of luxury Arthur could only have dreamt of for the past months. Also, their allegiance to the Usurper had been unwavering.

They may even have oranges. He barely remembered the taste of Dornish’s oranges. The ones who grew in the Water Gardens.

Balls of fire illumed the evening, rising above the fortification.

The gates were opened and flustered servants, bowing so low Arthur worried for their backbones, offered bread and salt. The Sword of the Morning frowned at the First Men custom and was rewarded by the sight of an exceedingly delighted Targaryen, already lording over his new domain, ordering terrorized people around with relish.

Lord Caron’s head was several feet from his body, blood flowing on the paved courtyard. The boy who must be the youngest son of the House, or a nephew, a lad of two and ten, and Arthur was generous in his estimation, trembled from toes to hair, shock leaving his face livid end expression empty.

Caraxes were feasting on burned soldier, caught without any means of shielding themselves from their fire-breathing enemy. His teeth tore at the blackened flesh, claws disposing of the more bothersome attires or arms the men had managed to procure before meeting their end.

The dornishman aversion turned into nausea and sorrow. What honor could be sought in such warfare?

Did the Rogue Prince even offered them a chance to surrender? A chance to renounce the usurper? Did he let them begged for their lives, and if so, had it been it for his own sick pleasure?

The Lord Commander seized Arthur sleeves, distracting him from the morbid display. 

Prince Daemon was smiling at the exhausted White Cloaks, a rare true sign of joy for the Rogue Prince, and closed on them in a few springy strikes, unlucky inhabitants throwing themselves out of his path. He reached for the Queen, wary, vigilant and dutiful.

Arthur had never met anyone so unabashedly obsess by a newborn. Alyssa was a Queen, had been before she entered their world, but Prince Daemon Targaryen behaved as if she might disappear into oblivion any instant, stealing all light and hope, all meaning, from his existence.

The irony, for a Prince of Old arose from the Pits of Damnation with his monster, wasn’t wasted on Ser Arthur.

The knight, surveyed his Queen and the Prince, both Targaryen perfectly pleased for one precious, peaceful moment. Prince Daemon’s hair were still mated with dry blood, more red than silver, his face patched by dirt, gore, and sun. The black of his armor metal flare wasn’t one crafted by smiths, only fire.

The flavor didn’t bother the seamless pearl in his arms, nor the discomfort of plates. Alyssa cracked her eyes open, a slight split, reassuring herself on the identity of her handler, curving her little body in a rendition of a contented cat, trying to melt in Prince Daemon hold. Arthur wondered if the stink of carnage, the clatter of steel and the cry of a dragon’s prey would forever be associated to safety and love for the little girl.

He wondered if Targaryen lunacy didn’t come from this precocious taste of empowering viciousness.

He wondered…No, no, Aerys had been mad, and Aerion before him, they had reveled in mere humans suffering. Their wretchedness hadn’t been born from dragons. But…Hightower stepped on his foot. Arthur startled. When had he began to let his mind wander? Since when did he allow himself such laxness?

Satisfied by the inspection of his heir, snoozing on Arthur sacrificed cloak, Daemon grinned.

“I will take my bath in the Lords apartments. You may install yourself in his family quarters. Dayne, do insure the Queen is settled in a suitable cradle near my bed. Willa and you will sleep on the floor.”

If Arthur hadn’t been the perfect paragon of knighthood. He may have used the term asshole.

For all their new conquest had been the quickest Arthur ever participate in - and, as he had been sternly lectured by the Lord Commander, the less bloody – grim work needed to be done.

Whent was volunteered to slaughter the ravens, on Hightower orders, after the Lord Commander coerced the Maester to confess having been remiss in his duty, not alerting any neighborly allies of the dragon approach. The possibility had been daunting on all the Queensguards, despite the narrow time window for the Stormlanders to realize they were under attack and by what. Let alone whom.

Attacking Nightsong had been a gamble, a highly favorable one, still a gamble.

Prince Daemon was of the opinion that Caraxes would suffice to avenge Elia, sweet Rhaenys and young Aegon. His disdain at the idea of complication, the risk of organized adversity was both a balm for the mournful White Cloaks and a disquiet. 

Whent had taken advantage of his visit to the Maester to confiscate any history books which may linger and rapport the Dance of the Dragons’ events. Despite the appeal of confirming the man’s dreadfully comprehensive claims and familiarity of the reign of Viserys I and the unfolding of House Targaryen, their own lessons far away in their minds, by Hightower’s own begrudged admission, the Lord Commander had quickly destroyed the expensive volumes.

“Prince Daemon doesn’t need the burden of knowledge. Ignorance is a gift too short lived.”

Arthur recognized the wits of the older man.

Prince Daemon hadn't scrutinized them for more informations since the night Queen Alyssa was named under the gazes of stars. Maybe the Targaryen realized he wouldn't be able to stand learning, impotent, about the fates of his family. His children. Wife. Niblings. House. Not so soon.

The Sword of the Morning reminisced of playful children, long before a vied for his title, reenacting Prince Aemond and Prince Daemon encounter above the Gods Eye, envying epic and tragic tale of the Rogue Prince avenging the murder of Prince Lucerys.

He recollected the nights when Oberyn whispered horror stories to younger children, in the damp darkness of Dorne. Blood and Cheese was embellished until Prince Daemon was the rat catcher under guise, disappearing into mysterious shadows, sorcery gathered in the deepest corner of Ashaï, during one of his exiles. For the Rogue Prince spent years in exile, and was partial to kinslaying. He murdered his first wife, barren and unable to give him an heir to supplant his brother. He assassinated Rhaenys’, the Queen Who Never Was, children, to ride himself of the claim of the eldest grandchild of King Jaehaerys and abscond with his niece to the shore of Dragonstone.

Prince Daemon behavior was not consistent with his own legend. The man was scornful, aware of his authority and competence, very prideful of his royal blood, his ‘Valeryan’s superiority’. He rode a bloodthirsty beast and show no care for lives easily spared. He also dotted on a a newborn Queen, was focused on their purpose of reconquering the throne and rescuing their own and heeded their counsels. He almost gave the impression of appreciating their company. 

How much truth lay in these books, written by Westerosi Maester after the massacres of the Dance? Arthur was no scholar but he knew how words wielded power, and Rhaenyra’s memory was one of ignominy.

Did Daemon lived long enough to hear his wife, the mother of his sons, had been nicknamed ‘Maegor with tits’?

Did he still love her then?

Arthur wished he had been an implicated student. A fifth son’s worth was in his Sword not his brain. And he had savored this independence, gladly letting boring letters to Addam, Alfrith, Andron and Anthorn. The sword suited him, he excelled at it, converted all his drive and passion in outshining every rivals, and when Father presented him Dawn, he could not covet for further distinction.

Centuries long past rarely turned up valuable in the life White Cloak led.

He thanked the servant, heaved from the kitchen, who almost faint from the relief of being dismiss, as they halted in front of massive wooden doors. Wooden doors. Fucking wooden doors. The Lords had never judged necessary to install a lock. He winced. Further protection would be required to protect the Queen and the Prince Regent.

Prince Regent.

He knocked.

“Enter, Ser Arthur.”

The room was more luxurious than a Lord’s ought to. The walls were covered in silky tapestries, representing ancient myths from the Age of Heroes, a strange blend of Stormland tastes and dornish imported goods. The Main piece represented the kidnapping of the daughter of the Storm God. If Stormend was reputed to be the only fortress to resist the wronged Father righteous fury, the Singing Tower of Nightsong were alleged to resonate with the woeful complaints of her Mother.

Colored glass, exquisite and exotic, protected the room from the weather whims. A fire had been lit in one of the large hearth and Arthur could see the egg nested in the incandescent embers. Prince Rhaegar had found the eggs, almost twenty of them under the ruins of Summerhall he persisted to haunt. Covered in the rubbles, deep in the heart of the tomb, but intact a dazzling, sparkling with the promise of life. The Young Prince excitement had known no bounds for weeks. He knew, he knew he had been summoned to Summerhall. Higher Mights had guided him towards the eggs. He had spent days cataloguing each of them, assessing, endeavoring to predict which could be hatched. They had to hatched.

None had. As none had during the disaster that decimated the Targaryen, Aegon the Unlikely plowing under the madness of his line.

Daemon Targaryen was exiting the bath, his modesty covered by a drape. Willa was knelt near a cradle installed against the hefty bed. The Prince grinned at the knight and, for the first time, Arthur realized he was a handsome man. Targaryen were otherworldly in their appearance, closer to gods than humans, but ethereal did not equal attractive. Aerys, like Jahaerys before him, had been eerie, wraithlike, and, if Shaera had been a renowned majestic queen, Rhaella was uncanny in her perpetual torment.

The Rogue Prince indisputably could seduce pious maiden and charm wiser women with his allure.

“Well, Ser Arthur, I am flattered, but do remember my heir is in the room.”

Arthur felt his face set aflame, and he thanked the gods for his tanned skin.

“I…apologize, my Prince. I wasn’t expecting…”

Daemon threw the drape away to grab clean outfits, and Arthur strangle himself.

“I tough dornismen less prudish. It’s a hindrance if you let yourself run through to preserve your adversary modesty.”

“I…you aren’t my enemy, my Prince. I serve the Queen.”

He prized himself for standing the weight of the purple stare. Prince Daemon giggled. The Rogue Prince, dragonrider of Caraxes, wielder of Dark Sister, giggled.

“The last White Cloak from Dorne also served a Queen. Alas, we disagreed on who deserved the crown.”

Of course.

“I serve Queen Alyssa, as you named her, in honor of your mother, my Prince.”

That glowing stare. Did Targaryen of old share the burning intensity of their mount?

Arthur showed the basket of food he snatched from the kitchen. It looked like the package of stuffy crownlander ladies’ tea party. He had full it with various cheeses, fresh bread and fruits.

“I sampled it to guarantee no one would temper it. I’ll serve as your taster, if you so wishes.”

Silence. Arthur could almost here the Singing Towers wails.

Suddenly, Prince Daemon’s body slacked and he threw himself on the bed, almost moaning in delight.

“You really are the perfect knight, aren’t you? Lucky me.”

The Prince let one of his hands drop inside the cradle, tendering to the newborn. The wetnurse stepped away, obliging the Prince’s obvious wish to proffer his own attention to the child.

Any stranger, observing them, would presume the Queen was the dragonrider’s child, not his presumptive descendant estranged by centuries.

“Many told me so. You are the first to make it sound like a fatal flaw. My Prince.”

“And you aren’t the first to use ‘My Prince’ in that insulting tone, mind your tongue.”

“Forgive me. My Prince.”

The Prince laughed.

“Well, we are sleeping together tonight. I guess allowance can be allowed. For tonight.”

Arthur, heart beating, blood rushing, bowed, a deep, reverential curtsies, devoid of mockery.

The Queen’s egg was vibrating, flames licking their smooth white scales, lustering the gold strike. Rhaegar, for all his dreams, all his songs, as been unable to hatch any egg, just as any Targaryen since Rhaena, daughter of Prince Daemon and Lady Laena hatched Morning. The Maesters and Septons praised the young woman devotion towards the Seven, the sincerity of her tears for her fallen sibling and slayed family, allowing the miracle. Arthur wanted to scoffed at the sermon. Rhaena parents had been dragonriders, well practiced in the care of Dragons, or as much as was possible since the Doom of Valerya, swallowed by fire and sea with the Dragon Lords secrets. Daemon Targaryen handled the egg as his due, covering it with attention and mild interest, but showing none of the reverence Rhaegar had been so lyrical about. Prince Daemon had mounted dragons, seen hatchling break free from their shield and toddled into the world. Prince Daemon may be the unique man alive – was he really alive? – with the capability of bringing Dragons back to Westeros.   

He prepared to spend a sleepless night, securing what could be the sole key to the Seven Kingdom peace and salvation

Arthur hadn’t count the numbers of marches to access to the last floor of the Singing Tower. He had been commanded by Prince Daemon to sooth the Queen, before the Targaryen dragon rider vanished in the military battlements, a little after midday. Arthur was certain the Prince tough of him as the real Queen’s wetnurse. However, he greeted the chance to visit the Towers which had tempted him since they spotted their twins shapes in the horizon. Their renowned melody would lull the Queen, another anecdote he intended to craft for her, when she would ask about her these first weeks of life.

None of the Queensguards had managed to snare any respite. The servants were still avoiding them as if they had Greyscale, quaking and scampering when Prince Daemon entered a room. The White Cloak and Willa tacitly decided to divide each chore and responsibilities between themselves, from the menial laundering to the crucial interception of letters. Willa had proved herself loyal and effective beyond all expectation, knowing her letters well enough to help Whent decipher the letters exchanged between rebels. Stormend siege had ended, the Reach retreating in front of the inevitable debacle. The Lords of the Reach hadn’t sworn fealty to the Usurper, hadn’t renounce to their pride, their dignity, the fate of Queen Elia’s children too fresh to allow such indignity. Not yet. Hightower had blighted Mace Tyrell’s, his nephew-in-law, character so thoroughly, Prince Daemon was beaming approval by the conclusion of the invective. Arthur agreed wholeheartedly with his Lord Commander assessment. Mace Tyrell was ill suited to rule the reach and unfit for war. The Tyrell’s loyalty hadn’t wavered, tough, when so many had knelt. The Queen of Thorn, had preserved the respect due to Dragons, even if her faithfulness was nourished by her distaste of lions and their ambitions.

Only Lords in the Crownland were still standing, desperate to protect the Queen, For Queen Rhaella was alive and Whent had wept at the confirmation they hadn’t dare to dream of. Queen Rhaella was ailing, her health too fragile to endure such tragedy, the death of her grand-children a blow which almost carried her to her funeral pyre. Ailing but alive. Prince Viserys hidden from the Usurpers accomplice.

Nightsong was isolated, alas. Who knew what could unfold in the following moons?

Alyssa was sleeping soundly, while the sun pierced through rainy clouds, as if she hadn’t spent the night requesting the full attentions from three adults in dire needs of rest.

Arthur throw a dirty look toward the bundle of clean soft cotton, perfumed with lavender. Willa was currently soaping his White Cloak, but Arthur doubted the cherished symbol of his achievements would ever be restore to his former glory. The scent of newborn baby was weaved in the fabric for all eternity.

White Cloak were bidden for life. Maybe Arthur could petition the Queen for a new one, due to the exceptional circumstance.

The Queen mouth was tucked upwards at the corners, offering the illusion of a smile.

“You aren’t fooling me, Your Grace. Your tricks will fail.”

She let out an almost inaudible snore.

Arthur inspected the circular space. Canopies, rugs and covers had evidently been arranged to offer a clean, luminous space for visitors. The room was warm and hospitable, favored and cared for. The Lords of Nightsong undoubtedly premed the place for their more important visitors.

The White Cloak closed his eyes. Heeding every murmurs. He perceived none. The stones stayed mute. The winds, raging since this morn, was nothing more than a whirr, smothered by a dense stillness.

“Disappointing, isn’t it?”

Ser Arthur twisted so abruptly he barely managed to preserve his balance. The Queen in his arms scowled but didn’t awoke.

A man was sitting in a dais covered in embroideries of bright suns and shadowy moons, curling and twirling around each other. Arthur cursed is negligence. How could he miss such eyesore? The dais, was curiously positioned in a dusky bend of the room, but was still an imposing piece of furniture. The stranger was playing with a wooden toy he expertly jungled through the air with a long ebony stick. He was a tall, swarthy man, dark of eyes and hair, though his features had little in common with the sailors from the Summer Island. His pose spoke of authority and confidence, though his attire was simple, black and without any frivolities or extravagance.

He wasn’t armed.

He wasn’t armed and Arthur couldn’t decrease the unease in his chest.

“The Mother might have disregarded her daughter plight. So long ago…”

He whirled and looped the little bauble.

Light didn’t reach the inside of the Tower. Hospitality and warmth waned. The suns and moons devoured by gloom. What gloom? Where did these foggy silhouette came from? Dampness blackened the stones. Still, the knight didn’t overhear rains.

The Queen bawled. No the instinctive and tentative cries she was accustoming herself to, testing her new power on her entourage, but a scream from her soul, an immemorial call for help emerging from dreary nights. The shriek pierced the unnatural quietness and an unmistakable screech answered the summon.

The Queen was scalding. Her tiny bulk was scorching. He could feel her fever through his armor, the heat so intense his skin was burning. The howl turned into heart retching sobs.

Arthur shredded the blurry haze hefting his mind, pure survival drive roaring through his blood.  

The dark man was bright with sheer, an open, friendly smile illuminating his whole face and reaching his black hole’s eyes. And, Sweet Mother, his eyes…

“How fascinating! What a dear child! A dear, dear child!”

She was burning, burning…

Steps in the stairs. Familiar steps. How many marches ?

Don’t look at her! Stay away!

No sound exited his throat.  

A hand grabbed him from behind, by his shoulder.

Daemon Targaryen was standing next to him, Dark Sister unsheathed, gleaming.

“My Prince! I was waiting for you! But your heiress ascertained herself to be quite the marvel! Quite the find indeed! Oh, yes. Yesssss.”

His mouth stretched, discovering teeth, fangs, stretched again in a distortion of a grin. His tongue. For a second, a flitting, nightmarish second, His all Head was Tongue and Fangs. 

“Stay back”

Prince Daemon voice boomed in the circular room, resonant with fierceness.

The man raised his eyebrow. Too high.

He bowed. A mockery.

“As my Prince command. Or is it your Grace? You used to like this title. Mine is quite longer, I fear, and of no use for humans, but I do like the sound of Arath.”

Arthur glimpsed at Prince Daemon countenance, and for a flicking instant, was afraid of him. His skin blazed, and his hand, still squishing Arthur, burnt as the Queen’s frame.    

Men were running in the stairs. How many marches?  

“No need for such alarm. I was only curious. I grow so bored. So bored. And then here you were! Oh, the joy!”

The Lord Commander and Whent barreled in.

"Night Night! Night Night for Nightsong!"

A gigantic toothy, red mouth obstructed the Sword of the Morning vision, despite the shield of Prince Daemon Imposing presence. 

Night Night...

The Tower was empty. Prince Daemon was standing between Arthur and a simple dais, light shinning through the window. The winds…Rising in the air, a pleasant, velvety, humming. Soft and tender, a lullaby created by interweaving breath. Rising and rising, until the cradlesong transformed into a gorgeous hymn.

Daemon squeezed his forearm. Arthur realized he still clutched to the Queen, crushing her lithe body more than enfolding her.

The newborn Targaryen was calm anew, as if no fire had raged inside her, pacified and cool. Arthur turned toward his Prince, Daemon looking at him with an inscrutable gaze. Pearls of sweat rolled on the Prince's brow, the sole proof of what transpired a few minutes ago.

“Arthur…My Prince…What…”

“We are leaving.”

The Lord commander recoiled.

“Leaving?”

“Nightsong isn’t safe anymore. If it ever was.”

Hightower was calculating hastily.

“We can’t let the castle without supervision, My Prince. Even without the ravens, anyone could be sent scouting to alert of our presence. And without the dragon…”

“Well, we won’t be a threat for long if we stay here.”

Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince was afraid. Arthur had been scared beyond measure, beyond any experience in his life, the shock making his limbs shake.

The Prince, hand still clasped on his arm, an anchor for the knight, his unique attach to reality, strung him while rushing to descend the stairs, uncaring if they were followed by Arthur’s Sworn Brothers.

Night Night Nightsong !

The court was filled with corpses. Grotesque bodies, darkened, swelled as if drown in the rain pouring despite the blinding light, blending with the dried blood, disarticulated like broken dolls, fools’ marionettes.  

Chapter Text

Chapter V : The Roses’ Bushes

All things are subject to interpretation whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.

 Frederick Nietzsche

Gerold stood in front of the fuming, charred, remains of a whole detachment of Lannister men. Daemon had been using the turbulent weather to fly ahead and ferreted out any enemy. So far, his strategy has been a resounding success.

These pitiable soldiers, presumably returning to their wives and family, still unbelieving of their own luck, their survival, when they had let so many comrades fallen on the battlefield, had been swiftly met with an unexpected winged death.

They weren’t the first detachment to succumb to this fate. Or the tenth. Soon, words would spread. They couldn’t afford it.

The Lord Commander conscience galled at the concept of a Targaryen Prince, the Prince Regent for all intent and purpose scouting.

Prince Daemon Targaryen, contrary to all report Gerold had ever read on the man, accepted the lowly assignment without objection, only too glad to fly on Caraxes. Dragon and dragonrider only seemed appeased when they reached to the sky, their movement perfectly coordinated and fluids. This must be the famed Bond between Targaryen and ancient Beast.

Caraxes appeared inordinately mindful of the necessity for discretion as he began gulping the corpses with avidity. The spectacle, which a few days ago would have elicited horror and reprobation was met by weary, bleak expression from the White Cloaks.

Once, their party had been found at the first hours in the morn, a little group of Baratheon dwellers tempting their luck in the ruins where they had found shelter for the night. Hoping to loot whatever have endured precedent pillage and raving. Maybe it had been former inhabitants, survivors trying to gather whatever sentimental object has been left behind by their loved ones.

Gerold could never unseen Caraxes playfully throwing up in the air a blazing, living, man before gulping him like a treat. Then two, three, four…Too many to count. Gerold had concentrated all his attention in cutting short the existence of the blisters in front of his blade hoping to dull the cries for help.

How any sane man could pledge their faith and fate to such a monstrous beast, Gerold could never understand. As a Hightower, a circumstance he had tried to occult as far as possible during his interaction with Prince Daemon, he was well aware the Power Dragons wielded. Hightown favorite emblem to this day was still Tessarion, more than one century and a half after her death, The Blue Queen ridden by Prince Daeron the Daring. The gracious legendary beast omnipresent in the seat of his family, from the mosaic gifted to an ancestor by the Martell during a brief, unfruitful, alliance placed with all honor and respect in the room most of imperative diplomatic encounters were convened to the ensign of the local tavern, saucily named “The Blue Queen”. Statues, painting, books illustrations…His forbearers had pride themselves of their part in the Dance.

Gerold cussed their memories to the Seven Hells. Did the Old Gods or the Fourteen Flames had some equivalent of Hell?

Bearing their accursed name was the worst detail he had to overcome this last week.

And this last week had included the death of a Princess – maybe a potential Princess Regent -  under his watch – faulty and unsound guard as had been judged by Prince Daemon Targaryen, inconcevable surging through the gates of the Seven Hells like a Giant Vampire Bat from the ruins of Old Valerya for, or so it had seemed to Gerold, for the sole purpose of pointing out the Hightower’s line continued failure protect the Targaryen’s invaluable blood.

Caraxes, the Red Worm responsible for so much woe during the reign of Aegon II – during the Dance, he couldn’t afford to even mutter the name of the half Hightower King – was following them like an overgrown, malicious, puppy. He acted like one, too. As long as your name was Prince Daemon Targaryen. A toothy puppy with murderous bloodshot eyes. Gerold has seen him rolled over to let his mater scratch a sensitive spot, after indulging a little too much in passerby.

Gerold had been prepared for many conflicts to arise between themselves and Prince Daemon Targaryen but, to his astonishment, none had emerged.

The four men were in perfect accordance on who was the rightful Heir, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, what needed to be done, unpalatable as it may sound, and where lay their best chance.

Arthur’s change had been the bitter lemon to swallow. Far from acting like the knight from all maiden’s song he had always emulated, Arthur had overturned all his believes in a single day.

What had happened in that tower?

The four men and their precious charge, almost smothered by Ser Arthur in his desperation to protect her, shield her, from…from…Whatever had been there, had exited the Singing Tower with a haste Gerold had never witness, The Prince, the forearm of the Swords of the Morning in his armored gaunt fist. Prince Daemon far from berating the young for his mistreatment of their Sovereign seemed to approve Arthur’ reaction. Even when he had to unclench the knight clutch with honeyed words, praise, promises, Hightower would never had associated with the Rogue Prince.

They had busted into the Lord’s former room, fully prepared to find Willa…Willa…But the woman had been soundly asleep almost curled around the egg, as close as the dying ember had allowed the wetnurse to. At her side, the young Harrow Carron had rested his head on her tight, like the boy barely out of childhood he was, so painfully young in this strange arcane sleep. His left sleeve had begun to caught fire. Well, it was fuming. The egg was untouched for all Gerold could see, the chest of the two sole survivors raising and falling peacefully.

Whent didn’t bother to wake the child up before charging him across his shoulder while Willa was unceremoniously shook till she was able to gather her meager belonging, as did the four other men, even if only the egg had really been in their minds.

They stole – was it stealing when no one was left to eat the goods? - every edible non perishable food they found and clothes with – bless Willa- needles to adjust the fabrics to their needs.

Daemon didn’t even try to advocate killing their newly acquired member, too preoccupied by fleeing far and fast from the cursed place and a very disoriented Harrow as throw on a relatively high pony with his hair messy and a look of utter confusion and fright in his eyes. The Lord Commander ordered him to look ahead and, clever boy, Harrow did so, perhaps his survival instinct kicking in.

In the dusk, when, at least, their little mismatched company dared to halt, their mounts fuming at the mouths, lips, bleeding from their bits, exhausted to the doors of death, Daemon scrutinized the white and golden egg with rapt attention, allowing Arthur, carrying Queen Alyssa, to stay close by as the other organized their rounds for the night.

Night Night.

Night Night Nightsong.

No. No.

Prince Daemon fears, none could guess them, the man’s face void of any emotion but he ended carefully offering the egg for one last inspection by Caraxes –Gerold’s heart almost busted at the sight – and the Blood Wyrm only produced this horrible screeched of his, which Prince Daemon seemed to take as a good omen.

Good omen and Death threats sounded a lot similar from the deformed throat of the beast.

The egg was reinstalled where it had spent the better of its night so far, against the red scales of its elder.

Whent whirled from one horse to another trying to dispense the best care possible for the exhausted creatures, barely standing on their legs. He rubbed their articulation, forced them to exercise slowly, pacing them, forbidding all food and water for the hours to come.

Harrow was grabbing Willa like a one would a shield, his stare riveted on the Dragon. The woman whispered a soothing stream of reassurance to the terrified young, which, judging by his appreciative looks, was effective.

Gerold had never touched the Dragon, and could barely spurred himself to approach the furnace generated by “fire made flesh” as the Maester had deem the creatures unless necessary. However he couldn’t totally depart of his fascination for the egg. Was a surviving Dragon the missing pieces during all this disastrous attempts to restore Targaryen to their former glory?

If it had been the case, why Morning…? Gerold cut his toughs, more than aware of their vain nature.

Arthur. The Lord Commander watched from the corner of his eye as the youngest of the Queensguards bounced their Queen while murmuring secrets in her ear and pointing at the constellations. Prince Daemon was smiling at them, the picture of contentment…and maybe relief? It was unusual; for the Prince had created his own custom of reclaiming « his Heir » as he fancied the Queen at every opportunity. However, if Daemon still sake every excuses to care for the infant – and, Hightower had to bow to his superior knowledge on the manipulation of fragile newborn despite adorning a full body armor which would impend any normal warrior to tend to such task as cooing, while carefully holding a still malleable head – he had along all appearance accessed Ser Arthur Dayne as Trustworthy.  Prince Daemon Targaryen didn’t look like a man who conferred such honor easily, even to the famed Sword of the Morning.

Arthur even slept near the Dragon. No close enough to be without snack distance, Gerold was glad to report on this rest of sanity in his Sworn Brother’s mind, but close enough to benefit from his heat.

The Queen, as befitting a Dragon Queen, the First Queen Regnant in History – second! Damn it! - spent all her night loved between her ancestor and his homicidal Red Monster. Caraxes seemed to actually like the bit, his nightmarish yellowish crimson scowl gentling at the sight of his dragonrider clicking to the infant. Gerold was certain Caraxes burnt just a little hotter when the Queen was near, glowing approval. The egg, for lack of better and easier accommodation was always positioned near her, just far enough to avoid her still tender skin to be scorched on the sharp white scales, less accommodating to fragile human infant than Caraxes’ belly.

Every morn, every halt, every dusk, Prince Daemon played with his monster and his heir, letting the Dragon sniff her, sending courant of air toward the fragile baby, for the delight of the newborn. Caraxes let his muzzle being petted by the guided little hands of the Queen. Bond between dragonrider and their mounts must be strong indeed for Prince Daemon’s adoration to spread so easily to what should have inhabited the child’s nocturne’s terrors.

Caraxes even seemed to have developed a tolerance for Arthur, of all people. And, even if the famed Dayne had inherited the curious lilac eyes showing up in his line every few generations, his traits were far from Targaryen’s. Even Ashara’s famed temptous gaze faded, when compared to Daemon’s deep purple, paled as a cheap artifice.

It all came back to the Singing Tower.

Gerold would pay his weigh in Gold Dragon to learn what Arthur saw. However, despite his rank as his Commander, the first direct order his new Prince delivered to him personally was clear. Either he held his tongue on this particular event or he was to loose it. Arthur had shuddered at the Prince sharp, bellicose tone.

Except...Except…It hadn’t been the Prince’s tone who had provoked that reaction.

No. It was the mention of Tongue. Gerold was sure of what he saw. No one survived the Red Keep without honeying survival trick. The mere word had made the youngster recoiled, expression haunted by some ineffable horror.

Arthur spoke in his sleep, but nothing of any sense for the Lord Commander.

Like Arthur, Gerold was the youngest of too many scions. Unlike Arthur, his brothers all survived to adulthood. Arthur pretended the Sword of the Morning was his fate a fifth son but he had been his brother’s heir when he knelt to received the White Cloak.

 As luck would ploy all of Gerold’s survived just long enough for him having no other choice. And died fast afterwards, safe one exception, the craziest of their bunch.

He never felt overly warm toward Oldtown, his memories too dulled. 

However, one beacon of light came from that damn Tower. Alerie. Alerie to whom they were rushing.  Alerie who belonged to House Tyrell, the Lords Paramount of the Reach, loyal to House Targaryen, whose stepmother was the redoubtable Queen of Thorns.

 When he ordered a halt, near a fresh courant river no one so much as grumble.

Daemon and Arthur dismounted without a single token of protestation, Whent fell more than dismounted his stallion, whose legs were trembling and Gerold suspected himself fared no better.

Their newly acquired squire, Harrow Carron, the ten years old nephew and presumptive heir of Nightsong unsaddled the horses, his arms visibly unused to any kind of physical labors. The child, who Gerold had taken as his own squire in a attempt to gripping to formality and civilized behavior pretended himself ten namedays – Gerold was willing to bet he was barely eight- black of hair, blue of eyes, and had been a third son of a second son before the rebellion began. He should have been squiring for some minor knight, in the hope of gaining what little glory he could, if the Rebellion hadn’t happened. His two elder brothers were dead, as was his uncle and Gerold had little doubt his father would survive a True Dragon’s fury. He was a good boy, tough, devoted to his tasks, even if part of his devotion was due to his constant terror of being found a mouth to feed too many and put to the sword. He watched like a hawk over the surprisingly sturdy makeshift coffin in which they add to transport the Queen’s mother’s remains. Willa inputs had proved valuable to conserve the corpse from the elements and Princess Lyanna should be offered proper funeral, fitting of her rank, as soon as possible.

However, the boy avoided Prince Daemon like the plague never looking him in his eyes, preferring the motherly Willa – and none of the grown men blamed him after the shock he went through. However, he was a clever, clever boy, bowing to the Prince and referring to the baby as “Queen Alyssa”. Gerold may keep him once they retake the Red Keep.

Daemon optimism, or more so, lack of any doubt on the matter was contagious.

Gerold observed his youngest Sworn Brother installing himself near the Queen and the Prince with weariness. Arthur, reliable, stable, unrelenting Arthur could not sleep anymore, as soon as the beast wasn’t within reach, and his dragonrider with him.

A new dawn, a new day of straining to fumble toward their allies, his family.

They didn’t have to accomplish much. Before they even directed their horses toward what Gerold hoped was Highgarden direction, a troop of soldiers, bearing Tyrells arms announced their approach using trumps, tambours and generally making enough of a ruckus to raise the dead. Damn, Hightower was going to have to watch his expressions. He side-eyed Daemon.

The carefulness – even the excess of care- with which his kin announced their presence and allegiance was a clear signal than, despite Caraxes best effort, the Red Dragon hadn’t been as discreet as the White Cloaks had hoped. Well, as Gerold had hoped.

How to explain Caraxes’ existence was another point they hadn’t managed to solve. One in a few hundreds.

Among the Tyrells Golden roses, Gerold spotted Tarly’s banners, Redwine’s, Florent’s, Redding’s and so many others, some in force, proudly holding their Houses’ symbols for all to see, other represented by a handful of soldiers in rags.

All men seemed terrorized at the simple notion of coming near their party. Smart men. Caraxes nostrils were fuming, his head slightly curved toward his dragonrider, inquired snidely for permission to massacre the newcomers.

Gerold realized a few minutes later than Prince Daemon was mimicking his dragon to the perfection, only his askance was directed toward him.

Him. Gerold Hightower who could, for a moment, decide the fate of most of the Reach’s nobility.

Lord Tarly, at last, rode toward them. The man, a well known military figure in Court, has always been hot headed, in Gerold humble opinion.

“My…”

Tarly sounded already lost not even two words into his own speech. Gerold could only hope he had prepared for it. This would make his fumble so much sweeter. One found amusement where life offered it.

What were they expecting? Rhaegar rising from the Trident, resurrected from his watery tomb? Rubies, fallen in the stream, assembling one by one to reformed the ridiculous armor – no more ridiculous than the one bore by Prince Daemon but that wasn’t there or then – and allow the Last Dragon a new breath, a last chance? Why not ? The Gods had seemed to deem the Rogue Prince worthy of one.

Prince Daemon hadn’t wasted any time as the delegation approached. He stood, proud, on Caraxes, fully armored despite the heating sun, shinning the pure black of his armor. No ornament or precious gems for this Prince. His only fancy was the bright crimson of his Dragon’s scales. Caraxes emitted what Gerold had came to analyze as a despising scoff. The similarity between Dragon and Master was a marvel. Tarly flinched, almost reversing his own saddle in his haste to kneel. His hands on the ground, he broke in half. Gods Above and Below, the man was almost crying. Athough that would be a reasonable reaction to Caraxes.

“My King…”

Caraxes roared and the honorific party sent by the Tyrell struggled to keep their horses under control. Gerold thought with a touch a fondness to these good old times when Herald was actually afraid of the apex predator stalking them.

Daemon, who managed to look taller and more feral on the dragon, not diminished by their massive head, by some ploy only known to Targaryen Prince –maybe his head was larger than Caraxes’– almost dismissive of his brand new vassals.

“Ah, ah, ah. First words, first mistake. For I am no King.”

Gerold could feel Tarly agitation. The seasoned warrior was trying to adjust the mystery’s pieces.

Tarly was a good commander, a genius strategist, and was probably to praise for the mainly successful siege of Stormend. A deep thinker, he was not.

“May I know, then, in front of whom I kneeled?”

“That exactly the question you should query before kneeling.”

Before Tarly managed to raise in affront, however, Daemon, to Hightower’s horror, produced the baby like a prestidigitator. Queen Alyssa was deeply cocooned in white cotton and red silk. Willa, in all her wetnurse proficiency, insisted to dress Alyssa according to her rank, as far as it was possible in the wilderness, stating ‘the babe is my first Queen, she should look like one.’

Currently the Queen was happily gurgling in the mass murderer hands, suckling on a probably way too sharp part of his regalia, not worrying her moving, warm bedroll had turned into an anthropophagic mount.

Prince Daemon voice acquired this quality proper to royals, the capacity to silence army by the simplest whisper. His head was held high but he wasn’t forcing his timbre or acting like any mummer would. Prince Daemon Targaryen was a natural.

“Targaryen loyalist, Men of the Reach, Leal among the Leal, I present to you your Queen. Queen Alyssa, first of her name, trueborn daughter of Prince Rhaegar, The Last Dragon, and his Second Wife, Princess Lyanna of House Targaryen and House Stark. They married willingly in front of an HeartTree as is the custom of the bride s’ land and before witnesses. The last wish of your Crown Prince was to see the last surviving child of his blood on the Iron Throne. Will you obey your vow and accomplish his vision?”

It was, Gerold, loathed to admit an excellent speech. It glossed over the Septs reaction to the second marriage, but it contained all relevant information and, more important Daemon tale was precisely the narrative any Targaryen loyalist yearned to hear.

Their beloved Prince had not been a rapist like the Usurper was claiming but a young Dragon in love with a Lord Paramount’s daughter, an impossible love, the Hero of the song, not the villain. Daemon kept his disdain for the man hidden and reminded anyone who would care to about the Last Dragon, the Silver Prince, ‘visions’, extending the child an almost prophetic aura.

The witnesses were the White Cloaks and Gerold could see on every faces the realization of this detail. A crucial detail, for their honor was beyond doubts.

The Dragon…Maybe without Caraxes lot of these men would have reacted poorly at the idea of a Regnant Queen but the sight of the newborn on the first Dragon to accept a rider since the Dance was nearly mystic. The rebirth of the House Targaryen of old, the remains of Valerya’s glory, embodied by the Red Cataclysmic Monster and the infant Queen raised high above Prince Daemon’s head to show the new Queen to her subjects.

Gerold could see Tarly calculations, every possibility, every avenue opened before him. He didn’t redress himself. If possible he bowed lower.

“Forgive me. My Queen.”

Then, one by one, all men dismounted and kneeled in the muddy ground, uncaring of anything but the spectacle in front of them, this historical instant. Tyrell, Redwyn, Tarly, Florent, Redding and so many more, from landed knight to the highest and ancestral House of the Reach, the ones whose founders were one of Garth Green Hands innumerable progeny. Gerold spotted his own, his former family’s banners among them, the Tower plowing in front of the rightful Queen, at last.

Scouts were deployed towards Highgarden posthaste, Lord Tarly keeping the instructions clear and short for Prince Daemon Targaryen, as their new Prince had presented himself without flinching from the mixed reaction it owed him, to hear. Gerold, and he was sure Daemon was no fool either, heard a lot more than the few concise sentences given to the squires.

“We have found the rightful Queen, Trueborn Daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna, safe with the Lord Commander, the Sword of the Morning and Oswald Whent. Her Lord Protector, Prince Regent Daemon Targaryen, as well as his Dragon will ensure our advance. Alert every guards you cross of our new allies for we do not wish for any misunderstanding. They are determined to help the loyalists in punishing the Usurper’s crimes and see the rightful Queen restored in her rights.”

For Lord Tarly, the discourse was as flowery as he could hope to broach. So Gerold assure Prince Daemon, who slowly rocked the cause of all the excitement on his knees, visibly aiming to get her asleep, as if it was the most ordinary act for a legendary figure to occupy their time with. 

Gerold could only wish him good luck in this particular endeavor. The now more than a week old infant – already one week…- stretched her arms toward Caraxes. Did she hope for her favorite comforter or had she already developed a taste for the high, as the Reachmen had sworn themselves to her, the Lord Commander would be hard press to know.

Arthur, their eternal shadow was posted right over Prince Daemon’s shoulder, his eyes concentrated on Queen Alyssa.

Some times he wondered why they bothered with Willa at all. If one of the two men had been able to provide food for the Queen from their own nipples, they would have done so without batting an eyelash.

Gerold pitied the girl when she would grow old enough to attract boys.

Olenna of House Tyrell and Redwyn was no fool either and would clearly understand what was stated, and more importantly, not stated.

“We won’t get the King we had prayed for. The Gods choose to provide us with a Queen Regnant. However, they see fit to add a Dragon to pursue her claim, so all is far from lost. She is the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. We have tangible proof the usurper lied about the kidnapping and rape, his accusations were defamation. The lovers had been married in front of the Old Gold with witnesses. The White Cloaks will confirm the story. The North will have no choice but bowing to one of their own daughter, for no war is more cursed than a war between kin. With them the Riverlanders will follow, for they will fear the consequences’ of their greed and hubris. The Vale can hardly come to their aid. Dorne may cause problems, but dornishmen should be dealt with accordingly. Rhaegar’s daughter is their chance of revenge and she promises it to them. They hate Lannister and Baratheon far more than a newborn child who never choose to be born and so they should be reminded if push come to shove.”

Three of the Seven Kingdom were still rebelling, if these predictions were exacts, and they were. From what Hightower knew of Lord Eddard Stark he would take a dull razor to his own throat before touching one hair, whatever color, of his sister’s daughter’s head.

More pressing of course, the slight matter of the validity of her parent’s union.

Hightower mused. Hightown was the cradle of the Faith and he will see that the Septons saw where their interests lied. He will contact his reclusive brother, rally every nephews, nieces and cousins to his cause, offer bride and positions, but the Faith would see the light.

Highgarden was a sight for sore eyes. The rose’s perfume was heading miles away, covering any other odor which may have emanated from the wild flora or more prosaic human’s activities.

The green hills spoke of wealth and abundance, of feast and wine. Far away was the war and its privation, its tragedy and the disaster caused by a Lord greedy nature. Lord or Lords? King or Prince? Who knew anymore. Only that the King of Storm sat on the Iron Throne forged by the same ancestor on whom he spatted the culture and memory, and their only hope to see Dragons roam the Westerosi’s Sky again was a child of ten days.

The procession, at long last a showing worthy of  the Sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms, banners flapping in the winds and heralds announcing their arrival with due respect and pride escalated toward the Inner Garden, the most beautiful place in the Castle, one reserved for esteemed and prized hosts where the whole Tyrell family had gathered to greet them. They barely flinched at the sight of Caraxes terracing bushes.

Prince Daemon and Queen Alyssa had retrieved Seafoam, the grey dornishmare the Prince appropriated and were preceded by the Lord Commander as was customary, Arthur at their side and Whent closing their little party of five. Willa and Harrow had been seated within a protected carriage with more honor than was presumably owned to a wetnurse but Hightower wasn’t begrudging them their comfort after the days spent in Hell.

Lord Tarly, proud and imperious bowed to his liege, his liege’s wife, Gerold’s beloved niece Alerie, and a mature woman who could only be the famed Queen of Thorne. Gerold had never met the woman in person, for she avoided the Court and its lions. Before then, he had only been the youngest of a decadent family, whose days of power were long past despite their reputation.

Lord Mace Tyrell advanced arms wide open, eyes gleaming with emotion after his gaze liberally assessed the Red Menace who just entered his precious peaceful heaven. Instead of showing fear and caution, the fool almost tripped over his own feet from excitement.

“My Prince! Prince Daemon Targaryen! This is a name I wouldn’t have suspected to hear in my lifetime! Welcome to Highgarden! My Prince! You honor us with your trust ! We are Targaryen loyalist and you will find none but Leal men within my halls!”

“A dangerous statement to make.”

Given the clap the Lord Paramount of the Reach has just received over his ears; his Mother was in agreement with Prince Daemon.

“Forgive my son, Prince Daemon. He is an oaf, as my late husband used to, poor man.”

She shook her wrinkled head. She had developed a certain resemblance with a tortoise, ones that came to pond their multitude progeny on Dragonstone beaches before abandoning them to the nature’s cruel law of the survival of the fittest – or, according Gerold observation the luckiest.

“Lord Tyrell did no wrong if for a little breach in etiquette by not saluting our Queen first.”

This moment of political astuteness made Gerold wonder how much of the Rogue Prince legend was…only legend.

Mace began to glow anew, his golden chains looking rusty in comparison to his own expression of pure delight.

“Of course, the Queen! Our first Regnant Queen! A Dragon and a newborn Regnant Queen! What an area to be alive! Queen…”

The moron turned toward the improvised herald who reddened. They only said Alyssa’s name once, not including it in any communication, realized Gerold. Even between themselves, the White Cloaks always called the Queen by sweet nicknames, especially if Daemon was included in the conversation, or by her rank.

The Lord Commander stepped ahead, careful of keeping his graceful stallion at a respectful distance of the Prince Regent and the Queen.

“Nephew, Lord Paramount of the Reach, I am honored to present Queen Alyssa Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhonyars and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Trueborn daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna.”

Daemon bended slightly to give a better view of the newborn to the assembly of Tyrells and Reach nobility. Alerie, bless her heart, cooed and took an instinctive step toward the adorable baby. His niece was visibly pregnant, despite the young Loras being still unable to stand by himself, grabbing his eldest brother green and golden cape in chubby hands. Garlan was standing, visibly ill at ease, trying to hide his round face behind Alerie.

Mace hadn’t change, for everyone misfortune. Fat and overdressed, a senseless smile on his large face he looked barely able to order his bannermen around, let alone lead any form of respect as Lord Paramount.

 Once, Gerold asked Alerie why she accepted to be courted by such a buffoon, may he be Lord of Highgarden. She looked at her uncle with hurt eyes, blue forget-me-not eyes so rare in their family, and answered sweetly “He is a good man.”

Gerold had to give the Rose Lord his due credit. In one domain, he outshined most men. He stole one look of the silver golden strands freshly cleansed round the Queen delicate features and fussed with heartfelt warmth, his eyes swarming with genuine decency creeping through his ego and ambition.

“Oh, what a beauty. Don’t you think our Queen is a beauty Alerie? Queen Alyssa. A magnificent name. In honor of the Good Queen, of course. A-lys-sa. A perfect Westerosi name for a Great Queen! Mother, look she is a Targaryen from head to toes. She is all her father, our dear prince Rhaegar…”

Even Prince Daemon looked taken aback, ignoring if the Lord was really this enthusiastic or overdoing his part. Gerold could have discreetly informed him than Mace Tyrell was the most paternal Lord he knew of and would personally fed orphaned pups and kitten.

“We prepared the Royal’s Quarters, of course, and we need a nursemaid! Oh, Loras’ nursemaid was simply the perfect sweetheart with children, the Queen will love her. You will be milk brother with our Queen, son!”

Loras didn’t seemed to think much of sharing his nursemaid with the center of all the agitation and big tears threatened to flow, prevented by a swift intervention from Willas who blew his little brother’s nose – or tried to smother him, it was up to debate.

The Queen of Thorns grumbled what could pass as approbation.

“Everything had been primed for Queen Alyssa and Prince Daemon, Mace. We even prepared pigs and mouton for the dragon, as we were unaware of its…taste.”

Lannister soldier, almost responded Gerold, holding his tongue at the last moment. His restraint did little to escape Alerie ´s sharp eyes.

“By the Seven, Uncle Gerold you must be exhausted. My Prince if you would follow me, I will show you to your apartments.”

Alerie offered the perfect curtsies, her eyes still bright with tenderness at the infant sight, her smile soft and sincere.

“Poor Heart, she must have been terrified. To think of what she must have gone through.”

Gerold tough of little joyous cries when Caraxes did something notable, like torching humans with flames and basking in their screams of agony or groaning amicably at the Queen, snuffing smoke at her as if she was a hatchling needing to be kept warmed. Terrified would not have been the adjective he would have used to describe the journey from the newborn perspective. He didn’t bother to correct his niece. No need to explain than the passion for setting random person on fire transcended Targaryen’s generations.

“Oh yes, terrified. What our Queen had to go through ! Just to think of such indignities! Poor, poor little button. When we heard of what happened to Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys…”

Mace’s voice whimpered, a deep mournful tone matching his words. Gerold knew he had had ambition for an alliance between young Willas and little Rhaenys, as for Loras and the fourth child, they were to become prime suitors for Aegon’s favors.

“No Targaryen children will be harm within Highgarden walls, I can ensure you!” He sent an enamored sight at the bundle in prince Daemon arms, superbly ignoring the overprotective metaphorical dragon father studying him with growing alarm. Mace, totally oblivious to Prince Daemon stupor, observed the new Regent of the Seven Kingdoms with compassion.

“Prince Daemon, we prepared venison for the Feast, our cooks are famed in all the Reach! Our sauces are the most delicate with spices from Essos! You’ll honor us by gracing our table by your attendance ! All the horror of the past weeks will fade soon enough!”

He sent a sincere look of sympathy toward the lean man. Mace hadn’t know a day of privation in his life. He probably thought the Prince Regent must have suffered from famine to stay fit despite his high station.

At last, Daemon seemed to have lost an inner battle.

“Lord Tyrell, do you know if, by coincidence, you wouldn’t be a descendant of one Symon Strong?”

Mace blinked, sincerely perturbed.

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I could always check…Why…”

“Never mind.”

Lady Olenna was inspecting the dragon. Gerold knew Caraxes had been very well fed indeed for the past days but Olenna’s weary look met his approval.

“Prince Daemon, before…if you wouldn’t mind, Prince Regent, Highgarden is renowned for our gardens and we will appreciate if…your mount could avoid too much damages.”

The Prince Regent, who didn’t correct her on his title, no more than he had corrected Lord Tarly, looked relieved to witness a normal behavior from a member of the Tyrell little family.

“Of course Lady Olenna, Caraxes, will be the soul of discretion and acumen.”

She sent a dark glare in his direction, for his profound enjoyment.

“Caraxes…So much on the nose…”

“Mother!” Cried out Mace.

Alerie struggled with her hands for a few second.

“Hurry up. The Queen should profit from our comfort.”

Prince Daemon bowed in front of the sole argument that could incite him to renounce to a banter.

Gerold loved his niece.

Queen Alyssa and Prince Daemon had been guided across complicated and intricate corridor before being left alone with the White Cloaks, Willa, puffed by the idea of being replaced after her peregrination across half a Kingdom and Harrow, who in his desperation to stay with some known entity in the middle of a strange new world, was willing to forget they were responsible for the massacre of his entire Castle. Alone, with an a little army of servants. 

They all profited from fruits, fresh cheese and bread, then were assaulted by servants who brushed their clothes and polished their armors while bathing them in hot water. The promise nursemaid was introduced but rebutted by a stubborn Willa who refused to release the Queen from her own breast, showing her teeth to the intruder. Curiously, the other woman didn’t take any offense.

After one hour of being scrubbed on all side they appeared to belong to the Royal Court once more. Gerold had gulped watered wine after ensuring his sworn Brothers would abstain themselves. His was getting old, his poor nerves weren’t their once fable steel anymore.

Calm and relaxation was a strange atmosphere after passing the last week and so running for their life. Gerold felt…lost. He had to concentrate. Yes, concentrate. Queen Rhaella needed them, Prince Viserys was still in peril. Their job was far from done. He didn’t envy Prince Daemon his role as a negotiator with the Queen of Thorne.

“Uncle Queensguard?”

Gerold looked in front of him.

At nine namedays, the Heir of Highgarden, almost as overdressed as his father, had a perpetual pout which was far from endearing. He had inherited Mace golden brown curls and honeyed eyes with a slight tan. He was, to be frank, the perfect picture of the perfect beloved heir and Alerie’s son through and through.

“Little nephew. Where are you guards?”

Gerold knew than even Mace wouldn’t let his heir run around without supervision with a Civil War between the Kingdoms.

“Garlan was afraid of the Dragon,” confided Willas, as if Garlan’s reaction was so foolish he was ashamed in the stead of his little brother. “I left them with Loras and him, because, I am not scared.”

There was Mace contribution, thought Gerold, wondering if the Tyrell were cursed to produce stupid sons every generation.

The boy approached the cradle, more fascinated by the dragon egg laying in it than the baby, although he admitted, with a frown, “The Queen is comelier than Loras.” Prince Daemon, reacquainting himself with properly cooked food, almost strangled himself on his pie, Hightower failing to find the humor in the careless remark.

Willas inspected his Sovereign.

“Well, she is a girl.” He sighed, and shrugged. Resigning to this sore state of affairs.

Hightower had many regrets in his life. Not producing offspring wasn’t one of them.

Alyssa battle her hands in the air, as if she was trying to chase an invisible pest. Gerold heart ached for her. At least she had good instincts.

“Why did her eyes have different colors? Like dogs and horses?”

Prince Daemon stretched his legs, his own mood pampered enough to satisfy the youngster’s curiosity.

“My own mother had mismatched eyes. It’s a rare Targaryen trait.”

Gerold immediately tough of Tyrion Lannister and wondered…Better let this thought inside his head if he wanted to keep it.

Willas bended a little more his hands gripping the bassinet. Gerold saw Arthur, gritting his teeth, on the verge of carrying the child out, by force if necessary.

“This egg is broken you should find her a new one,” announced Willas.

“Oh dear, oh dear! The hatching of a dragon! In Highgarden! The first Dragon to hatch in more than a century! In Highgarden ! Oh Mother, Alerie, what a beautiful day for House Tyrell!!”

Prince Daemon and the White Cloaks encircling the cradle ignored the Rose Lord too afraid to let their attention stray away from the spectacle in font of them. The white egg was crackling from every angle and Gerold ignored from where the little beast would come out from. He wished he could panic like Lord Mace. The last hatchling had attacked the infant in the cradle of whom his egg had been placed. A little Velaryon, if memory served, and the creature had been deformed. Prince Daemon, far from the brusque denial feared by the Lord Commander, when told the event, had nodded and Dark Sister was in his hand, ready to officiate.

“Maybe it need hot water? Midwives always ask for hot water! And Targaryen had always loved their bathes…”

“Mace, for the love of the Seven, shut your mouth.”

Olenna Tyrell, nee Redwyne had been promised to a Targaryen Prince, once upon a time. To the son of the man who destroyed a castle in a penultimate tentative to resurrect the flying symbol of their House. The Dragons. And one of these eggs was hatching.

Was it Caraxes’ presence? Prince Daemon’s arrival? Was it the will of the Gods?

A little mew was heard, followed by a resounding crack. Gerold could see the minuscule muzzle trying to breach the protective membrane.

“Shouldn’t we…help it?” asked Arthur, whispering, as if afraid to scare the hatchling back into its inert state.

“In the nature, you can’t help baby bird from the shell or they will be too weak to survive and they will eat the food of their stronger sibling with better odds,” lectured Willas.

“My love, murmured Alerie, this isn’t a bird, even if it is…weak we shall nurse it to complete health. This is the Queen own mount. Own Dragon. The future of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Willas sent her a curious glance, as if he hadn’t measured the solemnity of the moment.

“Maybe we should get hot water,” propose Prince Daemon. Arthur made a move to clasp Daemon’s ear before realizing the ear belonged to the Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms.

“What? It can’t hurt, can it? And at least we will have clean hands.”

Gerold careful eluded the fact it was the second birth Prince Daemon Targaryen assisted in as many weeks. He had tried his hardest to forget the Rogue Prince had, for all purposes, officiated as midwife.

Delicately, the Prince, after carefully soaking his hands in bowling water until they were spotlessly cleaned, began to help the little hatchling out of its shield. One by one, bits of the shells felt appart and, finally, a clawed wing teared through the elastic membrane surrounding the creature. The wing was followed by a humid white head hastily dried with some tissue, Prince Daemon carefully inspecting and freeing the muzzle, a muzzle palpitating as the dragon tasted air. Golden eyes stared at them. The hatchling agitated himself one last time and the egg broke, liberating a nauseating liquid.

The creature wasn’t deformed or deficient. It was…Well disgusting, covering in gluey fluid. However, Gerold had to admit the beast promised to be grandiose with its horns forming a golden crown on its head, as if the Seven themselves had designated it to belong to a Queen, and a golden collar of little points. The gold mark on its egg was mimicked on its right flank, in harmony with its golden dorsal. Its large golden eyes had none of the malevolence of Caraxes, full of curiosity and the innocence of any newborn. The rest of its body and wings were white as snow, even if Gerold thought he could see golden reflects on some scales.

Mace was openly sobbing in Alerie’s arms. The Queen of Thorne herself was trembling, tears in the corner of her usually unwavering eyes.

The baby dragon screamed. Another joyous gurgle responded. And golden eyes fixed mismatched ones for the first time. The little dragon approached the Queen, sniffed and let out a contented purr.

Gerold allowed himself to breath again.

Prince Daemon glowed with pride and triumph.

“Isn’t she a beauty?”

Chapter Text

Chapter VI: A Brand New World

A wise man gets more use from his ennemies than a fool from his friends.

 Baltazar Gracian

Two day after the hatchling birth Daemon found himself front and center of a way too large assembly of the Reach’s finest's attention.

Daemon was frankly impressed by the number of presumed Leal men proudly disclaiming their allegiance to House Targaryen around him. Impressed and peeved. For they were in the heart of the Reach, the center of the Faith’s influence, the men who had so easily curled their lips on his own tradition and culture.

However, none of this retched past showed in the extravagant grand statement Mace had chosen to treat his guest with.

An extensive, and no doubt expensive, Celebration for all to partake in the honor of Queen Alyssa, First of her Name.

Mace, has presented proudly the ‘Festivitie’s Garden’, the superb semi-permanent installation destined to host banquets within a protected clearing in the middle of a maze, surrounded by roses’ bushes of every colors and balms, and too many types of flowers to count, assuring the Prince Regent, for the hundredth times of the safety of Highgarden. Daemon felt his head turned by the potent perfume penetrating the air. The “Festivitie’s Garden’ were accessible from the kitchen and wine cellar, the only exits possible aside from finding his way back through the maze. Or ordering Caraxes to burn it. Tents, draperies and dais had been prepared with care for the Royal honor guests. Tables had been dressed, covered in all the fares Daemon could have dreamt of. Lord Tyrell’s cooks, the ones he gloated about, had outdone themselves. Roasted meats of all sort were surrounded by fresh, seasonable, vegetables, some boiled in intricate plates and a few plates being served raw. Fishes, mostly from fresh water were presented with ceremony, as to compensate for the little attractiveness such normally raised at banquet and decorated with colorful herbs and amusing sea shells, popular with the younger guests who exchanged them between themselves. These whimsical ornaments were probably most costly than the fishes they valorized. Daemon even recognized salt water fauna, fishes, clams, oysters, ursin, sponge and coral and shunned them carefully, like most of the wiser Lords, or experimented in stomach pains. Quails and other volatile, dressed up with mushrooms, were openly favored by Daemon whose secret fondness for duck wouldn’t pass the observant stares of the servants specially attached to his service and would probably be wild spread by nightfall.  Sauces from all free cities and spices originating as far as Yi-Ti, known by the Rogue Prince only thanks to his numerous exiles and the dubious pleasure of marrying the Sea Snake’s daughter, were at the free disposal of even the lowest ranking guest.

By the time Daemon was comfortably set, as an exposition of some kind, most of the important Tyrell’s vassal had rejoined their lieges in their babbling over Alyssa. Between their own escort and the nobles rushing from the closest lands to offer their homage, mostly every House was represented, by some miracle. Even the Hightower, currently hiding in a corner, on the Lord Commander sound advice. Garth? Yes, Garth. A little nephew – one more of the Lord Commander.

Lord Tyrell, the Fat Rose, as Hightower preferred to nickname his nephew-in-law, had sit the Prince Regent at the place of honor, the one normally reserved for a visiting King. A Consort. Or a Prince Regent. Daemon had smiled as his rank was acknowledged, savoring each little victory. At Daemon’s right, a splendid, finely crafted, cradle, carved in an almost golden wood, and probably repurposed from Loras’ nursery, had been installed high enough for him to be able to survey his daughter well-being during the whole proceeding while conversing with his unexpected new allies. He regularly caressed his Alyssa’s cheeks, rounded by days of Lady Willa’s impeccable services, happy to show off to every new vassal her porcelain skin, silver-golden tuffs, aided by her healthy and happy disposition. From the somber child he emerged with from the Tower of Horror in his arms, Alyssa had quickly become an easygoing, calm and appreciative infant, probably enthralled by the positive influence of Caraxes and the presence of a viable egg near its own hatching. Targaryen thrives on Dragon’s magic, and the ice in Alyssa veins hadn’t impeded this traits, to Daemon felicity. She was still on the small side, according to Willa, but he didn’t affect her vigor.

Every notable attendant, and many nobodies with a tittle allowing them a spot within the Festivitie´s Garden, who had came offering allegiance and swearing fealty, had boasted of their part in the recent siege and other hostile encounters with the rebels. The siege of Stormend, a crucial event in the war occupying the Reach’s army for one entire year or so was a favored tale among the participants, despite Mace decision to surrender when faced by Lord Eddard Stark. Lord Eddard Stark. Daemon first impulse had been to arrange the Lord Paramount of the North’s execution alongside his so called “brother” and Lord Arryn before remembering – well, before, Arthur found the courage to interject- that Lord Eddard Stark was the Queen’s uncle and, as Daemon was Regent, and for all purpose, delivered verdict in the name of Queen Alyssa, the accusation of kinslaying would sully her reign from the very beginning.

Daemon felt the need to bash his own head against the spotless white tapestry covering the table, representing, Aegon the Conqueror or another one of his ancestor at a revelry after a hunt.

A too fine work of art for such an occasion, but Mace and Alerie had judged it appropriate.

Daemon was reminded why he would have sincerely hated the crown on his own head, as he suffered with dignity through the obligatory curtsies infesting every form of Court. He desired nothing more than to fall on Dark Sister to abridge his agony.

The gruesome blunders and miscalculation from the Targaryen loyalist were enough to provoke desperation in any competent leader.

He desired to yell at these fools that no glory had been found in the ridiculous loss of means to besiege one single Castle, even if two of the Usurper’s brothers had been hiding behind its walls. Brandon the builder fortresses were well known to be impregnable without treachery and the Reachmen, for all Daemon could recognize Otto nose on some of the faces surrounding him, his reddish-brown hair, thin faces, had no inherited cunning from their forbearers.

 One ancestral Castle Lord Baratheon had care little for in reality, two brothers he hadn’t worried about, if truth must be revealed for nothing had deviated the “Demon of the Trident” from his bloody path toward Kinglandings.

Instead of expressing his opinion of the Reach military’s decisions, he politely drank goblets after goblets - did the bottle had an end ? - of the delicious Arbor Gold.

Apparently, it had been agreed by all the Reach nobility that sweet talking the dragonrider under the scrutiny of his scaled mount, was a rite of passage for anyone wishing to prove their loyalty to Targaryen. Daemon suspected servants or knights of the household to have been payed handsomely in exchange of serious intelligence on the Queen and himself for all the bootlickers melted in adoration at the sole mention of the infant, complimenting Prince Regent Daemon on her birth, as if he had an active role in her conception. Technically he had intervened during the labor, the hardest part, but the Gold Arbor generously poured by Lord Mace Tyrell himself was helping to smoother the memories.

However, the Rogue Prince could not ignore the sincere reverence and near idealization inspired by the hatchling, curled around the Queen too lithe frame.

Each guest had apparently packed a gift for the newborn Queen, but the foreseeing put in said offering was sometimes dubious. House Florent, despite a truly unhealthy numbers of litters had hastily open the season by presenting the Queen with a whole set of beautiful amethyst and other precious stones which coloring suited the famed eyes of the Targaryen, sometimes. Daemon, if anything, gave them point for their good taste, each pieces being refined and obviously care for. House Tarly, in the person of Lord Randall Tarly, their former guide and soon to be replace Commander of the Reach if Daemon has any say in this, offered and heteroclite assemble of golden necklace, bracelets, rings and probably every semblance of “feminine” pare he fondled across when he realized he would be expected to rival with his peers. Unfortunately, many others House had seemed to think, for reasons escaping Daemon’s common sense Lord Tarly had the right idea and followed suit. More modest Houses, or Houses Daemon had never cared to memorized till now, had managed to internalized the age of the Queen and reunited a spread of toys – each inspected by Arthur, who had a sister around the Queen age, if he were to be believed - and found adequate, if often a little optimistic in the Queen abilities. The most pragmatics of the Lords had presented clothes – which, thanks to young Loras, and Lady Alerie and her amiable Ladies, weren’t an issue anymore. But Daemon felt suspiciously emotive at the sight of Red and Black garments, and tissues, some even taking the risk to add some silver and white materials. Daemon took a special care of thanking these Houses in the name of ‘Our deeply mourned’ Princess Lyanna, amused by the relief on their string up faces.

As a result, Daemon had now probably enough Gold to rise a small mercenary army. And had begun to wonder how so many Reach’s children grew up into adulthood.

The metaphorical hatchling and future fire breathing one had been inseparable since the egg hatched for the Queen, in front of too many witness to be kept a secret long – if at all, as the servants were in their own frenzy during the events.

Daemon was ready to bet everything he had – a purse of Golden dragon, curtsies, one more, of Lady Alerie Tyrell in case he was in need of everything – that Elaenaerys – and was he proud of that name, the first he got to choose without his wives ‘gentle’ impute – was one of the numerous progeny of the Bronze Fury and Silverwing. He couldn’t have dream of a better egg, as he exposed to Lady Alerie, sill drunk on triumph. The Lady of Highgarden, a naturally soft and empathic creature, her coloring almost similar to a Targaryen’s, not quite for Daemon trained eyes however – one has to wonder how a Hightower ever produce such a perfect Lady – had been the first to learn of the name, test it out, rolling the syllable on her tongue before that secretive smile of hers shone without reservation. “I do think you have found the most adequate and suitable name for our Queen’s dragon, My Prince. I ‘ll make sure everyone known how to address our new addition.”

Within hours the newborn dragon had a nickname. The Pearl of Highgarden.

Did he regret his confidence to Alerie? Maybe. He could also recognized the nickname was fitting, safe for the « Higharden » part.  

Damon was grimed the first time he heard the nickname from one of Mace’s usual tirade but refrained from making a fuss. The Tyrell had welcomed them, bowed to the rightful Queen without hesitation and were uniting the Reach under the Command of Lord Randall Tarly – for now- as to ensure the complete defeat of the Stormlanders and Westerlings.

Daemon couldn’t have been more please. He had not seen a hatchling since the birth of Stormcloud, granted, and he tried to not dwell on his lost children too long, but the White Beauty, as he had come to nickname the latest addition to their family, ‘The Pearl of Highgarden’, had looked strong from the instant she surfaced from her shield. Vivacious, with a clever golden melting gaze, and impeccable instincts for she threatened to bit young Willas, who hadn’t seemed deterred by the experience. On the contrary, the detail of having almost lost fingers to the baby dragon had seemed to incense him to win her favor, by all means available. The Prince understood better the weary look on the Lord Commander features when he spoke of his family.

Daemon had to severely plunk himself into his uncomfortable present, prompt himself to look like he cared for these little pompous Lords, presenting themselves one by one by their House name and symbols, Houses so easily defeated by two young Lord Paramounts still wet behind their ears with their mother’s milk were useful, and Alyssa’s best chance to accede to the Iron Throne with minimum bloodshed. Not that Daemon cared about bloodshed. But Andals were so touchy about life and death, unable to embrace their existence’s violence and accomplish what was needed to survive and protect their treasured ones.

Viserys had been deeply regretted, for his reign had been synonym of peace. Alyssa First of Her Name should restore Westeros balance and become the Protector his brother had thrive to incarnate, for his ultimate failure.

Alyssa, who, unknowingly, had just accepted the heartfelt compliments of House Rowan – another House within which a Hightower was married, did they ever cease to use their daughter as honey trap? – along with a Golden Tree pendant and a surprisingly sensible soft look alike of a silver wolf, slept profoundly despite the yells, cries and laugh of the Targaryen’s loyalists. Daemon added the silver wolf near its dragon equivalent. The Reach’s Lords and Ladies had needed a few hours to accustom themselves to his majestic presence, Caraxes lying nearby for all to see and admire, and had needed more time and alcohol yet than usual to disinhibited themselves, tense for whatever silly rooted reasons their Andal’s imaginations had conjured. Caraxes, supervised the coming and going of this pack of humans, his better-half appeared satisfied by the respect shown by all these newcomers.

It was a show of wealth and power, a testament that the Reach was far from on their knees as believed by the Usurper.

At the beginning of the Celebration, originally a welcoming banquet in honor of the new Targaryen Queen, hastily repurposed as a Revel for the hatching of the First dragon born in Westeros since Aegon III, in addition for a nameday party for Queen Alyssa, the First Nameday Party of The First Regnant Queen. As had proudly underlined the Lord Paramount, Lord Mace, when he had raised his cup to the memory of the Silver Prince, the Winter Princess, as Lyanna was politely evoked by the crowd, the slayed children and other atrocities suffered by the royal family under the hands of the Usurper and his future Father-in-law and presumptive hand, a moment of sharing and commiseration over the victims of the false righteousness of the Baratheon Pretender. The Fat Rose had also praised the courageous and daring Prince Regent, Daemon Targaryen, who demonstrated hope was still roaring in the hearts of the Leal men and women and devoted himself to the cause of the rightful Sovereign of Westeros. Plus, this wonderful Prince Regent, this addition to their rightful cause had managed what was tough impossible. The hatching of a dragon. And Lord Mace, almost shrieked from emotion at the idea that such an event had been ordered by the Seven Gods to occur in the chore of the the Faith. The Seven Blessings was on them.

Despite desiring to rise and strangle Lord Tyrell several times during this discourse, with some cold headiness, later, in his quarter, Daemon had to grumble and admit, linking the dragon birth and the Seven was probably for the best when your staunchest allies were such firm believers. It had been a long time since Daemon believed in any Gods. Not the Gods, anyone would pray to. So, anyway, why should he care?

Near the cradle, Little Lord Willas Tyrell and Lord Harrow Caron, Lord Caron of Nightsong, as Daemon had styled the child himself, no one daring correcting the Prince Regent, despite the child’s father being suspected alive, until Daemon crossed his path anyway, were testing which meat would win the favors of Elaenaerys, the Pearl of Highgarden. 

Alerie looked motherly, one hand on her round belly, despite the relatively early stage of her pregnancy, amused by the boys’ enthusiasm. Daemon had to hand to Little Lord Willas his resilience as he faced a mystical creature from Old Valyria, one who made grown men swoon. Or maybe he was imperviously thick to the situation. Harrow, having more than a week under his belt of living in close quarter with Caraxes and having assisted, despite Willa, best try, first hand to what dragon was capable of, wasn’t impress by pretty Eleanearys. Elaenaerys stayed nested in the covers carefully disposed in the cradle to the greatest comfort of the Queen and her young dragon, red cotton and white silk mixed with black velvet. The colors of House Targaryen and house Stark. Alaerie had cofounded herself in apologies for not being able to pare the infant with the appropriate sigils, despite all her ladies working on dragons and direwolves embroidery. Daemon had just cared enough to forbid any flowers in his daughter’s garments – those pretty broach from House Florent may meet his high standard tough. She was a Dragon. A Wolf. An apex predator. Not a fucking flower. Alyssa’s small fist was closed on a little red dragon in tissue, a hasty but quality work from Lady Tyrell herself. The Queen’s goal for the past day had been to find a way to put the gift into her mouth but her coordination was still lacking, for her eternal frustration. On good days, she managed to guide her thumb till her lips, but the miniature of Caraxes was still beyond her capabilities. Alerie was already working on a second imitation of Caraxes, delighted by her success, correcting some minor details, and politely inquired about the design of some other dragons, like Syrax, Arrax or Vermithor. Daemon was more touched by this attention than he hoped could be read in his answers. “I can’t resurrect any Targaryen from their grave, but their own mounts wouldn’t be forgotten. » Alerie had smiled softly. 

Daemon, who has always been terrible at anything vaguely artistic had sectioned Whent, after a few trials and errors, to paint Silverwing, Vermithor, Meleys – proudly outlining the similarity between the Red Queen and the hatchling despite her bearer being undoubtedly Silverwing, Meraxes, Seasmoke, Syrax, Arrax, Vermithor, Moondancer, Tyraxes and Stormcloud. He even included Dreamfyre in his choices of “possible toys”. He staunchly refuses to pronounce any other dragon’s name and no one was stupid enough to insist. Alerie seemed enchanted by all these additions and a dark suspicion was sowed in Daemon. He had not checked the library, to the obvious reliefs of the White Cloaks and he could easily guess why. But he had vaguely inspected it, during a long, too long night during which Alyssa suffered from stomach pains, shadowed by a worried Arthur. None of their books were on dragons. Historical events were reported but no details or descriptions were provided. The Reach despised magic, but they weren’t known for being total imbecile – Mace was pushing that assertion to the test. However, Daemon couldn’t keep the suspicion from growing.

He was more than glade, even relieved to be able to inform unlucky Andals, therefore to explain his family used to class their dragons in three large categories: the ‘Defense looking dragon’, like Baelerion and Dreamfyre, the rarest of them all, slow to grow, not very fast but a force to be reckon with. Daemon supposed they were used as shields for more offensive types of dragons, during the High of Valerya. His own Caraxes and Meleys had belonged to a category labelled ‘Wolf headed’ for the more canine appearance of their head. According to an unbiased Daemon they were the most perfectly balanced of the Targaryen Dragons and, very often, more cunnings and aggressive. Meraxes belonged to this category and her blood was strong. Showing in Arrax, her removed descendant. The Queen’s dragon belonged to this last category, quite rare in a progeny of the Bronze Fury and Silverwing but nature had many surprises in store. The last one was the ‘Horse faced’, like Syrax, Moondancer and – he barely succeeded to pronounce her name, Vhagar. They were fastest than average, slim of bulk, the most docile and companionable of dragons. Of course, these categories could hardly be totally trusted. Seasmoke, for which battle had been fought in the nursery to determine if he belonged to ‘Wolf headed’ or ‘Horse Faced’ was a good example of this.

Willas was explaining pompously to an exasperated Harrow that “dragons were known for preferring goats and life stocks », and Daemon had to wonder where the young boy had fished this totally incorrect affirmation, while Harrow, thoughtful squire he was, preferred to ignore the stupid scion of the Tyrell and was picking the more tender bit of meat from his own plate, mostly games, to offer the hatchling. Elaenaerys proved the new Lord Caron right when she devoured her weight in almost burnt venison.

Arthur was standing to the right of the cradle, refusing to abandon his vigil even for feasting and toasting to the newborn’s health, Whent nearby.

Both knights had been willing to forsake their seat at the feast. Sole Gerold Hightower, as the great-uncle of Lady Alerie Tyrell, and blood relative to, if Daemon understood correctly almost all the partier, had been coerced to participate despite his White Cloak which should have shield him from such family duties. However, Daemon had understood the Lord Commander proposed to use his name and connection in Hightown and Oldtown to convince the Faith of the perfect regularity of Prince Rhaegar second marriage, and as such had to remind everyone of his unfortunate ascendance.

Daemon appreciated his sacrifice.

Curiously, Hightower had refused all kind of meat, turning green when he caught sight of Elaenaerys own experimentation. Daemon knew some people refused to partake in meat, be it for religious beliefs or taste but he had ignored this preference of the Lord Commander. He was certain Hightower had consumed meat on the road. Maybe it had been for lack of choice.

“Prince Regent?”

Daemon raised his head before realizing the voice come from far lower. Harrow was sitting between the Rogue Prince and the cradle, the hatchling yawning while rolling herself at the newborn human feet, Lord Willas brooding over his defeat. Daemon was so proud.

“What does Elaenaerys mean?”

Oh. Oh. Of course Daemon had explained his intellectual logic only to sweet Lady Alerie, half expecting to be gently corrected in his course of tough but he had not spread the tale. Well Mace must know, with this charming nickname of his for the hatchling.

Daemon could immediately see Arthur lean over toward them to catch his answer. He has been so excited by the sign Dragons would fly over the Red Keep as was the due of the Royal Family, he had named the hatchling without explaining his reasoning, supposing, rightly so, that none of the other witness to the miracle would speak High Valeryan and nourish opinions on Dragon’s rearing.

Daemon cleared his throat, aware of way too many pairs of eyes fixed on him without even trying to pare curiosity with some distant cousin of well-mannered education.

“Well, Elaenaerys  is an old High Valeryan name, designing the Seafoam. You can translate it by “Born from the Tides”. The legends of my people pretended that one of the Goddess of Beauty was born from such, conceived by seafoam and emerging from a sea shell during a particular High tide. Like a pearl.”

There were many reasons for Daemon’s choice, in reality. High Tide, Dragonstone, the Sea so dear to Laena despite her thirst for fire and blood. Laena so dear to Rhaenyra. The whispered confession of the Lord Commander, during the hatching, the egg had originally belonged to an unlucky Grand-daughter of his, Elaena Targaryen, the daughter of his Aegon, his poor Aegon, alone and at the mercy of their enemies, who had cherished and care for it all her life even without any illusion on her chance of hatching it.

For the first time since this farce began Prince Regent Daemon Targaryen raised his not so steady glass to toast.

“I want to offer all my gratefulness to Eleana Targaryen, daughter of Aegon III who, despite all odds maintain a healthy egg and showered it with attention in circumstance less than ideal for a young dragon to thrive. I hope she can guide our path toward the rightful desired outcome: the coronation of our Queen, Queen Alyssa First of her name, we will reveal in a victory which wouldn’t have been made possible without her.”

The Reach nobility followed his example, calling Elaena’s name with the respect she had been due all her life, for the Prince Regent deepest satisfaction.

The name had also just imposed itself on Daemon, as it so often happened with Targaryen’s Dragons, as if they came into this world already prepared for their destiny. But Daemon thought this one was particularly fitting.

Mace bubbled happily he had remembered the root of the name from his Maester lesson – the shameless liar, and hastily laugh and ordered more Arbor Gold for everyone of the attendant, even the servants for such a day must be partake by all.

“To Princess Eleana!” Slurred the crowd. “To Queen Alyssa First of Her name!” “To the Prince Regent! To The Pearl of Highgarden!”

Daemon had never been a follower of the Seven but here he stood now, in the middle of a Sept, surrounded by way too many candles for his taste in front of an alarmed Septon – presumably Highgarden’s Speton for there had been no time to summon the High Septon, and Daemon doubted the Queen of Thorns would ever take this risk.

The feast had dwelled until the first stars appeared in the sky and would have continued until morning if the Queen of Thorns had not ordered his family to progress trough the day’s program – program on which Daemon had not been consulted.

He realized Queen Alyssa would need to be blessed by a Septon during her coronation. He assisted to enough of said boring ceremonies to dismiss the important of the Faith in their subjects eyes.

However, his first two daughters, being born in exile and so far remove from the succession at the time of their birth, had escaped the “Naming Ceremony”, during which the proud parents presented their progeny to their benefactors, the Sept. As for Aegon and Viserys, Rhaenyra just took them to Port Real for the days, made the paperwork and called it a day.

Alyssa tried to escape his arms, maybe sensitive to his sour mood but she did not pip.

Lord Command Hightower had stood firm once he saw Daemon’s expression as their party approached the Sept. They were in the Heart of the Faith, Alyssa’s parents’ marriage was on shaky grounds, at best, a proper Naming Ceremony in the Light of the Seven in front of all the Reach, hosted by the Tyrell, with the White Cloaks as witnesses and the Hightower honoring the whole process with their attendance – said Hightower had been multiplying when Daemon hadn’t been looking and were now occupying front rows - would dispel any rumors of illegitimacy.

Of course Gerold Hightower was right.

Daemon’s inner dragon roared in fury, his blood boiling at this whole farce. He did not doubt his opinion could be inferred from his expression as the Septon stepped two step back, looking for any chance of escape.

Hightower, in a show of bravery – Daemon should have kill him there and then as soon as he muttered his name – stood at his right, as Lord Commander, while Arthur, who seemed totally dumbfounded and out of place in the overly decorated Sept stood at his left. Alyssa had been dressed in a pure white dress, covered in exquisite embroidery and lace. A train, worthy of any Queen, in fact the longest trail Daemon had ever saw, had been added to the robe, as white as the latter, made a fine lace, an ultimate show of the Tyrell’s wealth. Alyssa precious little face was covered by a thin silky veil, to Daemon outrage. As if his heir should cover herself in front of the Gods themselves.

Elaenaerys, perched on the right arm of Arthur, protected by a falconry attire got the right color scheme. By the sight of the Blessed Place, the only color more revered by the Seven than White was Gold.

The Septon seemed to have found his voice back somewhere in what would have been his balls, if he had any.

“Prince…Prince Regent Daemon Targaryen, you…present yourself today in front of the Seven in the Name of your…charge, our beloved, Queen Alyssa, First of Her name.”

At least someone had prepared the poor excuse for a man a tolerable speech. Daemon suspected Olenna.

“Indeed.” Purred Daemon, all velvet.

“Do you wish for…your charge to be enlighten by the Justice of Our Father, the Strength of Our Mother, the Purity of Our Maiden, the Wisdom of Our Crone, the Courage of the Warrior, the Creativity of Our Smith and the Mercy of the Stranger?”

Over my dead body, would have been Daemon’s response without Hightower firm coaching, aided by Arthur tired and pleading eyes. The Queen of Thorns menacing glare and Alerie smile of hope held no weigh whatsoever his final decision.

“I wish for my Queen to be raised in the valors of the Sept.”

There. It should be acceptable? It wasn’t even a lie. He wishes for Alyssa to acquire the qualities so generously attributed to invisible deities.

The witnesses seemed to expect a longer discourse from him, alas.

“I raised Seven children. I hope for the seven of them to look with acceptance and pride on their newest sibling, for I swore to raise Queen Alyssa as my own, and here, on this sanctify ground, under the benevolent eyes of the Seven I renew my Oath.”

This was meet by a whisper of approval from the attendance and a gleam of satisfaction in the Septon face.

Daemon had to grasp far in his memory, to Rhaenyra own Naming Celebration, for the correct words to pronounce next, and what a surprise when it was revealed to be the correct ones.

“As I stood in stead of her Mother, I wish to ask for the clemency of the Stranger and, as I stood in stead of her Father I wish to ask for the Mother to Gift her with Mercy, the Warrior with Strength and the Crone with Wisdom.”

Not the most common supplication from a parent in front of the Seven, but one adapted to the circumstance, if the nods of Hightower were anything to go by.

“The Seven should bless her. You can now pronounce the Infant’s name, for she will flourish in their Benevolent Hearts.”

Really the ridiculous position one could find himself in for the love of a daughter.

“Alyssa.”

The Septon, as relieved as Daemon that the Ceremony was, mostly over and done with, smile for the first time since they entered the accursed place.

“I bless you, Alyssa, in the Light of the Seven.”

He then disposed seven little candles, invited a reluctant Daemon to install the newborn in their middle – this was so dangerous, even Targaryen knew better – and let the Prince Regent standing a few good minutes before the Lord Commander indicated softly he needed to light the candle one by one, handing him some kind of ceremonial white glass candle. Which he did with vengeance.

“Welcome, Alyssa!”

Daemon recuperated the Queen so fast the Septon didn’t have the time to blink, deciding this must be the end of the already too long mummery.

“All Hail Queen Alyssa, who had been enlightened by the Seven in this day!”

Daemon saw Mace crushing tears.

In one corner, a damp, shadowy corner which no light could ever illuminate a figure smiled. A smile all tongue. The flames around the Sept burnt brighter.

After the Sept’s travesty, as the Rogue Prince insisted to call the farce, Daemon was more determined than ever. Andals be damned, and Rhoynard whith them. They were Dragons, they were the survivors of the grandest culture to ever grant any continents and they won't bow to imaginaries Gods. They should be humans to lower themselves such. They weren't. They were salvation, purest, fittest Gods walkig among mortals, the Blood of the Dragon. 

Nothing could have warned the White Cloaks of his plans. Daemon ensured it.

Oh, Arthur had looked hurt when the Prince Regent had dismissed him from their usually shared quarter, the Sword of the morning accustomed to slumber on the floor near the cradle, always within reach of Daemon.

Daemon wouldn’t have been surprised if the younger man pronounce his vows barely out of childhood. His face as an easy read, open and frank so young. So young Daemon hurt for the wasted potential of of a man swore to for live to servitude. Was he ever that young? Arthur could be his son, no doubt. He was by far the more expressive of the three White Cloaks. His lavender eyes were among the most soul baring and guiltless eyes Daemon had ever encountered. Maybe its was his inexperience, his own certitude he had no political value whatsoever – a nonsense, Daemon had checked on multiple occasion from reliable source – or maybe the candor was in Arthur’s character.

If so, Daemon had to concede it had been an acute choice to keep him far from politics. Even, if by irony, he had found himself in the middle of the biggest political turmoil since the Dance, according to the intelligence gathered thus far.

So few, so far in between, Daemon couldn't...he just couldn't handle reading his loved ones fate i some dusty books.

Hightower, for all intent and purpose had looked maybe a little too relieve to witness the detachment with which Daemon assigned Arthur to help Lord Mace in his correspondence with his far away vassals. The remain of his unvanquished army being promptly repurpose and sent to Kingslandings. Daemon had no doubt the news of the resistance from the Reach will be ill receive by the Usurper but the uncrowned Baratheon could hardly join his allies’ forces while letting the Iron Throne to the ceasing. Well, he could. Given the unflattered description everyone had given Daemon, who was used to take such portrayal with a grain of salt, Robert Baratheon didn’t win the Iron Throne thanks to his military genius.

He passed the gates, the nobles and guards bowing on his passage, not even bothering to hide his precious, so valuable treasure, loved in several hefty soft cover, sleeping with a little frown of displeasure, for Daemon had carefully separated the Caraxes toy look-alike from her. She wouldn’t need any look alike tonight.

The stars were especially bright and shiny, constellations easily identifiable - the Ice Dragon, the Milk of the Mother and so much more Daemon never took the time to learn - the air  was cool, full of flowers flagrance, almost spicy. Long strike of white form path between the astres. Rarely Daemon had seen such a beautiful setting for a First Flight.

Caraxes, his Soul Mate, his Half, waited for them hidden in one of the way too numerous bushes – lilac bushes, judging by the lack of thorn and the pretty colored flower. Reminiscent of…Daemon put a halt to these toughs. He could have sworn Caraxes looked exasperated for a few seconds. Lilacs branch stuck between badly kept scales, due to mue soon. Caraxes grumbled and shook his head to rif himself of a flowery inconvenience. Daeùon couldn't help but smile in front of his best friends shenanigans and was rewarded by a serpentine yellowish glare.

Daemon caught one of the prettiest lilac he could reach. Arthur's eyes...This color wasn't very wild spread in his family, not among Jaehaerys' get. For a fesecond he observed the splendid variations of the petals under the stars' benevolent whispers. 

What was he even thinking about? In a movement of petulance he throw the stupid lilac to the groud and carefully trampled the flowers.

He had a mission this night.

“Come on, Old friend.”

The dragon puffed at the nickname but covered them with his shadow until they reached a clear spot, miraculously devoid of status, flowers, swings or other garden’s ornaments safe for a charming spring which melody must be appreciated by lovers. Yes, Daemon can easily imagine lovers absconding in the middle of the night, joining near the clear water under such a beautiful sky, by such a night.

Caraxes seemed almost frustrated, weirdly enough.

Daemon ignored the strange moody dragon and began the easy climb on his Red Terror back, Alyssa secured against his chest by a leather contraption reinforced by steel. Once saddled, he, exceptionally, fastened the leather bands added to help young dragonrider still working their balance, checking their solidity, ensured himself for the hundredth times Alyssa was comfortable, safely attached, and now fully awake and fixing him with wide open mismatched eyes who made his heart melt and confirmed in his mind he was acting as his ancestors would have wished.

“Sovês Caraxes”.

Caraxes jumped in the dark blue void with a cry of delight joined by Daemon’s laugh.

Nothing, never, could replace the sensation of untainted freedom provided by a dragon’s flight. The winds carrying the enormous bulk rocking the riders gently, with their mount graceful swing. And Caraxes was outdoing himself tonight, flying always higher until Daemon had to verify Alyssa was sufficiently covered, just to be reassured by an awed expression, if one could exist on a newborn’s features. Caraxes, maybe feeling the slight worry of Daemon choose to abandon the high for some speed, such as Daemon hadn’t seen him reach in years, as if he was racing Meleys when he was a stubborn young worm decided to stole the title of “the fastest Targaryen’s dragon” from the Red Queen. To no avail.

Daemon let himself and his daughter be lulled by the freshness of this beautiful night, the softness of the silver and golden star around them. Was it the sound of the ocean? Highgarden was too far from any coast for it to be possible, but Daemon let his imagination roaming wild and transported them over Dragonstone, where they should be, their ancestral home, listening to the waves crushing the rocs. Alyssa, his perfect child, was content and curious, trying to disentangled herself as to pat the scales of Caraxes, Daemon letting his hand cajoling him with loving praise on his lips, despite her arms being way too short. Daemon smiled. His true, unaltered smiled, reserved for his wives and children before the Dance was upon them. The Dance…What a poetic name for a War which cost him everything.

“You know,” he muttered to young Alyssa,  as if he confided her a great secret which could be overheard, “the Maester at the Red Keep were furious with my Mother, yes your Grand-ma from whom you get your beautiful eyes, escaped their vigilance to ride Meleys with me. She couldn’t do it with Viserys. Maybe she didn’t manage to tear him from his guards, he was the only grand-son of the Old King, that prattling old fool. He was probably under close supervision.She didn’t manage with her Aegon either. They may have been more on the watch. The Tyrant and the Hag. Maybe…Maybe if she was able to… I wish I could have asked her more questions about that flight before…I wish I had more time.”

He wished to remember her. The sound of her voice. Her laughter. Her laughter disappeared first. Or was it her voice ? Her eyes. Her broken nose. Everything robbed from him, with a baby brother he should have protected as he swore, under the cover of his feverish Mother. Viserys hadn't been allowed to enter. He was too precious to risk any contagion. And he had months, years of memory his brother would never get. But Daemon...These stolen moments he still cherished.

"She would have love you, don't ever even wonder. Lady North would have been the Mother Wolf you deserve. This is your birthright ».

Sorrow, long nursed, didn’t feel as crushing in the starry night as he should. He breathed the flowery scent of his heir, their Highgarden sojourn incrusting her drapery. Not to mention the soap. Daemon will have to use all the water in Dragonstone to force the odor to fade. Not that the calming lavender flavor was unsuitable for the infant Queen. Daemon felt calmer than…He couldn’t remember since when? Maybe before Luke death? Caraxes hissed and Daemon feared their moment of peace had been cut short by some “lost” Lannister soldiers. But Caraxes felt thoughtful through their bond, not distrustful or on the hunt. The Ice Dragon was spectacular and Daemon let himself feel....fine. He was fine. Here. Comets and wishing stars were rivaling for his attention but nothing could be more riviting than Alyssa now fully open curious eyes admirig the shadow she may be able to see through these newborn's eyes of hers.

So Daemon flied. Heart light and the possibility of a future ahead.

It was almost morning when Caraxes landed near the Lila’s bushes, petulant as the precedent evening, and all Highgarden was obviously on war path. Arthur, who was inspecting the very indiscreet clues left by the gigantesque creature  was the first to reach them, or maybe the first to reach them with void of fear of Caraxes – dornishmen could be strange, Daemon had found. He was holding the Caraxes miniature toy, as if strangling its too long neck would affect the true Dragon which it had been modeled on, his features unusually close.

So much for baring of the soul and too trusting eyes. Hard as diamond, cold and sharp, gone was any softness earned by days of companionship.

The two men stood in front of one another. Daemon beginning to wonder if he should…explain? Explain. He offered his heir her First real Nameday gift, her first taste of her birthright. He owned the White Cloak no excuses. 

Fortunately, Hightower intervene before, closely followed by a pantingMace.

Daemon grinned, prepared to mock the men for the worries about a dragonrider being in any kind of danger.

“My Prince! Prince Regent! We received news from dragonstone! The Usurper sent an assassin!”

Chapter Text

Chapter VII: Two Fools across Westeros

The first stab of love is like a sunset, a blaze of color -- oranges, pearly pinks, vibrant purples...

Arthur couldn’t believe he was actually in the process of being help on Caraxes, the Red Worm, by a benevolent and slightly amused Prince Regent Daemon Targaryen. The Prince was regal, nothing in his corporal language indicating he even registered the scale’s heat within his hefty black armor, proudly mounted on the legendary creature he controlled, confidence and self assurance creating an impenetrable halo around him.

In contrast, Arthur, was cooking. Especially after the Prince insisted, with curious care, on several layers of protection against the freezing high altitude. Or so Arthur tried to convince himself. The sweat on his brow wasn’t from pure nerves. No. He was not afraid. He felt the heat as any normal human being would. The solid hands of Prince Daemon were firmly clasped on his forearm lifting him wit unnatural ease, despite Arthur feeling his own feet being tangled in the cords added to the saddle to ease him on the passenger seat. Yes, the passenger seat. Apparently, Targaryen were fond of courting their significant others, as a very entertained Daemon explained, by offering them a nightmarish fly around Westeros.

A flight on Caraxes, the Bloody War Dragon, sounded more menacing than enticing. Each of the beast movement carried an air of menace. Maybe the serpentine aspect of his scared body, the gory red color of his scales, his profound yellowish penetrating gaze deprived him of the glamour their little Pearl cast on every person in her vicinity.

Caraxes wouldn’t have been the dragon of Arthur’s dream for a baptism of fire.

Well, a part of Arthur, the part of him which would eternally be a starry eyed boy of ten was over the moon. The adult knight who had outgrown such fantasy was, legitimately, dubious.

Daemon had seemed enchanted with himself when, while all the castle was being overturned by a furious Lord Commander in search of the two Targaryen they had managed to lose, he reappeared from his little escape with ‘his daughter’, the fucking Queen. Arthur could have strangled him on the spot but, after the announce of the attempt against Dowager Queen Rhaella’s life, the impulsion may have sent the wrong message.

The Targaryen Loyalist, the Leal men of the Reach hold their first War Counsel in the nursery, after the Prince Regent was cajoled into releasing his pricy heir. Not three weeks old and ‘directing’ her first War Counsel. Rhaegar wouldn’t care and Aerys would have a laugh but Princess Lyanna would be all pride. The commanders decided that such a murder attempt couldn’t be ignored. None of them actually knew why or how Queen Rhaella was detained on Dragonstone, so close, too close, to the usurper when many Free City would offer sherlter, if only because of the new regimes rumored instability.

Olenna swore these rumors had to be true, for what new regime wasn’t unstable by their very nature? However, revealing Caraxes, instead of letting tittles-tattles threw discredit on his existence so ‘early’ was a bold move. Prince Daemon spent the Counsel with a little smile on his absurdly youthful face, listening to all opinions.

Finally, many hours were lost till the Prince Regent rose and declared simply he would fly to Dragonstone to ensure himself of the health of the Dowager Queen and the well-being of the Prince of Dragonstone. Arthur remarked the surprise of the Lord Commander when Prince Daemon casually used the title of ‘Viserys, Prince of Dragonstone’, as if the young child wasn’t the main threat to the fragile infant Queen in their care. Arthur suspected, feared, Viserys’ life would be short indeed if needed to clear any form of contestation.

Such, to everyone atonement, wasn’t the official stand of the cruel Consort who, once upon a time, made a mother choose between two of her children.

He put his riding boots on the immaculate table, arm crossed behind his head, cracking his neck.

“Queen Rhaella situation is, truth be told, little more than hearsay, for us. I can’t phantom why she didn’t flee to Penthos or even Lys. Hide. Fourteeen Flames be my witness, there is many slaves or free folks from Lys looking like Targaryen, if you don’t check twice. The usurper doesn’t seem in a rush to put his greedy paws on her despite the claim her son supposedly has. I wouldn’t be surprised if we lacked crucial intelligence on the situation.”

No one was suicidal enough, not even Randall Tarly to point out that Viserys’ claim was far from eccentric, from any antecedents stand point. Shame for the boy, but his late father madness and the lack of support from a dragonrider would within all probability kept him from having to sit on Westeros most uncomfortable, although coveted, chair. Arthur, and he could read the same dread in his Lord Commander’s eyes, didn’t doubt some idiots will try to contest Queen Alyssa First of Her Name birthright on account of her sex. He scoffed. As if, boy or girl, an infant knew what lay between their legs and how to use it. A regency so long was the real problematic in the dornisman’s mind, especially since he couldn’t be reminded of Prince Daemon’s age at the Gods Eye’s Dance. And Prince Daemon’s own father, Prince Baelon, proved plans had little weight in front of fate.

“I volunteer to fly to Dragonstone and inquire about the situation. The royal family’s and the capital. If I cross path with some highly flammable Lannister or Baratheon banners, well, the Lord Commander can attest I should make quick work of it.”

Allowing the Head of State to casually saunter in the middle of a war zone wasn’t usually a policy favoris by the White Cloaks. Few Head of State had a fully functional Dragon in their possession since Jahaerys First of His Name, though.

No, the main battle lead by Hightower, the conflict which menaced to reduce Highgarden to cinder was the Prince Regent’s will of iron to bring the two weeks old Queen to Dragonstone. By dragonback.

In these instants, Arthur could all too easily understand why the Rogue Prince had been judged mad by a good portion of the Seven Kingdom, as Daemon Targaryen had explained calmly to fuming Lord Commander, why Queen Alyssa would be perfectly safe flying over still burning battlegrounds, within the safety of her adoptive Father’arms – Prince Daemon may have omitted the ‘adoptive’ part of the statement. Who could you trust more with a newborn’s wellbeing than their own parents, after all? With the exception of Caraxes, of course, who would bend in half to watch over the Queen Daemon loved so.

If Arthur was perfectly honest, and he wouldn’t be even if someone offered him a castle worthy of a Lord Paramount in the Summer Island, he actually trusted Prince Daemon with Queen Alyssa safety. He trusted Caraxes with Alyssa safety. He had had more than two weeks to observe the beast blew falling leaf to tickle the infant.

It took Alerie’s patience reassurances and Olenna strategic arguments to change the Rogue Prince mind.

Arthur had renewed admiration for the old crone after the Queen of Thorns reminded Prince Daemon of his eldest son, Prince Jacaerys, fate. A dragonrider wasn’t immune to arrows and panicked men were prone to any stupidity. For a few, interminable, minutes, the Sword of the Morning thought that Olenna Tyrell nee Redwynn had miscalculated for the last time of her life.

Three throwing knives later, broken chairs and flying cups, the Prince Regent accepted the proposition of entrusting the safety of the First Regnant Queen of the Seven Kingdom to the Tyrell.

Arthur didn’t envy them. He didn’t doubt that if she had so much as a bad cough when Prince Daemon retrieved her – and he would, Arthur held no doubt about it, the man would come back from the Seven Hell a second time if necessary – Highgarden would be nothing but ashes and a scary story for children to whisper under the cover of the night.

Two, long hours, of further negotiation and back and forth later, the risk of inhaling toxic fumes, attract arrows, the freezing temperature posing a risk factor to a child so young, premature according to the Healer Mace assigned to the ‘Royal Suite’, and the technical impossibility to hide Willa in a bag tied to Caraxes’ saddle and the Prince Regent, hands clasped over a drooling Alyssa as if the Tyrell wanted to kidnap her against ransom was convinced to let his ‘daughter’ in the Rose’s Bushes, where no Baratheon or Lannister would catch a glimpse of her existence.

Of course, the Tyrell hadn’t been shy about the Queen aforementioned existence, or their allegiance to her but, with the roads still lacking of any kind of security and the anarchy in which a good portion of the Seven Kingdoms was struggling to control under the new authority, no one was really worried about her reality, let alone her claim, being seriously considered at Court.

She was probably nothing more than a tale running amongst servants. Maybe Varys used it to light the renowned fury of the Usurper. A child of Rhaegar by Princess Lyanna…Arthur couldn’t imagine the Demon of the Trident’s reaction.

Yes, he could imagine the spider finding his quarry in this rumor. His pound of flesh.

He should advise the Prince Regent to kill the Spider at the First opportunity. Lucky him, he had day of privileged close contact to convince Prince Daemon of the necessity to murder the slithering Master of Whispers.

Convincing the Rogue Prince of killing suspicious individuals with Taragrayen’s blood on their hands shouldn’t be too hard.

Arthur uncomfortably settled behind the Prince, gripping the leather leashes that had to be knotted around his tights ton hopefully, avoiding him falling to his death. The Prince himself had attached himself with an absurd easiness, one acquired by a lifetime of dragonriding. Arthur, trying not to look down, fumbled desperately with the proposed security restrains. He emitted healthy doubt on their effectivity . He suspected they were more a show of good faith from the dragonriders, instead of any utility whatsoever.

A few minutes later, the Prince still much too diverted by Arthur’s woes, turned to aid him securing the…harness.

Then, after a satisfied last inspection of his own work, without forewarning the White Cloak, his voice echoed in the garden where Arthur’s Sworn Brothers and their hosts were assembled to bid them good fortune.

Needless to say, instead of promesses for success or comfort, Prince Daemon choose threats.

He had described with uncanny precision each and every torture every members of the Tyrell family will suffer if he found one hair missing on the head of his precious heir. Arthur having growing up with Oberyn Martell, even if he rarely frequented the elder boy, he appreciated the Prince imagination. He was pretty sure some of the device he delighted in explaining the functioning originated from Yi-Ti – not that Oberyn could ever dream of travelling so far. Oberyn was the Red Viper. The Sea Snake, he was not.

Undeterred despite the promise of his youngest son being flayed alive, the eldest suffering a thousands cuts before succumbing and his future child ripped from their mother womb, Mace had exchanged a disgustingly understanding look with his wife.

Alerie bowed, the infant sovereign held against her generous bosom, her swaddling clothes a rich velvet red mixed with a most fetching silver silk, everyone implicitly agreeing black would be a little too morbid regarding circumstances. Plus, Daemon and Arthur, who felt the more strongly out of all the Queen caretakers, loved any reminder of poor Lyanna, now in the competent hands of the Silent Sister. A preference which didn’t pass Alerie attention to details. Seven Hell, the Prince choose a Wolf pelt to protect his ‘daughter’ during her first flight and made sure everyone witnessed it.

Arthur wondered what came to pass within the secrecy of the Tower, while the Queen was born.

“Queen Alyssa is our Queen and Highgarden will fall before any harm come to her within the Reach, I promise you, my Prince. You wouldn’t need to burn our Castle for we will lie dead in its ruins if such a horror came to pass.”

Did the Tyrell were aware of their men lack of wits and choose to compensate by marrying the cleverest woman they met?

Daemon sniffed. Arthur was sure he barely restrained himself from crying as he fixed the red and silver bundle in Alerie’s arms. Alyssa began squirming lightly and Arthur was persuaded he was going to be stranded alone on Caraxes while Daemon checked on the comfort of the Queen.

The Gods were Goods, for Daemon stayed put. Or maybe he wasn’t that flexible anymore. He must be an old man. He looked young but…He had nine kids, by his own admission – for he always included Queen Rhaenyra’s – he had been married three time, he couldn’t be that young.

Arthur try to concentrate on the problem between his legs at present, the literal dragon.

“I’ll accept your words, Lady Alerie.”

Then Daemon teared himself from the vision of the Lady of Highgarden cajoling his precious daughter, pain and revolt suiting every and each of his movement.

“Sovês, Caraxes.”

The red dragon bellowed and two giant leathery wings beated around Arthur, blocking his view.

Maybe, mourned Arthur, the worst part of this whole affair, conducting him to an inglorious and gruesome death, was that none of his Sworn Brother had feigned to hesitate before volunteering him as a guide for Prince Regent Daemon through the Crownlands and the knight entrusted with introducing the Targaryen-From-Beyond-The-Grave to Queen Rhaella. No, Lord Commander Hightower seemed to take for granted Arthur’s loyalty efficiency and enthusiasm, for this particular mission. Which included riding a dragon.

Arthur wasn’t even close to Queen Rhaella. Since his appointment to the White Cloaks, shortly after the marriage of Rhaegar and Elia, he had been appointed to Dragonstone where he had spent most of the past years. The Queen was barely more than a ghost in his mind, a presence haunting the Red Keep always followed by a miniature of Rhaegar.

Nothing in their interactions designated him as the perfect candidates to explain she had a Grand-daughter still alive with the allegiance of the Reach, a hatchling, proudly paraded for all the Reach s’ finest to witness, and a dragonrider as self-proclaim Prince Regent.

Extinguishing any hope to put Prince Viserys on the Iron Throne. Not that Arthur believed Rhaella wouldn’t be glad to stay as far away as possible from the horror. He trusted Hightower judgment on her character.

No, his relationship to Rhaella wasn’t the reason he was honored with this unexpected visit to the Targaryen’s ancestral Seat.

Lord Commander Hightower praised him as their best sword, the famed Sword of the Morning, and someone whose words shouldn’t be questioned.

And didn’t he prove on multiple occasion he was at ease with Caraxes even electing to rest in his shadow?

Not untrue.

Arthur still couldn’t wash the lingering feeling that Hightower was throwing him as a bone to Prince Regent Daemon. It wasn’t a nice feeling.  

For some somber motivation he had kept close to his heart – if he had one, which Arthur began doubting, the Lord Commander decided Arthur was the better equipped of the three White Cloaks for handling their newest charge.

Was Daemon their newest charge? Technically, he appeared in the same instant as the Queen but Alyssa had been Arthur responsibility since Lyanna announced to an ecstatic Rhaegar she was expecting. 

The winds hit his face with unexpected violence, whipping his tanned skin and bringing tears to his eyes. The world was blurry. He elected to close his eyes and try to forget where he was, a task near impossible with the leathery sounds of Caraxes’ wings, the air getting colder and colder, the loss of every known mark under his feet. His head began to turn and he was thankful for the foresight of Prince Daemon to include the harness. Blindly, breath short he gripped what was in front of him. Which happen to be the Prince Regent. The arms of the Sword of the Morning closed around the Rogue Prince waist in a steel grasp, ignoring the cutting edge of his black scaled armor, his face buried in the golden white air, more silver than gold, scenting of perfumed oiled, spicy, his nose almost touching the Prince neck.

This wasn’t appropriate behavior for a White Cloak but Arthur would muse on it later.

The Bastard’s chest was shaking with laugher.

Little by little, Arthur respiration became steadier, deeper and blood stopped rushing from his head. He risked a glance around him. Most of his vision was impeded by red scarred wings but he could distingue green far, way too far beyond them. He tried to discarded his tears discreetly but judging by the disdainful scoff, wasn’t successful. His sudden hatred for the Prince Regent didn’t prevent him from reassuming his hold on his waist.

How many hours before Dragonstone? Prince Daemon spoke of one day, two, depending of the winds, which made sense. Two days sounded suddenly like an eternity.

The cold wasn’t unexpected but the contrast with the fire made flesh – and never Arthur understood this expression better than at this very moment – made for a unique experience. He snuggled closer to the Prince, without thinking. Prince Daemon was a known entity, moody, unreliable, a rogue, steady.

Little by little, Arthur’s position was almost…almost comfortable. Like riding a horse for the first time. Arthur imagine any dragonrider had callosity on their hands, arms and tights despite precautionary measure. Yes, it was a ride like any other.

Breath. Just keep breathing. So spicy. Steady.

Anyway the Queen would learn to ride young, if history repeated itself. Princess Rhaenyra, the Realm Delight, flied by herself at seven and Arthur could hardly protect a dragonriding Queen without becoming accustomed to dragons, now could he?

The tension leaked from him and he found himself appreciating the forms of the clouds, some bringing a boyish smile on his lips. Caraxes fly was straight, focused on their destination, far from the show off personality he usually exhibited. Arthur hesitated then padded the best scales, as he would do any of his mount. He was rewarded by an amused purr. Could dragon purr? Apparently so.

Thank you. I know you control yourself for me.

Or maybe Daemon controlled his dragon for Arthur’s sake. But, the knight wasn’t prepared to envisage the possibility.

He took the Sword of the Morning’s courage to admire the green hills of the Reach, a sea of verdure, far from the colorful heated colors of his own homeland. Quite monotonous but he could see himself lying along a river, listening to the calming sound of water flowing through the valley.

Fall’s winds were already upon them, sweeping the bloody summer. Tree turned slowly red and golden, contrasting with the bluish sky, barely troubled by thin clouds.

“Feeling better?”

The yell of the Prince Regent was barely audible through the whistle of the wind.

Arthur refused to feel impress and didn’t relax his hold on his liege, for all intent and purpose.

“Yes, My Prince. Thank you.”

Daemon back tensed. As if surprise by the acknowledgment.

He sent a quick look toward his passenger.

“You are quite welcome. However, maybe you should keep the hardest part to yourself.”

Arthur blinked. The hardest part? Wasn’t he supposing to report the experience to the other White Cloaks? Riding behind the Prince Regent may, after all, become a regular duty. Until Queen Alyssa came of age, Prince Regent Daemon was the legitimate effective Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and his protection was paramount. No that he really needed it. Between Caraxes and his own martial prowess, if history books were to be believed, he was the one whose people needed protection from. They could follow his trail by horses but…

“I assure you, My Prince, Caraxes had been a delight.”

A ‘delight’ may be pushing it, but the dragon didn’t take advantage of a terrified new rider to bask in sadistic pleasure – which Arthur had been certain he would do…

“It would seem so,” purred the metaphorical dragon.

At that very moment Arthur realized he was erected. His member was gorged with blood and firmly aligned against Prince Daemon’s, the Prince Regent’s, spine. Alighted by each gentle movement of Caraxes. Up and down. Up and down. All Arthur’s brain capacities shut down. Alas, it did nothing for his apparent natural’s body’s reaction to being trap with a dangerous bloodthirsty Targaryen Prince on a dragon without any possibility of escape.

Every second, the friction seemed to intensified. Every brains’ capacity eluded him in favor of this delicious friction. Oh, Sevens Gods. He…he…He actually considered throwing himself from the dragon.

Prince Daemon was perfectly still. Far from trying to put any distance between them. Was it even possible? Did the complexity of the harness allow it? Was Arthur molesting his Prince? His liege? The future of the Realms?

Caraxes dived.

He barreled toward the ground like an arrow, nothing hindering his course. 

Arthur screams of terror could probably be heard from Highgarden.

At the last possible moment, the Red Monstrosity nose upped and he rose in a perfect vertical, gracious, ascent.

Arthur was trying to melt with Daemon at this point, shaking. His teeth made a concerto by themselves, his icy fingers, devoid of any trace of blood gripped around the Prince’s shoulders, Dawn forgotten at his side, clutching with Dark Sister.

However, his little problem was…gone.

Arthur waited for Prince Daemon sarcastic remarks, mockery, disdain. The Rogue stayed silent.

The Sword of the Morning didn’t dare moving for the remaining of the ride.

Dusk couldn’t have come soon enough. They had followed the Roseroad, staying just out of sight from potential travelers and had landed near the Kingswood.

This part of their journey would be more risky, ironically, the cover of the tree allowing potential enemy to cower from Caraxes sharp sight. With any luck, even if they were spotted and words spread, they would be at Dragonstone before nightfall.

Caraxes had caught two does and was tearing his own charred part while Prince Daemon happily dressed their own dinner. They had light a fire, without even debating the risks of signaling their position. Their secret wouldn’t last for more than this night at best. A slime, long necked red dragon was hard to conceal and they neared the Capital. The White Cloak had never witnessed a member of the Royal Family actually competent in basic skills until he met Prince Daemon. Fascinating, from a man so despise by history books, but the Rogue made his Guard feel useless. Without any chore the Sword of the Morning could only relive his earlier humiliation.

Arthur didn’t know what he could do with himself aside from groveling for forgiveness. He knew how…men outside of Dorne saw these kind of reactions from a male to another male body, and couldn’t imagine what must be going through his Prince’s mind. Seven Hell, he never even touched another man! Not even Prince Oberyn unsubtle propositions had tempted him as a lad. He couldn’t understand…

“Dayne, if you brood any harder you will get hair whiter than mine before you reach thirty.”

Arthur almost checked his short cropped dark hair, reddening.

“I apologize, my Prince.”

Prince Daemon cut through Caraxes gift – because, when the dragon had pushed the game toward them Arthur had felt strangely privileged, as if the Beast was offering with swift gestures.

“Go fetch me a branch to cook these over the fire, will you? Unless you like your meat black.”

Daemon designed his dragon happily chewing his dinner.

Arthur bowed, not trusting his voice.

Half an hour mater, he found himself in the very uncomfortable position of being served by his liege. For, tolerated as he was, Arthur couldn’t hope to actually reach for Caraxes’ saddle and serve the provision the Prince had judged necessary to gather.

Prince Daemon choice of necessary provision had included an unknown quantity of Gold Arbor. Lord Commander Hightower, had he been present would have scowled at Arthur drinking while ensuring the security of the Prince Regent without any back up.

Fortunately, the Lord Commander was watching over a Queen in swaddling clothes, while suffering through family reunion, at Highgarden.

Arthur was gulping his third cup, wondering how many would be needed to heal his wounded pride when Prince Daemon, sprawled in the grass, his gaze on the stars finally addressed him.

“Do you think she miss me?”

Arthur blinked.

“My Prince?”

Daemon crossed his legs, facing the White Cloak.

“My daughter…Do you think she miss me?”

Arthur, for having frequented infants, wasn’t sure the Queen was aware her primary caretaker was gone.

“I…I don’t know.”

Arthur rampaged his mind for facts on newborn. He tried to remember the days he spent at Starfall when Allyria was born, after their mother death. Ashara had been useless, keeping to her bed and refusing food, Addam at Prince Doran’s side and their father half-mad with grief. Allyria’s wet nurse, probably estimating he wanted some distraction had been a chatty dornishwoman.

“Baby this young can’t see well, they recognize voice. Smell. Smells are very important? They recognize people thanks to their voice and their smell. I was told so. I…I didn’t spend a lot of time with children before Her Grace birth.”

Daemon grasped his own bottle of Arbor.

“I should have left some of my undershirt there. And something with Caraxes scent. For her to feel safe.”

Arthur’s heart melted. How was this man the same person that laugh as his anthropophagic pet sent army met their makers?

“I am sure Willa thought of something. She is very competent.”

Plus, the whole quarter graciously reserved to their party had reeked of dragon. Arthur had never considered dragon could have a distinct smell before, like horses and dogs. Of course, retrospectively, assuming the contrary was stupid. But the image of a dragon at their full glory was so impressive that secondary consideration, like the smell sounded ludicrous.

“Anyway, didn’t you have nine children?”

Arthur wished he had cut his tongue before finishing that sentence. Oddly, Prince Daemon didn’t seem upset.

“Yes. But… I could have been a better father.”

Nine children. Four surviving the Dance. Arthur couldn’t imagine what it had felt like, loosing his children, one by one, powerless. His three first born sons for all intents and purposes. Arthur had lost three brothers he could barely remember, and each time he had felt like a part of light and joy and happiness had been ripped from his world, never to be replace. How had his own father felt, then? He had been too young, too egoist to wonder.

“She loves you. I know she does. When I visited Starfall I could barely hold my own sister who has just been born. Infants doesn’t trust easily.”

Daemon smiled. Not his usual grin or his courtly smile, which barely concealed his murderous intent at the little feast improvised by Lord Tyrell. His smile was almost boyish.

“If you weren’t drunk out of your mind I would propose a little late training. I really wish to know what is behind the Sword of the Morning tittle.”

Arthur reddened immediately. Not from anger.

“I apologize, My Prince…I…”

“You were mortified because riding a dragon is a breathtaking experience? Yes, I gathered.”

It was not the dragon. It was not the dragon.

Arthur would give one of his hand for the reason of his arousal being the overwhelming sensation of flying.

Daemon voice became his more usual drawl.

“I believed dornishman to be less…close minded.”

He almost sounded disappointed.

Arthur couldn’t be redder.

“I…I…I just…You are the Prince Regent and I am sworn to defend you…”

The Rogue prince laughed so suddenly, almost hollering to the moon, his head thrown back as his body was run by spasms.

Arthur wanted desperately to join him.

“Are you…are you saying you fear for my virtue?”

Oh, Seven Gods.

“I…I made an oath.”

Prince Daemon was still shaking with mirth.

“Yes, I actually know. So, my knight, will you kidnap me and marry me?”

He giggled.

And now Arthur wanted to strangle the Rogue Prince anew. Wonderful.

“I abide by my oath,” grumbled the Sword of the morning. Feeling a little too sober, he served himself a fourth cup.

“Your oath is preventing you to get married and siring your own children. They have been written to ensure your loyalty would never waver from the Royal Family. Not that they are full proof.”

Jaime Lannister. Arthur gritted his teeth.

“I am a bad person, the bane of my House, and I have deserved my place in the Seven Hells a hundredth times over. I would, I will be a terrible Regent. I won’t punish the more devoted and reliable White Cloak my Family have for having…some exotic taste and venting them from time to time. »

It was…The Rogue Prince basically just gave Arthur permission to vent his base impulse.

“You honor me by your trust, My Prince, however it won’t be necessary.”

Daemon looked at him strangely.

“I don’t ‘honor’ you, you earned my trust.”

“I am loyal to the Targaryen and Queen Alyssa.”

Please, please take the bait.

“You are.”

Prince Daemon squirmed to find a comfortable position while observing the Sword of the Morning.

“I wonder why. From what I understand, my family didn’t endear themselves to Dorne. Not that I am disappointed and shocked.”

Maybe Arthur could have open up, about a young Prince who sang for the poor in Fleabottom, a Prince who loved to read more than anything but would, despite his own father mockery and repeated failure always be up at Dawn to train with the White Cloak until he could hold his own. A Prince who would have made a good king. A decent king. Prince Lewyn had been cautious. What had the elder Prince seen in Rhaegar that warned him? Could all this bloodshed have been prevented? He even opposed his sister’s plan for Elia’s future.

A decent king. Had he not be plagued by prophecies. Madness.

Which was which?

His corpse was never recovered from the Trident, his rubies useless against a war hammer and Aegon’ brain was spilled over the Red keep. However, his daughter was without a doubt sleeping soundly, her fist closed near her hatchling while Arthur watched over a two hundreds years old Prince raised from the dead while his dragon snored softly.

Sometimes he wondered if the past weeks were not a simple fever dream.

His mind turned toward Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn…

“Dorne will create as mush trouble as possible for Queen Alyssa.”

Prince Daemon scoffed.

“Again, color me shocked.”

Arthur bite his lips.

“Princess Elia’s children were your kin. In fact, Dorne’s Prince are your kin.”

Prince Daemon stretched and yawned ostensibly.

“I am keeping it in my mind.”

Arthur turn his back.

“Goodnight My Prince, I will…”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, come here.”

The knight froze. The Prince Regent rolled his eyes.

“I swear I am not tempting your virtue. You are no use to me if you can barely stand by yourself tomorrow. And your body isn’t used to riding a dragon. You’ll suffer from it. You need rest. Caraxes will stand as our guard. Come here.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest. A thousand excuses and none in his mind.

“Don’t make me order you around, I prefer my men willing.”

Arthur raised and stumbled toward the Prince and the dragon. Said dragon grumbled. The beast, bloodthirsty eyed and scared by war, actually grumbled as a long suffering best friend force to endure far more foolishness than he should.

Arthur had kept close to Daemon and Caraxes for the past weeks, as if their presence could protect him from…the thing. However, for the first time the knight experienced a sense of intimacy.

“Come here.”

Arthur didn’t have the time to question on his feeling, Daemon hands clasping around his wrist. The next breath Arthur took, he was kneeling against Caraxes, his legs mangled with the Prince Regent. The Father of the Queen.

“Go to sleep, Sir Arthur, you deserved it. Few men would have been courageous or mad enough to follow me on Caraxes.”

As if to reinforce his rider point, the dragon let some smoke coming out of his nostrils in a sigh.

Arthur wished to answer he just hold his oath, as any White Cloak were ought to. Daemon gaze was a deep purple, nothing like Rhaegar’s indigo, almost common blue eyes.

He wished to tell he would have followed Daemon for Alyssa in the Seven Hells to bring him back himself if the dragonrider didn’t held his promise to Princess Lyanna.

He wished to tell he had followed these purple eyes this morning.

Daemon chest was as hot as Caraxes, despite the armor. Maybe because of it. And sleep, or wine, took the Sword of the Morning.

Chapter Text

Death’s hand in mine

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”

 Kahlil Gibran

Queen Rhaella, Queen Dowager Rhaella, woke up, a rare occurrence, these past few days. Immediately, nausea, akin to the seasickness to which she was prone, seized her and she vomited in the bassinets a maid had the foresight to put near her bed.

Queen dowager Rhaella.

For years, years, she had prayed to be called by this tittle and now…

Be careful what you whish for.

Her husband was dead, slayed by Jaime Lannister, Johanna’s golden son and Rhaella whished more than anything to thank him. She remembered a boy, barely out of childhood with a blond stumble and an eagerness to please. His green eyes had been so full of pride and hope when he received the White Cloak. She wondered if his beautiful eyes had dulled and gained the cynical and weary view of the world most of the White cloak were force to adopt.

Kingslayer. For all his life, this golden son would be a kingslayer.

She vomited anew, the room moving around her. The floor felt unstable, as if balloted by the sea in the middle of a storm. Queen Rhaella fell and scratched her right hand.

Master Veryan rushed in the room, stopping a moment, eyes bulging as he took in the scenery.

Rhaella hold no illusion on her appearance. Disheveled, so thin and feeble she could hurt herself with a quill and parchment, she felt like a ghost. Sprawled on the floor with her hands bleeding. Why did it bleed so much? Had she still enough blood in her veins for her fingers to become stick with the thick almost black liquid? She inspected her hand with sincere curiosity, forgetting where she was for a few seconds. Then reality hit her anew.

Seven be goods, she must look Aerys.

She fought another waves of nausea. Don’t even think about him.

She hoped he suffered but he was so delusional, she was willing to believe he didn’t even realize what was happening to him.

She breathed deeply.

To imagine Lannister wasted coins to kill her when she was already at Death’s door. Poor Naeryssa, a rumored descendant from Ulf the White, was the unlucky victims of this pathetic attempt. She had her buried with all honors, too many honors to hear this insufferable Lucerys Velaryon, this greedy spit of a dragon, barely above the seed he despised so much and who save Rhaella life, who didn’t deserve to call her “cousin “on this affectionate tone.

The child holder who separated her from her Viserys “for safety measure”. For once in her life she whished the bootlicker had angered her brother-husband, just once, just enough, to be added to the mass of roasted meat. Her last living child was away from her, as untouchable as Rhaegar, disguised as another Water on Driftmark. Why did she authorize this mummery? She had been so tired. She had wanted Viserys safe. So tired.

Sleep was but a memory. No storms had boomed in the Drum Tower, where her Chamber was seated, protected by the thickest walls of the Targaryen's Hold. 

She pretended to ignore the tears rolling on her cheeks.

She was going to die, one son trampled in the mud, the second far from her embrace, ignorant of the fate having befall the rest of their family, as per Lucerys instructions.

Her eldest slept in the Trident. Her pride and joy. The son the gods didn’t snatch from her arms. Her first little boy. All his life, she had been so careful with the Heir of the Iron Throne, protecting him of all harm that may befall him since the day the midwife presented her with the most precious bundle in the realm. She taught him to respect poor and nobles, men and women, elder and children. She watched his every step, kissed his pain away, dried his tears, proudly observed his love for obscure literature and encouraged his correspondence with poor Uncle Aemon, lost on the Wall. She fretted after each session with his Maester of Arms, praying for the lesson to be superfluous. Everything, everything…gone in an instant in the water of the Trident. She taught him the harp he loved so much.

The harp…

If she hadn’t insisted, confronted Aerys to allow Rhaegar to practice his girlish passion.

Maybe if she hadn’t encouraged his sensible soul to relish in music none would have happened.

Rhaegar wouldn’t have sung at this fateful feast, Lady Lyanna wouldn’t have been touched by the Targaryen’s melancholy and all would have been avoided.

She would be in the Red Keep, trying to distract Viserys from his father’s raving while Rhaegar would still be exiled on the same island she hung to with the rest of strength she possessed. Little Rhaenys would play in the room next to hers while Elia rejected a wet nurse, as Rhaella did for Rhaegar, her miraculous child born among the dead, to alleviated her preoccupying health. Maybe one of her brother would be at their side. Oberyn, with his perpetual smirk and his love for spoiling his niece and provoke Rhaegar anger. Provoking Rhaegar’s anger was not a small feat for her eldest child has always been so evenly tempered.

Maybe Aerys would had one of his rarer moments of lucidity and all the family would be reunited within Maegor holdfast, savoring precious memories to be shared with the next generations.

Instead of which, Queen Dowager Rhaella was surrounded by an internal silence. No little feet running after a cat in Meraxes room, no undiscernible babble from a silver headed infant destined to be king. No sweet song from her son’s beautiful voice.

They had to described the events to her, for she ordered to not be spared any details. She regretted her façade of courage now. But she would walk in the water to join the Merling King before she allowed this carrions to feast on a sign of weakness.

Elia raped. Rhaenys stabbed so many times while hiding under her dead father’s bed. Little Aegon’s head crushed against the walls built to keep him safe.

Elia…She hadn’t spent much time with her daughter-in-law, Aerys hatred for her Dornish blood and the reputation of Prince Oberyn as a poisoner – some whispered he received training from the faceless men themselves – as prevented a close bond from being form. Viserys was too precious, their only joy, their first truce, common interest, since Rhaegar had been the apple of his Father eye’s. A long time ago. Elia’s unconditional love for Aegon had been painful to witness. Rhaella had birthed her own Aegon, once. Elia’s care, obvious preference for the child who brought her husband back into her confidence had reopen throbbing pain which should have been forgotten in her mother-in-law’s heart. Rhaenys, who had inherited her mother’s, Queen Shaena’s, dark hair, not the raven black head of the Martell’s, whatever mania had seized her husband during her presentation had been easier on her heart.

She should have protected each and every of them tooth and nails, as she did for her sons. She should have seen Rhaegar’s obsession turning into the madness who plagued their blood.

She should have…

She should have…

She should have killed Aerys herself, not hiding behind the hope of a brighter tomorrow, deluding herself, drawing strength from Aerys’ every smile, kind words, his sick attachment to Viserys which she had deluded herself to believe was love.

The Queen Kingslayer. A title who she would have basked in with pride.

Pride she barely managed to scratched at, prisoner in her Family’s Fortress.

Her family destroyed for the ambition of one man. Tywin Lannister. Tywin who she used to dine with and had always considered a friend, a calming influence on her husband until the lack of spare became Aerys main preoccupation and the miscarriage, all her precious babies torn from her.

Without the idea of Viserys, the fear of abandoning the only remaining part of her heart alone in this cruel world she didn’t know he she would bother to even eat.

She heard rumors around the walls, reverberating against the once comforting black stone of her ancestral home. Here, no septon nor septa had ever set a foot, every decoration reminded visitors of the glory of the Targaryen, every tapestry dedicated to their bloody past. None could help predict their bloody future. If they still had one.

Dragon flied from painting to painting, unaware of their demise, ready to surge from the canvas and conquer the sky. The sky. So blue. What a beautiful day.

A beautiful day.

The Maester helped his Queen back in her bed and she was relieved when she observed the sheet were still clean and bloodless. The calming draught had worked its wonder. She hadn’t ripped her own arm in sherds in her sleep.

Instead of presenting her with ten different concoctions, hoping one will appease her for a few hours, or better yet, put her back in the blessed arms of sleep. The Maester seemed on the verge of crying.

“My Queen…”

“Dowager Queen.”

The man continued as if Rahella hadn’t interrupted him. Maybe she hadn’t spoken out loud. Maybe her mind was even more fragile than she suspected.

“I have…news.”

No, not again. Viserys? Did something happen to Viserys?

“As you asked me, I inspected all the results of the last physical you allowed me to perform these last few days.”

Maester Veryan swallowed, as if the words coming out of his mouth caused him tangible pain.

He was weary. Too Weary.

“Further investigation confirmed Your Grace, never came in contact with the poison, thank to that brave girl.”

Rhaella closed her eyes. That brave girl. Whose blood where on her hands. However, the Maester weren’t finished. He even seemed to develop, very carefully, the real reason of his visit. With some surprise, Rhaella realize through the haze of agony and the high headiness cause by puppy milk.

“I wish I could announce this news under better auspice, alas, I had no choice in the matter. My Queen…you are with child.”

With child. With child. With child…

No. How could she? Such was impossible.

Viserys had been her last chance, her last ray of sunshine and joy and had survived when his siblings, Shaena, Daeron, Aegon, Jahaerys and too many miscarriages to count, too many faceless unlived potential haunting her steps to count. So stubborn, her Viserys…

Ten years. Ten years since she heard this words carefully turned from a Maester. Since a Maester dared raised the possibility. She had had hope. In the first years. But the blood always made his way between her tights.

How…Aerys had been so incense by the numbers of innocent casualties, so enthusiastic.

A new tide of nausea rose and she puked in the new bassinet the Maester had bring with him.

The dragon carved in the silver danced  in her eyes as whole body trembled. 

“No. You are mistaken. The…conditions in which I find myself have many sources. I can’t be with child. It had been more than ten years since Viserys.”

She held her head high, mindful of the last dignity she could muster.

“My Queen, it is not unheard of. Queen Alysanne herself, after many tragedies gave birth to the Winter Princess and Princess Gael was her loyal shadow for the rest of her life. The Gods can gift us in unexpected way.”

Anger sprung forth with a violence Rhaella never associated with herself. She tried to rose, only to fall on the cousins, her breath hitched.

“A gift. A gift? The Usurper could come any day at my doors and not a few of my fervently devoted vassals would be delighted to ensure the Stag good grace by delivering my head on a platter. A gift?”

She couldn’t bear a new child. This couldn’t be. Such was impossible. Fate couldn’t be so cruel.

Fate as been only cruelty for years now.

Years and years. Never ending years.

“I…my apologies Your Grace, I fear I lack of any talent with words.”

Babies, too frails, too pale, barely formed, healthy looking but with a slight whistle in their breath. ‘Nothing worrying’ had swore the terrified Grand Maester. Surviving a few months, weeks, hours. One with scales, a reminder of the curse upon their line.

“My husband should have you burn for lacking basic survival skills.”

She heard her voice from afar, realizing, she didn’t bother to sound threatening.

What threat? Her husband was dead. Dead and still haunting her, ensnaring her until her ultimate demise. She felt his hands on her body, around her throat. On her tights. His weight over her.

Her arms were a sickly pastry white. The bruises on her wrists, the cut from Aerys nails along her arms had faded quickly. Too quickly. Some pain were so profound, so infinite, the lack of scars was offensive to the mind.

“I…I…Your Grace…”

She forced herself to focus on the Maester bowing, shaking in front of her. As if she still had any power.

“I am not my husband.”

Let me sleep. I need to sleep. All would be clearer. All would be better. If I could sleep.

She waited for the milk of the poppy the Maester provided her, daily.

His hands were closed on a satchel. She raised an non equivoque eyebrow.

“Is there anything else?”

He seemed taken aback.

Maybe she should have throw a proper fit, cursing and displaying her soul in front of him. Wasn’t this the usual reaction? No. Pregnant. A joy. She should have cried from happiness and bless the Mother for a new chance at motherhood. The Mother had offered her so few blessing and the Stranger far too many.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, I have taken liberty…I shouldn’t…”

Rhaella head burned from inside, every ounce of her brain both numb and excruciating.

“Milk of the poppy is ill advised during a pregnancy. Studies show risk for the health of both mother and child and a high rate of…unwanted consequences.”

Rhaella looked at him, insensitive.

He seemed to interpret her silence as encouragement. Or maybe he wished desperately to flee this room.

“However…”

His hands were shaking as he extracted a little round bottle from the satchel. Rhaella didn’t recognize the medicine, and she had become an expert over the last few weeks.

“I understand, Your Grace, we are at war, we are… surrounded and some of the Lords who should be loyal to your House since before the Conquest are doubting”

They weren’t at war. They had lost the war. The Usurper was so sure of his dominion none of his fleet surrounded Dragonstone. ‘Her’ Lords were little more than prison guards, scheming to save their own skin. Some, like Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the lead sycophant of her late husband proved as mad as Aerys himself by dreaming of placing Viserys on the Iron Throne with an imaginary army, allied deeply hidden in each realm and the Free Cities. Rhaella was still clear minded – for how long? – to realize no one would come rescuing the Queen in her misery and defend the rights of her son’s, for fear he inherited too much of Aerys blood.

“I…This is a special tea which can help woman in dire situation.”

The man breathed as if he feared he wouldn’t be able a second opportunity to respire.

Rhaella stared at the round bottle. She took it with steady hand.

Moon Tea.

The Queen had heard so much about the infamous mixture. Conversation hushed between her Lady in waiting, who would swear ignorance on the process of child-making, servants, in delicate condition, willing to steal to procure the precious elixir and rich Lords and merchant ensuring their paramount always consumed the beverage. Some of the higher brothel’s “good” reputation hold on the simple fact the Prostitutes would submit themselves to the careful routine of drinking Moon Tea.

Rhaella never had use for Moon Tea. She was chaste until her marriage to her little brother, always the obedient Princess, then every child in her womb had been treasured beyond measure, even as the hope of carrying a second child reaching adulthood diminished. Aerys, once threatened to force it down her throat, to get rid of her ‘bastard’, in an outburst of folly.

She heard the taste was disgusting, herbal, and bitter.

She opened the bottle and smell the proposed solution to her unexpected predicament.

Maester Veryan was still, a prey caught by his predator.

She was a dragon. But she was no predator.

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Maester. Could you provide me with my usual medication?”

The old man – was he so old? Probably not much older than she felt herself – deflated from sheer relief. With some hesitation he fetched the way too familiar dose of poppy milk. Dreamwine had no more effect on Rhaella since weeks.

“I…I should inform you, Your Grace, poppy milk is highly dangerous for…any woman in your condition.”

Rhaella gaze didn’t waver and she braced himself.

“Studies had proved the ill effect of milk poppy on unborn child. Malformation, infirmity, simplemindedness…My duty, as Maester of Dragonstone is to advise you against the continued use of such strong medication if you prefer…Of course, in any case, I ensure you of my utmost discretion.”

“Thank you. You can dispose.”

She heard the door closing behind the man.

She raised and positioned herself in front of a window watching her blurred reflection. One hand one her belly. She could feel a slight bump, firm under her fingers. Could she perceive the beating heart of the child, if she concentrated? Or was it the blood rushing through her her head, pinning needles in its path?

Maybe the Usurper would deliver her from her misery pain. Didn’t he own her a small favor. His men assaulting the ancient siege of House Targaryen slaughtering the few loyalists who wouldn’t kneel as soon as they saw the sigils of the traitors. She would die quickly. Swiftly. So easily. Nothing like the excruciating agony of childbirth.

A vision formed in her mind, engulfing her mind. Herself, bleeding alone in a cold bed, frozen sweat on her skin. Bleeding, so much blood. And between her tights a baby looking like Aerys reborn. Aerys as her mother presented him to her, a few hours after his birth, as if he was a grandiose gift. And fire. Fire surrounding them. Wings of fire.

Would the Moon Tea work on a Dragon?

Someone was knocking.

Someone was entering her room without her authorization.

Someone was shaking her.

“Your Grace? Your Grace!”

How did they dare? To raise their hands on their Queen. Aerys would burn them. He would burn them all.

No. Dowager Queen.

Suddenly the faceless form transformed into the reassuring features of her handmaid. Naeryssa. Naeryssa was dead. Poisoned by the Lannister. Aelinor. Yes. Her name was Aelinor.

Two bottles were forgotten on her bed.

Rhaella fall on the ground her body wrecked by sobs tearing her throat, shattering the silence of Dragonstone.

The Chamber of the Painted Table was full of worried Lords, clamoring among each other. Rhaella observed them from her seat, at the end of the Council table.

“We should crown Prince Viserys as soon as possible. King Viserys.”

Lucerys Velaryon’s voice was tempestuous. Sycophant man, prone to praise every misdeed of her husband. Late husband. Late.

“No Septon would perform such shame of a ceremony!”

“What shame? Viserys is the rightful King! King Aerys designated him as his heir even before Rhaegar pathetic defeat at the Trident.”

Sycophant.

Aerys had proclaimed Viserys was his only legitimate heir. For the infinite pleasure of Lords already waiting to profit of the opportunity to seize during a Regency. Her husband had been still alive and Aegon’s head intact when the word ‘regency’ had been pronounced by Lucerys Velaryon.

Despite his apparent eagerness to crown a seven year olds boy, her precious second surviving child, her only surviving child, she never heard him address her as Queen Regent. Dowager Queen.

Fragile, delicate, Queen Rhaella with her precarious health.

She wouldn’t be granted with such hefty responsibility as the governance of the Seven Kingdoms.

I am not weak. A weak woman wouldn’t have survived through every tragedy the Gods cursed me with.

Rhaella refused to break down in front of this men. She could sense dozens of stare on her, eager to assist to some pathetic display, vultures attracted by her grief and waiting for her inevitable rupture, split, to feast on her tears.

She wouldn’t offer them the satisfaction. Never. Scavengers. Pitiful scavengers, all of them. She wouldn’t be the subject of their contempt.

Bartimor Celtigar’s fist were closed, white, not bothering to hide his rage. Raging and despairing were the main employment of Lord Celtigar’s time, while Lord Velaryon dreamt without realizing he was entertaining nothing else than follies and phantasms worthy of Aerys himself. 

“Yes. We all know how King Aerys’ decisions were judicious and wise.”

“Traitor! Are you reciting the Usurper’s defamation of our King?”

“Our dead King! Dead! Thanks to enabling lechers only too happy to feast on the Royal’s coffers.”

“How dare you implying…”

A horrible shriek resonated in the Painted Table vast Chamber, the room booming and rumbling, as the massive Stone Drum during storms. Such as was never heard by Rhaella. Or any living inhabitants of Dragonstone.

Rhaella was ripped from her torpor. She rose from her seat, far from the Head of the Council, as if any of these terrified Lording listened her opinion, as the shriek echoed, the stone statues vibrating.

A red dragon was descending from the sky. A dragon. The creature barreled above them, showing a long neck, disproportionate. The cries were sounds of triumph and joy. Rapture.

The roar of accomplishment from a beast returning to their lair after losing themselves.

Rhaella had never seen a dragon, let alone learnt their behavior.

 She knew.

Her blood sang, her heart beat, another heart beating alongside hers.

The symbol of House Targaryen landed in the courtyard with the agility afforded by habits.

Home.

Since Rhaella fled King’s Landing she had felt like an intruder in her own castle, unwelcome and threatened.

Silhouettes detached themselves from the shadow of the resplendent creature, distinctly visible now. Riders. Dragonsriders.

As she watched, enthralled, two men – were they men? – demounted from the saddle on the dragon’s back, one figure swift and agile helping the second along, the other rider, aloof and barely holding themselves on their leg, leaning against their companion. In the fading light, she saw the White Cloak wrapped around the stumbling man. A Kingsguard. Only three Kingsguards were presumed still alive.

Behind her, the dumbness of the Lords shattered, swapped with pure chaos. The commotion didn’t reach her.

Home. She was home.

Ignoring the turmoil descending on Dragonstone, the Lords shouting nonsense, squires running around, servants quivering in fear, all pleading to her, she ran towards the courtyard.

Guards tried to catch her arm, realizing none were authorized to touch the Queen. Dowager Queen.

Three Kingsguards were presumed still alive, aside from Ser Barristan who, according to their spies, was still kept in the Black Cell, the usurper’s hand stopped by the reputation of Ser Barristan the Bold. The Sword of the Morning had been the subject of numerous speculation. Rhaella had tempested against him. How the greatest warrior fighting for the right could have abandoned the Prince of Dragonstone to die?

Her wrath was deep in her mind, too deep to surface as she gorged in the sight in front of her.

Ser Arthur was trying to detangled himself from the dragonrider solicitude, flustered, tired, his face adorning a slight stumble, legs unstable, his white cloak firmly clasped around his shoulders. Still alive. Assisted by a man she had never met.

A Targaryen. His armor was pure black, with a helmet forged to represent the wings of his dragon. A red dragon, long necked. A dragon with a specificity observed only once among the Targaryen’s dragons. Their scales were smooth and shining, clearly cared for, dark as blood. Their gaze was shrewd, yellow reddish globes studying her. Teeth black from dry blood. A red dragon which exact likeness was plastered on his chest, not the three headed red dragon commonly used as the emblem of House Targaryen.

She had spent weeks, as a young princess studying her House history, regaling herself with tale of a past far away, glorious days when many wings flied in the sky above them. She had never met this man for he has been dead for centuries. However, here he stood. Daemon Targaryen. His portraits had done him justice, despite the dark shadows in his eyes and the lines carved around his mouth.

She had become as mad as Aerys. She was the Mad Queen now.

She laughed and laughed and she threw herself toward her ancestor. His arms opened and ensnared her holding her against his solid, tangible, frame. He rocked her gently, whispering in High Valyrian.

“Great-great-great Granddaughter.”

He was forgetting many generations between them. She didn’t find the strength to care. Rhaella let herself be soothed by his voice, familiar and novel to her.

No ghost should be allowed to be so pacifying, her nightmares alleviated.

She basked in her madness. The Mad Queen.

She was fond of her new title.

Rhaella hadn’t spare a word since she recognized the dragonrider. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She obliged The Ghost when he half-carried her back inside the fortress, her home, their home. Lords and commoners gawked at the vision of the Targaryen Prince escorting the Queen, Mad Queen, to the Council, forging their path to the Chamber of the Painted table without a single second of hesitation, as if the layout of the Castle was as familiar as his own. For it was. Had been. Questions were flung from all directions and were equally ignored by The Ghost and Ser Arthur. 

Rhaella giggled as Lord Velaryon became vermillion from bellowing orders into the void, Lord Celtigar eyes bulging from their orbits.

The other Lords hadn’t move a hair, too terrified or bewildered. Rhaella pondered what had been more astounding in the “loyalist” ‘s mind. The dragon or her reaction to the spectacle of her ancestor barreling upon Dragonstone with the Sword of the Morning in his trail.

The Ghost ushered her in the seat to the right of the dark, large seat at the head of the Council table, left empty as a show of mourning and respect.

“Dayne, to my left.”

Ser Arthur, who had clear design on the chair at Rhaella’s right, concern and relief both plain in his honest, expressive features glared at The Ghost who was already settling on the head of the table without the slightest discomfort. The White Cloak seemed as if he wanted to protest, but after the dragonrider covered her hand with his, in a protective and caring reassurance, the knight obeyed.

His skin was callous, large and an anchor for Rhaella’s heart.

Lucerys Valeryon’s frenzy indignation recognized no further bonds.

“Who in the Seven Hells do you think you are?”

A sensible person would imagine a Valyrian would know better than outright antagonize the Dragon Lord.

“Prince Regent Daemon Targaryen, of House Targaryen.”

Rhaella mingled her fingers with his.

Prince Daemon Targaryen could have as well lit the Chamber in wildfire and obtained similar result.

In reality, Rhaella had watched as Aerys actually burn noble and commoners alike with less reaction from the old doddering men surrounding her. None of them had feigned offense, outrage or would have dare demand explanation from her dearly departed husband. Who hadn’t been in possession of an actual unfriendly looking dragon.

Rhaella regretted not having wine to sip as she studied everyone of her ’s – or were they Viserys’? – vassals’ reaction.

Celtigar was, in Rhaella opinion, one of the few likely to survive the unexpected change of circumstance. He sat next to her quietly, his head hung low, carefull of Arthur’s venomous glare and acknowledging the presence of the White Cloak with a nod. Others, owning to a similar survival instinct, had return to their place, accommodating the new arrival as best as they could, their faces close but respectful and humble. As they should.

A fistful a lording, the insufferable Lucerys Valeryon among them, front and center, refused to resume the improvised War Council.

Arthur, loyal Arthur, how could she ever had any doubt about him, for he brought a dragon for their cause and seemed to manage the impossible, once more spoke first, despite The Ghost’s sneering mouth already crooked to add to the chaotic ambiance, eyes shinning with a malevolence Rhaella knew too well.

Except The Ghost’s - or Daemon Targaryen extraordinarily convincing doppelganger, which she doubted because of the very real long-red-necked-dragon in her courtyard - malevolence was aimed at the lechers and she relished in that glint instead of cowering, The Ghost’s fingers still lulling her.

“You are not alone anymore. I am here. Family. We are home I won’t abandon you ever again.”

So many vows in such miniscule gesture. So many vows she desperately needed to believe in.

“My Lords, in the name of Gerold Hightower, Commander of the Queensguards, I have been tasked to introduce Prince Regent Daemon Targaryen, Regent of Her Grace Queen Alyssa First of Her Name, Trueborn daughter of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen of House Targaryen and Princess Lyanna Stark of House Targaryen and House Stark, only surviving child of the Prince of Dragonstone. The Reach had already plead allegiance to the Queen. She has been presented in front of many witnesses to the Sept as befit her rank. Commander Hightower hope the Crown Lord won’t shame the Loyalist’s Cause with internal quibble.”

Rhaella’s breath was cut, as if all air had been robbed from her lungs.

Daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna Stark. Daughter of Prince Rhaegar. Daughter of Rhaegar. A Grandchild among the piles of dead bodies. A Grandchild born in a middle of a war launched in the name of her parents.

 No. It was unfair. Unfair when Aegon and Rhaenys won’t be able to taste the sweet nectar of life ever again.

She crisped her hands in Daemon’s.

Purple eyes gauging her reaction, with a coldness absent until her new Grandchild existence had been revealed.

Anger swelled in the Queen’s breasts. How could anyone judge all her lost?

How could anyone put Aegon and Rhaenys body in front of a newborn cradle and accuse them of being the cause of such lost?

Aerys’ executions, murder, ignominious assassination of Lords paramount and his threat against others had been the last straw in a rebellion which origin had been lost to her memory.

Rhaegar and Lyanna, for their young folly hadn’t provoke this conflict. Aegon V had succeeded in calming Lords, despising him, with relative efficiency when his children showed their Targaryen’s blood for all Westeros to remind which blood sang through their veins.

Aery’s should shoulder alone her grieves. Not her newborn Grandchild. As astounding as the baby she carried.

She had to refrain from disentangled her fingers from The Ghost’s. Craving to caress her belly to reassure the child growing, still growing and strong inside her. The Prince Regent’s hands was hot and didn’t impend her movement. A secure support. Her ancestor was clearly supportive of her Granddaughter’s right to the Iron Throne, as the last living child of Rhaegar, the Prince of Dragonstone even if some Lord had taken to refer to Viserys by that title in the last stage of the war. She had no illusion than “Viserys III” was at the tip of her tongues.

She shivered at the tough of her son, her precious’s only remaining son – for now – sitting on that monstrosity, Velaryon and his slimy followers whispering in his ears, modeling his moveable world view. Or worst, this unborn miracle. Her fragile ‘s Viserys.

Viserys, her Viserys could never wore a crown. Not as long as their better odd of survival laid with The Ghost of a Targaryen who died for a woman right to the Iron Throne. And in, his purple eyes, a rare shade, these last generations, Rhaella knew Daemon Targaryen would plunge in the Gods’ Eye again for…Alyssa. Queen Alyssa.

She tasted it on her tongue, dry after staying silent for so long.

 “Queen Alyssa. Queen Alyssa. After your mother, I suppose. Although, we will have to associate her with the Good Queen to gain the small folk support.”

She realized she had talked out loud when every stare turned toward her as if she had grown a second head. Or if her neck had suddenly elongated to match the dragon, now yawnin and rolling into himself for some nap.

Lucerys’ Valeryon skin’s tone remembered Rhaella of some dark ruby she kept in a little bag under her skirts in case of urgent necessity.

No more.

“Queen Alyssa? Queen Alyssa? What…Trueborn daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna? Trueborn? What is this madness? “

The Ghost had began playing with a long dagger, such a Rhaella had never see, long and straight and lethal.

Arthur, feigned ignoring his travel companion, and liege, if he swore himself to Queen Alyssa. His first duty was to protect the Prince Regent of his Queen.

“I ensure you, Lord Velaryon, The Lord Commander, Ser Oswald Whent and myself witnesses the marriage of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna. Our signature had been apposed on the proper documentations and sent to the citadel for recording. The Septon officiating Queen Alyssa presentation to the Light of the Seven was no rebel against the Hight Septon and several member of very pious family knelt in front of our rightful Queen, as the last child of the Prince of Dragonstone.”

“The Prince of Dragonstone is Viserys Targaryen.”

A vein, several veins, were palpitating on Lucerys’ brow. Carmine was an ill color for his complexion.

The Ghost smiled his twisted smirk.

“Perfect, my Lord! We are in agreement. As the uncle of Queen Alyssa and younger brother of Prince Rhaegar, Prince Viserys Targaryen will hold the tittle of Prince of Dragonstone for as long as his niece doesn’t produce her own heir. Which should be far from now. Also, know that I don’t care for familiarity when my family is involved. Prince Viserys won’t be address as anything less, not in Caraxes’ or mine’s earshot. And I am warning you, Caraxes’ has an excellent hear.”

Rhaella excepted the Lords to throw another tantrum but the silence was eerie. She tried to not faint from relief, a yet to be named fear disappearing before forming in her mind. Viserys, Prince of Dragonstone. Heir to the Iron Throne. The Ghost had no plan to dispose of the seven-namedays old ‘threat’, so many leaders would saw in Viserys’ survival as. She had to clench this hope close to her heart. Their hearts. She now- once more- had two children to protect. And one Grand-Daughter she refused to fail. A Grand-Daughter raised far from her father’s prophecies. Who would never understand, Gods willing, the meaning of naming your two children Aegon and Rhaenys. Who would never know her father’s plan for the third’s head of his so precious Dragon. Her name wouldn’t ever be Visenya. Elia had crushed the idea of her beloved daughter being named after a bloodthirsty sorceress in the egg. Maybe Lyanna Stark inherited some Northern steel in her, despite her folly. No Alyssa. Alyssa wife of Baelon the Brave. Her mind fought against the calming concoction.

Caraxes.

So long for the few who refuged themselves in fantasy where The Ghost couldn’t be Daemon Targaryen. Not that, as he was the sole dragonrider, his identity was of such import.

Not for her.

“Are you mocking us?”

How unusually perceptive of Lucerys.

Another Lord, probably from a minor Valyrian House, for some still thrive discreetly round in the Crown Lands and were terrified enough their apearence would cost their life to stay at the Taragryen’s side raise a timid voice.

“Pardon me, My Prince, Prince Daemon, but many would support a male claimant come first, whoever fathered…your claimant.”

The dagger imbedded itself in the table newly waxed brilliant wood. The scent of which goaded a tide of nausea in Rahella.

Daemon’s voice was deceptively soft. Rhaella was reminisced of the too rare time her father actually mustered enough anger to inforce his opinion.

“Many thought resssurecting dragon impossible. However, as we are loosing time in palabra when the Reach already declared for Queen Alyssa, I have the pleasure to inform you our Queen hatched a strong, healthy hatchling, which would be the pride of her Reign. A fruitful Reign, as had not been seen since Jahaerys the Wise.”

This time wildfire couldn’t have provoked this reaction.

At her right, Lord Celtigar face threatened to broke in half, his grin unabashed.

“An hatchling? The daughter of Rhaegar hatched a dragon?”.

Other Lord, less enthusiastic, were both fearful and incredulous.

Rhaella felt tears, the tears she had refused to shed burnt the corner of her eyes.

Caraxes and now a hatchling? A hatchling who left the shelter of their egg for her Granddaughter? Was she dreaming? Did Maester Veryan poisoned her poppy milk?

Had Maggie the Frog, the woman she insulted all her life for her trials been right?

Lucerys Velaryon hit the table, uncaring of the blood running from his hands. Rhaella frown. The maids wouldn’t be please to find their work disrespected in this callous way.

“I will believe it when I’ll see this hatchling with mine own two eyes! And you, impostor, for I am naming you by your proper tittle, could very well have hatched a sickly wyrn’s egg to fool gullible Westerosi. Well, I am from Old Valyria. My blood is purer than the Targaryen’s. We survived through every tempest their created by their madness and still, we stand. No pretender with the right shade of eyes and hair will supplant our lineage!”

The Ghost and Arthur raised simultaneously but Daemon, despite lacking the advantage of youth was the first to reach Lucerys who was unable to arm himself, in his blind wrath. With an ease no man this age should be allowed to demonstrate, The Ghost, followed by Arthur like a shadow – a crabby shadow, for the White Cloak didn’t seemed to have enjoyed his experience on Caraxes - dragged a struggling Lucerys toward the half awake, fully grown, dragon. Rhaella wondered if he had felt the fury of his rider, for he stretched himself, an expression way too alike the Ghost’s on his reptilian features. The Ghost didn’t show any sign of care, and if not for the irrefutable fact that Lucerys Velaryon was likely to end as a snack for all the Lord to witness, Rhaella would have deemed him as surprisingly unruffled by Driftmark Lord ill advised speech.

From her seat she had a perfect view on the scene. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a goblet of wine. Or tea. Something to nibble as she felt a very small smile tugging her lips.

She couldn’t hear the interactions between the men. If she had to take a wild guess, Ser Arthur was trying to appease The Ghost, for Rhaella greatest disappointment .

For the first time in her life she was attuned to her late husband. Lucerys Velaryon deserved to burn.

Alas, Ser Arthur might have win this battle, for The Ghost, her ancestor, Daemon, just threw the doleful excuse of a man to the ground, in front of his dragon, spitting on him, and probably instructing him to disappear as fast as the sea would allow him, by swimming if necessary, to Driftmark.

She hoped Lucerys was clever enough to stay far away from her son. She chewed her lips. Getting Viserys back by her side, where no one could use him as a political pawn against…her Granddaughter, newest Granddaughter and Queen, was paramount.

As Daemon and Arthur naturally installed themselves back to their chairs at the War Council, in which hope had switched side in one evening, Rhaella saw Lucerys Velaryon galloping toward the gates and, if he had any brain left, his boats.

“Anyone else, wanting to accuse me of some nefarious plans?”

The silence was deafening.

“Clear the air. What are your grievance against a ruling Queen? Apart from the fact that Alyssa would be the First?”

A courageous Lord, raised.

“My Prince, Prince Regent, I…we had many kings, thorough the ages, who should never had accessed the Iron Throne. A Queen, a Regnant Queen, would be in a precarious position because of the novelty of the situation. As we all know, each time the Great Council had been presented with such option, they discarded it as fantasist. We may encounter resistance in our path, if we choose to crown Queen Alyssa.”

The Ghost only nodded, a light akin to respect in his eyes.

“A very good news, then, than no Great Council will be summoned. Prince Rhaegar, the legitimate heir to King Aerys, despite the late King unfortunate ravings toward the end of his reign, designated his child by Lyanna Stark as his heir.”

Rhaella had some difficulty imagining Rhaegar risking so much, spurning the dornishes, humiliating Elia, but the last year proved she ignored many of her eldest eccentricity.

A Queen. A Regnant Queen. A Reigning Queen. Her lips tugged once more.

“Yes, but was he aware the child would be a girl? Or was he duped believing…Princess Lyanna would gift him a spare?”

So many of her own Lords – Viserys’ – were convinced Rhaegar’s obsession with a third child was born from the desire of a spare.

A spare who didn’t stink of dornish’s blood.

Rhaella hide her anger, but, if Arthur gaze was anything to gauge by, she failed.

“Prince Rhaegar never gave us precise instruction about the child’s sex or seemed to nourish opinions on the matter.”

And Rhaella knew it for the lie it was. What a terrible liar Ser Arthur made. Rhaegar’s ’Visenya’ had been the heart of his imaginary woes. Aegon was still alive by the time of her son demise. He would never had pass his « Prince Who Was Promised » for a third born, let alone a girl, even if fearing the worst. Not openly. And he had been so adamant about ‘Visenya’. Yes ‘Visenya’. She remembered as much now that her thoughts were clearer.

She didn’t care.

The White Cloaks remaining in their service already swore themselves to Queen Alyssa. Alyssa…where had this name come from ? Lyanna Stark…No. No matter. The Reach was behind her and the Crown Land will follow if she had to dive deep inside of herself and dip every trace of Shaena’s blood still in her body. The North would never commit or condone Kinslaying, for Lyanna was beloved and must stay beloved if the rebels wished to not be branded as hypocrites. The North alliance with the Tully suddenly offered them another Kingdom. As for the Eyrie they already had a Paramount Lady, one The Ghost would only know too well.

“Also, maybe I should inform you, Lords of the Crown Lands that the Reach, Heart of the Faith and the Citadel had shown proper elation at the idea of a dragonrider Queen. The Tyrell threw a magnificient feast in her honor and her hatchling’s. I find myself hurt in my very soul at the sight of Crown Land’s Lords, the First Targaryen loyalists, failing to demonstrate the same jubilation at the news of the dragon’s return in Westeros.”

He resumed his play with his dagger, whistling between his teeth.

“So disappointing.”

No one dare to make a single move, or even blink. As if a dangerous very venomous snake was in the middle of the War Table, waiting to strike the unsuspecting.

“I am also very, very tired of hearing such old and festered arguments against a Ruling Queen when so many men with that so precious organ between their leg on which you put so much stock and desire had been found unworthy of the Iron Throne and should have been spurned in favor of actually competent and equally, if not more legitimate Targaryen. A dragon will always be a dragon whatever lay between their tights, unless you cofound us for sheep. Even my Bronze Bitch had more balls than half this war Council. »

“I do not wish to hear another word on my Queen belongings to Westeros’ so called ‘weaker sex’. ”

Some members hesitated to show offense. Before settling on ignoring the insult.

A Queen it will be, if the Lords in the Chamber of the Painted Table wanted to profit from this unexpected twist. They would serve Queen Alyssa First of Her Name.

The Red dragon hissed, a sound of curiosity.

Suddenly, because of Caraxes and The Ghost they could win. Not survive. Win.

The Queen Dowager’s arm longed to hold her miracle Granddaughter, whose sole existence had offered their family a chance to Reign. A new Reign, a new Dawn.

Viserys, Prince of Dragonstone had a very nice ring to Rhaella’s ears.

Rhaella observed as the red dragon, Caraxes, flied into the sky, the first light of the morning reflected on his scales. Despite her desire embrace her son away from Lucerys Valeryon influence, happy gathering were to be postponed when her whole family would be safe within the Red Keep.

She would have to order her Master to research any text on the care of dragons, even if Daemon seemed perfectly competent in the matter. As a Targaryen, she would care dutifully for the symbol of their House.

She knelt in front of a wooden coffer and reached for the key she wore at the end of a long chain, against her heart.

Inside, Rhaegar’s last gift. Or so she had thought.

For her poor, dreamer, eldest son had offered her another unexpected, present. Another Granddaughter. A Queen to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Queen Alyssa, First of Her Name.

During dinner, eaten in the privacy of what had been revealed to be Daemon’s former chamber inside the Drum Tower, close to hers, and immediately furnished appropriately as per Rhaella’s ordered, servants suddenly way more prone to cater to her every wishes, Arthur had described with enthusiasm her sweetness, her mismatched eyes, porcelain skin, her little frame which could almost fit in one hand at her birth. Her strong health. Daemon had tenderly compared her to his youngest son, Viserys, another Viserys, King Viserys, Second of His name, who had been of sound constitution and a precautious bright child despite their deepest fear when he was born so frail.

King Viserys, Second of His Name, s’ egg never hatched. A bad omen Rhaella refrained to remind her ancestor, for, after the War Council had been adjourned, his humour had been ever changing, from rapture and excitement to melancholy, sometime in less time that Rhaella needed to inquire about the source of his glee or sorrow.

She had settled to ask Ser Arthur some description of the hatchling, for she would be in every of her prayer as the symbol of her House restauration. Daemon intervened several time to complete the hatchling’s description, with the pride of any new parent, or give the correct terminology. Her Granddaughter had realized a miracle. Rhaella had drawn a sketch she was proud of and will have embroidered in every significant surface she managed to think of. Ealaenaerys was a beautiful name for a splendid, Royal, mount.

Rhaella reached for the inside of the coffer, and retired the egg carefully wrapped in soft covers. A small egg, a very pale green egg with sworls of silver.

Chapter Text

                                                                                                                             Chapter IX : Meanwhile in Westeros             

A lie can run round the world before the truth has his boots on.

 Terry Pratchett

                                                                                                                                 Ned Stark

Ned couldn’t phantom how southerner dared to complain about the refreshing, soft wing from above the Neck. Not as he discovered the location of the Seven Hells said southerners were so prone to threaten their foes with was situated in Dorne, of all wretched place.  Even the rocks seemed to emit a desolate, burning, glowing disapproval of his very person.

How a rock could express any sentiment was beyond the dehydrated, peeling, slowly baking until he was medium cooked, Lord of Winterfell.

Lord of Winterfell. The taste of bile in his mouth was due to insolation, or so Howland insured him, the cragsman covering his liege Lord in mud to protect his fragile skin, ‘white as any noble women’s dream’ scoffed his other companions with barely concealed amusement. If one could call their show of speaking out loud and very clearly, for all the desert to hear, an attempt at concealment. Northmen were notoriously awful at deceptions . The mud on Eddard's face was cracking, fissures letting the burnt scorching under this unnatural blazing sun. His appearance was a reflecting the state his nerves.

They had reached the so called ‘Tower of Joy’, where their informants insured them Lyanna was kept prisoner, under the guard of no less than three Kingsguards only to find…an empty ruin. Ruin was the world. Even Summerhall was the epitome of welcoming compared to the sinister atmosphere cradling the area. Howland, never a cheerful companion, preferring discretion and observation, like so many of his peers had practically begged his liege to not linger longer than necessary.

However, Ned hadn’t been able to let the corpse of what may have been the last souls allowed in his sister’s presence to rot in the torture chamber they had discovered.

Blood, black and dry, painted the floor. And the bed. A bed fit for a King. Was it…Eddard swallowed his rage. Was it there Lyanna was raped? Soon, the awful testimony of his sister sufferance would crumble. Ruined, the once costly sheet, comforter and cushions, painting a grotesque and gruesome sight. The place reeked of death and…Ned shuddered. He was a rational man. He didn’t believe in mystical tales Old Nan had regaled his siblings with. Death. Death was all the northerner party could find there.

They had sweated under the sun to dig two graves for the unfortunate women, tying to offer them some decency in their last rest. They may have been complicit but Ned’s honor refused to abandon their remains to the scavengers.

Scavengers…Why none seemed to have feasted on the easy feast presented to them? The bodies were fresh but should have attracted some disreputable fauna. Were they really fresh? The young Lord had never seen their likeness. What have been the cause of their death? For how long did the poor women lay forgotten? None was apparent to him. Howland strict refusal to even touch them was another bad omen. Cragomen could be overly superstitious.

Ned tried to not dwell on it.

Why did the tower looked like she had not seen any form of life for centuries?

Dark magic…

We are not in one of Old Nan stories…

The sun might be affecting him worse than he had feared.

Howland inspected the ground surrounding the ruin, for the proud tower was nothing more, and new worries appeared on his brow. Something had trampled the dry earth. Something. Enormous and dangerous. No animals could leave a trace so large, possessed claw so long and sharp. The imprints were so large, no giants or their legendary mounts could have produce such.

The tracks had to be faked by some human’s mean. Did the White Cloak know they were pursuing them?  Was it a trick to confound the Northerner?  Or did they anticipated their tracker to be able to put the authenticity of their trails in doubt and followed the road to the north, as the marks indicated? Had the Lord of Winterfell be fooled?

Their company rode for Star fall. Starfall and Ashara. Beautiful, feisty Ashara dishonored by Brandon. As so many had been.

Their attempt to seek refuge in Starfall had proved a resounding failure, Lord Stark hope of begging for Ashara’s tender heart to open her brother’s door proving a fool’s errand.

Addam Dayne was an old man, so old Ned could have sworn the Lord of Starfall was Ashara’s and Ser Arthur’s father, not their older brother. But the fire and rage in his gaze was undoubtedly the wroth of a Dayne scorned. He cursed them as oath breaker and child murders refusing to entertain the idea of granting them any respite from the inferno.

And was he wrong? No, no. Ned wasn’t a child murderer. It had been Robert. Robert condemned it. Robert’s Baratheon hatred for Targaryen knew no boundary and the decent man Ned had learnt to cherish as his own brother – more so – had disappear when presented with the dragon spawn, engulfed by blind loathing. Would Robert have carried the abominable deeds if Tywin didn’t arrange the assassination of these innocent children and their mother? Ned hoped to know his best friend enough to refuse believing the young man so playful with young Mia would stood so low. No. Impossible.

Aegon…Ned had never seen the son of the Crown Prince, the infant being too precious, too fragile, but his crushed skulls had been a gory sight haunting Ned’s nights. The little princess…Gods, he could only be grateful she had been too young to appeal the more basic instinct of her murderer.

Ser Amory Lock and Ser Gregor Clegane. The names were branded in his mind. Ser Amory and Ser Gregor. Two knights who should have uphold their vows of protecting the innocents and used their privileges to massacre and defile. Showed how much trust one could put in a southerner vow. If such a proof was needed after Ser Jaime Lannister stabbed the King in his back.

To think Jon Arryn had almost convinced him, once upon a time, to swear these same vows.

Ned’s disgust was all too apparent.

As soon as he’d come back to King’s Landing, Lyanna secured by his side, he will demand their heads. He knew Robert wouldn’t refuse him. Wouldn’t refuse Lyanna’s whose tender heart would bleed for these children.

Tywin was to be hold sole responsible for the massacre in the Red Keep and the Sack of King’s Landing. His son committed the ultimate crime by earning his title of ‘Kingslayer’. Lannister’s vassals commended rapes and other despicable acts, while the son of their lord Uncertainty about Robert conduct was replaced by a beloved outrage at the Lannister horrendous act, to Ned relief. He didn’t whish to analyze his feelings. He had no time. Lyanna didn’t have time.

He dreamt of Lyanna every night. Three Kingsguards and the already legendary Arthur Dayne amongst them. Waiting for them to catch up. How fast could the knights run - Ned scorned, running knights…another dishonor for the White Cloak - with an unwilling probably resisting young woman? Lyanna had never been shy to express the wildness which thrived in Stark’ blood and Ned lips turned so slightly upward at the idea of his little sister confronting her cowardly kidnappers.

The worst night, when he woke up sweating the precious water he couldn’t afford to loose, his sister was nothing more than a skeleton, attached to black and ref string, unable to free herself and ice blow after blow only effect was…was…tearing through his own blood and flesh, Ned being able to feel each cut as if he was the intended target,not the wielder of the blade.

Once, he dreamt of Lyanna – was it even Lyanna – her dark brown hair turned a silvery gold eclipsing the summer’s sun, his eyes a mismatch of clear grey as a shy spring morning and an eye’s which could only belong to Rhaegar. He called her name, but Lyanna – was it Lyanna? His heart didn’t lie -  ignored his pleas and shout before beheading him with Ice, so light in her hands. So fitting.

Sometimes, the blessed nights, she threw herself in his waiting arms and they cried over their lost family before planning their return to Winterfell.

Ned knew Robert would insist on a grandiose and quick marriage but he refused to gave away one of his only family member just yet to the south and their cursed vipers’ nest once more. Not yet.

Lately, Lyanna smile was both sad and hopeful. She was even holding a baby in one of his most recent dream. A beautiful bundle, representing hope and all the goodness and purity in this soiled world.

Robb?

He carried the precious letter announcing the birth of a new heir for the Stark’s family, barely believing its content and reassuring himself several times pet days on its, everywhere he went close to his heart, trying to imagine little Robb features.

He hoped he didn’t inherit the long face his siblings had been mocked for all their life. Lord Hoster was very brief in his letter, assuring him of the birth of a healthy boy and heir for Winterfell, and informing him of the name chosen by Lady Catelyn. Robb. To honor his foster brother and future king.

Ned had frown at the ill choice, hurt his wife hadn’t been savvy enough to lean toward a more traditional name, despite her education as a scion and a potential heir for the Riverland.

However, he knew of her deep religious devotion, and maybe not oresenting a newborn in front of the Seven was a bad omen for the child or one of the many reason he wouldn’t be accepted in their mist. Of course, as a Stark he would have to adopt the Old Golds, but Catelyn suffered so much through the lost of Brandon, her dreams and being married to the dull second son. One fancy couldn’t hurt and Ned hoped to built a loving and safe family, far from all the intrigues he had the misfortune to become entangled with.

Lady Catelyn probably though to please him with a choice close to his heart and he should be thankful for it.

Lord Dayne refused them bread and salt and, with open disdain indicated where the Northerner could procure fresh, drinkable, water. A meager prize when the party had put so much hope in their venture. Where could Arthur’s Dayne seek refuge aside from his family seat? None of the other dornish House would be welcoming for Kingsguards and the victim of the son of the Mad King.

Ned felt like a fool. They had been tricked. Tricked like children.

If they knew the wretched land layout he could be enfolding his sister in his arms, sheltering her from any harm.

By the time the party, no longer able to cry in misery for water was too precious, the winds had swiftly erased every clues the Kingsguards could have left behind, voluntarily or not.

However, there wasn’t many roads to escape the dornish mountains. The Prince’s Pass. Ned inwardly cursed fates. They must have crossed path at one point, but the cunning knights had avoided the main paths.

The whispers began.

Folly. Madness.

The whispers increased.

Ghosts. A company of ghosts, dressed in full regalia, a Black Knight as their Head, following a dead queen draped in red and wailing for his lost children. Red, like he dragon in their steps. A deformed wyrm from the deep of the Age of Heroes, covered in blood and breath reeking death.

Peasants’ superstitions.

How many were the ‘ghosts’? Ten. Or hundreds.

What did the Queen look like?

The image of Princess Elia, a dornish beauty, still nursing her last born. A Targaryen vengeful spirit. A young girl barely flowered who laid still as her sworn knights transported her.

Sometimes the baby was the rightful Queen, crowned by the stars themselves and fated to overthrow the ‘usurper’.

Tales no sane, cultivate men would entertain.

However, a voice reminded him of the traces…The trail of something…He knew questions lingered in his friends’ thoughts.

The tales from King’s Landing had spread, for the Northerner were met with always more anger in each village. To the point where everyone sleeps had been uneasy and they could probably be adding to the number of the ghosts traveling this retched desert.

His dreams changed. Nighmares were the sole name he could afford to design them by now.

Lyanna wasn’t within his reach anymore. She stared at an empty crib, tears rolling on her face, more looking a twelve years old than the young, wonderful woman she was becoming. The crib would transform from a weirdwood crib, similar to the ones used within Winterfell, to a black, oily monstrosity. His sister whispered lullaby in a tongue long forgotten by the Stark, rocking the empty crib, or singing softly toward the black stony one, which should be too heavy for her to rock, but lulled the child resting in it as if the natural order had been restored. Lyanna brown hair was loose.

“Could you bury me in the crypts, Ned? I belong near my family.”

The shadow answered, words eluding Ned, and Lyanna nodded, thoughtful and resigned.

A shadow prevented Ned to approach her or the child. Robb? A long shadow, horror and awe mixed in an immovable force.

He tried more than once to reach for his Sister, only to see her transform to ash under his horrified glaze. Ash as Bandon and Father. She was crowned with a Weirwood crown burning as she smiled. The Shadow rocked the crib.

He didn’t need to seek Howland this night. His sister’s best friend’s look of pity told him he knew what ghost invaded his mind.

At last, they reached Nightsong. Despite their failure, Ned’s heart felt nothing but relief as the majestic fortress emerged from the endless dry waste. The winds themselves seemed to carry the four riders toward the welcoming walls of the first pledged ally they had met since entering Dorne.

The first sign had been the stench. The reek of rotting carcass. Ned ordered everyone to stop and wait as he trotted toward the open gates.

Corpses. Corpses everywhere. Never, outside a battlefield, had Ned been confronted with so much carnage.

Corpses no scavengers had touched.

Frozen, shell shocked, he stared at the black, distorted, bodies. Swollen as if they had been drowned. Drowned in the middle of Dornes’ desert mountains. His gaze was attracted by black melted stones. He had seen their likeness. At Harenhall. Stones melted by dragon’s fire.

                                                                                                                                     Robert Baratheon

The whores rolled off Robert stretching beside him, giggling. Robert grasped the cup of spicy wine prepared by a Healer from Essos Jon had engaged the service of and sighted with abandon.

The Chamber he had chosen had been Prince Viserys’, the only royal apartment he could stand to sleep in, and had necessitated new furniture to accommodate his needs. This bed, large enough to welcome some of the more beautiful women King’s Landing had to offer, was quickly becoming a favorite of his.

For months he had known the harshness of a cover thrown on the ground, few hours of restless doze, fear, men waiting for his command to die in his name and the name of a woman few had set eyes upon, in the memory of Rickard and Brandon Stark. His command to die for ghosts. No.

Not ghosts. They had won, hadn’t they? They had won.

And yet so many ghost. Faces haunting him at each corner of the Red Keep, men who should have still been called boys, with barely a scratch on their chins eyes staring into the void, blood coating their pretty faces, trampled by horses, cut in half, with their reeking intestine forming a ridiculous pattern, surprise fixed for eternity on their traits. Spines ripped from their bodies, amputees begging for mercy, for the Mother, their mother.

Rubies spilled into water…

Boys, deserters, he had put himself to death, their stare pleading, accusing, proud…

Traitors. How many? Too many.

Men killed on his order. Enemies, their family thrown to the angry wolves searching for scape goats.

The mud, the crass, the smells of putrid decomposition, the illness plaguing the camps for lack of proper care, teeth falling as fresh provision became luxury. Only wine, donkey piss it was, was a constant. And who would like to die without a last goblet of the worst beverage created by mankind?  And the cold eyes of stars. Cold, so cold.

He was King. Would be a King. By right of conquest and blood. He whished he could scrape himself clean of every drop of Targaryen blood still running through his veins. Cousin. Rhaella had called him little cousin with affection rarely shown in public by the discreet woman. Little cousin. Maybe all Targaryen’s blood he had was spilled on the battleground. Yes, so it was.

The whore hands, warm and moist find his verge and Robert hastened to drink the delicious draught, feeling his blood boiling. Boiling with the Fury of a Baratheon. Not the fire of a dragon.

He caught, from the corer of his eyes, his image in the vast mirror placed in front of the gigantic bed. What a waste, for such a wonderful source of enjoyment as, he fucked multiple whores admiring the spectacle as the rolled under him, spreading themselves for the Demon of the Trident.

His longue black hair combed in a strict military style, his beard reflecting the care afforded to his appearance, his blue eyes strapping, far from the unnatural purple he could have inherited from the Grand-Mother he damned to the Seven Hell.

A knock torn him from the paradise he lost himself in for the mast hours. Couldn’t a man be allowed some peace.

He sprung from the bed, uncaring of the whore cries of dismay and pout, searching for his pants. Where had the blasted thing ended up last night?

Too late.

His foster father entered the Chamber, disapproval clear on his face.

Disapproval. The only sentiment he seemed able to elicit in his second father’s heart lately. Anger steered under his skin. Didn’t he win a war for that old man. Didn’t he fight alongside Ned to overthrow the Tyrant who transformed his Lords’ life into Hell.

Not bothering with his search for decent clothing, he finished the mixture with defiance, relishing in the glare deepening in Jon’s brown eyes.

Without Aerys and his mad search for Targaryen blood, his parents would never had boarded that cursed boat and would still be alive. He remembered only too vividly blue eyes who held tempest for their vassals but melted at him, roar of laughter compared to Lord Lyonel, the ephemeral Storm King, big hands praising him, encouraging his every step, bowing with amusement to his every demand. His true father. Bitterness rose in his throat.

As if the Gods had decided to punish him further for some imaginary crimes Stannis, his forsaken little brother appeared from Jon’s shadow. Another layer of disappointment, disapproval.

Stannis had inherited their father’s exact shade of blue. Eyes watching as their parents drown, unable to be of any aid.

Was it the exact shade of blue Steffon’s had inherited from his own father? Robert couldn’t remember. Yes, he could. Of course he could.

Once more, he caught his silhouette in the thrice damned mirror.

.

Gods. Robert needed more wine.

Aerys’ fault. Every tragedy in his life had been Aerys’ fault. Targaryen’s fault. Targaryen whose blood had been spilled, like rubies in the flow.

But Stannis, hadn’t lost blood. The dragon’s stain must be in him still.

Did his eyes were a little too..dark? A little too alike the amethyst Queen Rhaella had favored in her jewellery? Was the blood of the dragon standing right in front of him, prepared to strike the fatal blow, from his closest relative hands?

Suddenly his own reflection showed he man he had only seen in his nightmares. A muscular, warrior bodied man, with silver hair and a superior smirk, his eyes glowing like carved in the same stone cherished by his ‘aunt’.

Him.


No. He was a Baratheon. Baratheon and nothing else. Soon to be a Stark by choice.

Without hesitation he threw the closest vase toward the abomination and heard the shattering of the glasses before feeling the sting of the shatters embedded themselves in his chest. Good. Let some impure dragon’s blood be purged from his body.

He ignored the horrifying look thrown his way by Jon or the dismissal sneer on Stannis’ ugly mug.

“Guards!”

“Let it go Jon.”

“We need to clean it up before someone get seriously hurt. How much wine did you have Robert?”

The guards appeared, Lannisters, of course, they were freaking Lannisters, Ned fled with his army in tow. The young man seemed horrified to be confronted by his half naked, bleeding king if his boogled eyes in his stupid face was anything to gauge by.

“Go fuck yourself, Lannister, I didn’t call for having my lick boot.”

“Robert…”

“Jon…” parroted the young man.

The soldiers fled the room with a commendable speed. Probably going to report to Tywin.

“We were waiting for you at…the Small Council.”

Robert snorted. Small Council indeed. With his coronation postponed until the last Targaryen were dealt with, he had been unable to issue any Royal Pardon, and did not whish to hurry this particular matter.

“Well, isn’t the Small Council all here?”

Jon huffed, his feather ruffled.

“We are trying to keep some decorum Robert. In the Father name, get dress or should I call a servant to help you.”

Stannis, the little scum, hide his mouth behind his hands. He was still suffering from the malnourishment’s consequences within Stormend, while Renly looked like he had already bounced back. Stannis was always a weakling, prone to compassion for unfit and unworthy creature like his ‘Proudwing’. Or, the newly dubbed Onions Knight following him like a puppy. Robert wondered if they fucked. Wouldn’t surprised him. Stannis lost teeth during the siege must come handy for swallowing swords.

Jon threw pants at him and Robert reluctantly obeyed, making sure to expose his lean and fit body, sculpted by years of training.

He sat on a chair without offering authorization for his unwelcomed visitors to do the same.

Jon rolled his eyes at his stunt as if he was the squire trusted onto him a lifetime ago.

“We are facing wood supplied issue, as you know…”

Wonderful. Counting copper again.

“There is a whole wood half an hour from the Red Keep. I failed to see any issue. Unless you want my help to learn how to cut trees.”

Jon looked like he was developing a migraine, massaging his temple.

“These trees aren’t suited to naval construction, as you have been made aware multiple times already. And every Maester I consulted advise to prioritize for the incoming Winter, especially after the False Spring. They fear…”

“Gods, you sound like Ned.”

Stannis perked, his attention suddenly wrapped, blue eyes studying him.

“Winter is coming” imitated Robert, adopting a solemn tone. Even after years in the Erye, years far from his snowed homeland, Ned never shake off his somber disposition. At the beginning of their acquaintance it had been a challenge for Robert, to pierce the shield the Stark’s second son surrounded himself with.  Through trials and experiments, many stupid defies, dispute and arguments, they had forged a bond Stannis could only dream of ever succeeding to emulate.

And, his chosen brother, the man who should become his brother in truth as soon as Lyanna was rescued from these shame Knights who followed a madman until he burned to cinder had forsaken him for the sake of two miserable dragon spawn. Two threats to their family and future.

Lyanna would understand. She will cry, for her woman’s heart was tender and prone to emotions but she would understand. And once she will carry their child, held him against her bosom no one could accuse him of passing hasty judgment. A Child by Lyanna…With his black hair, her daring smirk and dark grey eyes. A King. The king Westeros yearned for centuries. And maybe some daring girl, ladies persuaded they were shattering the social norms because of a scandalous dress or their love for hawking. He should invite Mia to court. She would profit from a close bond with her true born siblings.

Seven Hells, more infants perished from the being caught among the causalities of the war. A rebellion in the Stark’s name as much as his. Did the hundreds of children slaughtered by ransacking soldiers bothered self-righteous Ned?

Why should he care if the Lions had made sure the stench of the Mad King line couldn’t ravage Westeros ever again?

“…as you imagine these rumors must be dealt with extreme severity. Such fabrications could affect our soldier’s moral and spread fear when we need to ensure some appearance of stability.”

“Rumors? What Rumors?”

His voice came out in a grunt. Couldn’t Jon have left him alone?

Not rumors on Lyanna whereabouts. He would already know. He payed every Golden Dragon found to gather every whispers in every brothel in the King’s Landing.

“The rumors about the dragon, brother.”

“What dragon are you raving about? I killed every single one of them. And you should be grateful for it.”

“Not…these dragons, Robert. The dragon.”

Robert stared blankly at his foster father waiting for the old man to make any sense. Jon looked like a man on the verge of a stroke. Robert snorted, pouring himself another glass, ignoring Stannis disapproving stare, his thin lips fix in his perpetual ghastly expression.

“The Red Dragon.”

“The blasted what?”

                                                                                                                                            Alerie Hightower Tyrell

Alerie smiled. In her arms, half lounging on her own pregnant bump, the Queen of the Seven Kingdom was playing with her clear blond strand, lightly curled.  She putted, a slight frown on her tears striped adorable face. Her newly stitched Red dragon, after some attempt at white or – on Gerold bunt of nostalgia during Prince Daemon absence – a very short lived deep blue one which ended as El first and, to this day any victim. His Uncle rumination about apple falling too close to the tree had been another confirmation that, whatever happened before the Queengsguards flaunting through half the Reach, handily dealing with Rebels soldier on rampage in the “loosing” side’ villages and poor souls crossing their path – Alerie couldn’t totally suppress a mall smile at the notion of these dreadful sacker getting their just comeuppance – was beyond comprehension. Or her desire to know.

She shuddered. Her father, and Grand-Father had been very eager student of arcane, trying to decipher what had been lost to History, Millennia and various sources of “power” around the world. And how could they ignore the World’s mysteries when Hightower was their Seat? As a young child, she remembered all too well her brothers tricked her inside the lowest part of their fortress. Alerie spent years, and years, trying to forgive and forget the hours spent in the dark caves, the almost uncanny organic black tunnels and passageways which didn’t allow for any light to thrive. Black stones forged by dragon fire long before any dragonlord set a foot in Westeros.

In her Nightmares, she was back in these tunnels, lost forever in the shadows.

An opinion reinforced when she gently interrogated the Prince Regent under the Guise of her own, genuine curiosity for dragons.

Daemon Targaryen, for the imposter many still claimed he was, fearing a Blackfyre scheme despite the reassuring presence of three trustworthy and Targaryen’s loyalist knights at his side, had uncanny knowledge of dragons’ and Old Valyria Histories’.

Alerie smothered a very unladylike grunt as Queen Alyssa tried to taste the limits of her constraints once more. The Queen was peeved with the absence of her usual main caretakers. Namely, according to a grinning Whent and a long suffering Uncle Gerold, Prince Regent Daemon and Ser Arthur.

And their knowing smiles told an ancient and well known story.

Alerie hide her surprise with grace at the idea of the man relishing in slaughters and treasons thorough each of his history book acting as a Nurse Maid, and even willingly obeying the proper Nursemaid, which was enough for Alerie to insist all the Tyrell’s Household treated Lady Willa as low nobility, proper title included.

The multiple  Maester consulted, even the one whose head had been cut off when Sir Oswell Whent, strategically stationed near their ravens ,executed him without so much as an after tough after finding the man trying to alert the so called ‘Hand of the King’ Jon Arryn – and the provocation to use this particular title when their Usurper didn’t even wore a crown on his thick Baratheon’s head was tremendous as much as an insult toward the rest of Westeros -reassured the Tyrell on an almost daily basis of the Queen spectacular’s health. Little may she be, she had a strong grip, strong lungs, a fast comprehension of what was going around her. Somewhat, Alerie found her mismatched eyes almost eerie with an intelligence no few weeks old newborn should possess. Heartened by these glowing reports, Alerie followed suit from Daemon, Prince Regent Daemon, insisting to never separate the Queen from her hatchling, despite the multiple glare and scared faces she had to confront, listening to an educated servant’s reading of any books remotely linked to the bond between the dragon rider and their mounts.

The scent of Prince Daemon and his…mount was unfortunately dissipating, causing some distress to the infant future ruler of Westeros. Her own long tresses, the closest in shade and shape to be find in Highgarden to a Targaryen’s, couldn’t fool the sharp sense of the few weeks olds anymore. Despite her growing displeasure at her Regent absence, she was still remarkably well-behaved, which bold well for their future. Loras was playing at his mother’s feet, openly glaring at the baby, while Willas, the Seven bless him, was concentrated on his new blood feud with the Lord of Night song over the care of the hatchling. El, as her rider was an adorable newborn, created to melt hardened hearts. Her golden eyes, in spite of their reptilian slit and quality were as effective as any puppy’s of Lady Tyrell’s acquaintance and her clumsiness endearing. And suspected to be partially faked. Aerie had little doubt the newly born dragon could fend for herself but she cherished the glint of pure joy in his eldest eyes whenever he thought of any accommodation for their still not yet infamous guest’s pet.

Well, not so infamous, if chance had continued to favor their family as it did when Damon Targaryen sake refuge among the Flowers. 

Eleanaerys had been nothing but a delight, a pleasure for the eyes, a heartwarming hope for Leal men, and a Victory for Queen Alyssa. Perfect. El was perfect. From her Golden horns forming a crown, her delicate golden spinal thorns, to her snow white wings, soft and strong.  Did Alerie was partial? Of course. As the multiple toys in El’s image appearing thorough Highgarden was proof of. She caressed the Queen cute button nose, admiring with self indulgent satisfaction the white and golden silk embroidery adorning her red and black bundle of clothes, even her delicate spider’s weaved trail. 

“The Pearl of Highgarden” indeed. And so much more for Alerie, even if she couldn’t claim such connection.

A least she wasn’t taking measurement to build a statue of the She-dragon, after much research into her likeness thorough the ages.

Mace, bless his heart, didn’t question how Prince Regent Daemon, widely believed, this week, to be the result of Prince Aerion’s secret marriage to a low noble from Essos, cheated from the succession because his father’s madness; for Olenna greatest amusement, knew so much about dragon morphology and rearing.

Mace wasn’t as stupid as portrayed by the Reach Lord. However, his wife could, sometimes, gather why he was perceived as incompetent.

Alerie preferred the “secret child” of Prince Duncan and Jenny of Old Stones, for the Tragic spin it provided to Daemon’s character.

A snubbed Prince with commoner’s origins fighting for the family who rejected him, so many years ago. A shame his coloring didn’t match this story, with Duncan being dark of hair and Jenny, as lovely as she must have been, far from a Targaryen’s beauty.

If Blackwood, however, could be convinced of Daemon descending from Queen Betha, circulating stories could prove crucial. Tully was a weak old fool who endangered his daughters to get rid of them.

Minisa Tully had been well liked, some Blackwood’s blood in her veins assuring the support of the Riverlords. Save for the Bracken. Beggar can’t be picky. 

The Reach army had been reconstituted quickly under Lord Tarly capable and illustrious’ command, helped by the short timeframe between the lift of the siege and their discovery of a very alive and fire spitting dragon rushing toward Highgarden. Her Uncle’s idea.

She didn’t blame Gerold for his line of thought. He had acted for the best of Westeros. She had prayed for peace, to spare her children the pain and horror of conflict, but the curse of belonging to High Nobility, the price to pay for every warm meal and curtsies had been made clear to her since childhood. Blood. Blood and Death.

Maybe it wasn’t their blood which sullied their enemies blade first but the sibling of the treasure she actually lulled into a restless slumber was the posthumous proof of the price of their failure. Any failure.

She acted with pose and softness for her children – all her children, even the ones trust on her by what could be the most dangerous man to roam Westeros since centuries, this mismatched eyes future Ruler and the traumatized young Lord Harrow who still yelled strangers’ names at night. And still waited for the Rogue Prince return eagerly. She ensured each day was memorable and nourished their curiosity, creating strong, amiable relationship. Acting as a reliable and protective figure. The one they craved for. Her precious boys. This traumatized young squire. Her Queen. Her Kin.

Someone must. Let the men plan destruction and misery upon their foes, she will act as the shield so much needed, too often despised.

The baby tugged her hair, which prompted a sweet smile from Alerie.

“I am at you service, my Queen. However, I fear I am a poor substitution for what you really desire.”

“I fear you are too pretty to impersonate Prince Regent Daemon and fool our Queen for much longer, niece.”

Alerie offered a sincere, relieved smile to her uncle.

Gerold graced her with one of his rare benevolent expression.

“Prince Daemon is a very handsome man, Uncle.”

Gerold didn’t reach for the Queen, satisfy to observe his charge safe and sound in his – their – kin s ‘laps.

“Your Father left for Old Town. He asked me to bid you farewell.”

Alerie’s heart ached. Of course, she knew such an impromptu family’s reunion couldn’t last forever. Especially if the Hightower needed to clarify the Queen unfortunate birth’s circumstance with the Maester and the Faith. She rocked the already dozing newborn to sooth herself.

Her family will prevail. The faith had been silenced and muzzled by Aerys, they will need generation to gain enough trust among the low-born to challenge a Lord authority.

Did it hurt her father was in such a rush he didn’t care enough to embrace his daughter and grand-children before saddling his horse?

Barely.

A little.

“My Father should have come pay his respect to the Queen, as he cared so deeply for her rights.”

The only care her father ever showed was about mystical and mysterious enigma. Queen Alyssa and Prince Regent Daemon Targaryen were nothing but his wildest dreams came true.

None of the bitterness in her mind shined though her words.

The snort came from behind Gerold.

“Men. Don’t expect too much from them, you won’t ever be disappointed.”

The Queen of Thorns entered the room, causing Willas to freeze and Harrow, who showed excellent survival skills imitated him.

Alerie refused to stand, no when she had such a perfect excuse as carrying their sovereign in her arms, the Queen nested against her own future child, but, with a single look toward her eldest, ensured all the children disappeared from the room, even little Loras, half-carried, for his loud outrage, by Willas and Harrow.

Olenna lips curled upward.

“Are you teaching my own blood to fear me.”

Alerie, repositioned herself, holding the Queen’s head straight, in a gesture of care and defiance.

“I am educating the next generation into respecting boundaries and their elders.”

Alerie raise, hoping her towering over the deceptively frail Redwyn born woman would gain her some literal high ground.

“As a matter of fact we were going to pay our respects to Princess Lyanna. The Prince Regent was very clear on the esteem in which he held the unfortunate Queen’s mother.”

They already offered their regards this very morning, as Alerie, aside for the deep kinship she felt for the young deceased mother, as her own pregnancy advanced, both a promise of joy and a threat, was aware of the importance of the Queen being seen within the Sept walls, honoring the late Princess of the Seven Kingdoms who died to provide her husband an heir. As she loudly sighted for all to ear at each of their visit. Not that Lyanna Stark, lively, joyful quick to anger Lyanna Stark chose her fate. None of them did, in the end.

Her voice sounded like honeyed milk. Nothing grated her step-mother nerves worst than inherent kindness.

However, Olenna, who must already be in the confidence of her unsubtle ploy, only smiled wilder. Even Alerie wasn’t naïve enough or could play coy enough to convince people the few weeks old baby cared about the corpse, or was even able to identify it beyond “this thing primary caretaker was strangely protective of.” And she was optimistic. Willas, however, was trained well enough to sell the performance for the rest of the children, Seven bless his theatrical nature. Her eldest spent an alarming amount of time fetching Northerner lore from obscure part of Highgarden to read them out loud to the young Queen. Even if Alerie doubted the Queen understood the touching gesture, the servants and noble were all in accord on their future Lord being thoughtful and prevenant. Harrow and Willas were wrapped in some less than child friendly legends. “I am just ensuring our Queen know her roots” had become a favorite excuse of Willas once he figured the importance of stressing the northern’s blood of Queen Alyssa.

Alerie was more proud than she cared to admit. And if Willas had nightmares…better be about mythical being than horrors knocking at their doorsteps.

“Does our family’s ‘next generation’ extend to the Queen you are catering to?”

Alerie froze. Gerold seemed to spasm toward his sheathed sword before remembering himself.

Alerie breathed, ignoring the whistling sound she couldn’t bury under pleasantries. She realized, with the same astonishment she could detect on the Queen’s traits, that she was almost twisted tin an alarming posture to prevent Olenna from reaching for the newborn. As if her mother-in-law would be so willfully suicidal.

“You still wish for a marriage’s alliance, Mother?”

Please, by the Seven, let her plot another absurd plot to claw her greedy hands in the Iron Throne. With any luck, the Throne will open and swallow her for her hubris.

Olenna avoid her obvious trap, sweeping the term of endearment with her spotted hand in the oblivion.

“Wouldn’t that be redundant, now?”

No.

No. Please.

“After all, mummer or not, you are the direct descendant of our Prince Regent, now aren’t you?”

Queen Alyssa, eyes wide open now, her grey and bluish gaze fixed on her immediate heat source managed to emulate some of the fury of her ancestors. Their ancestor.

Alerie avoided to check her skin by reflex, still pale as the moon, her hair, a little too blond. No need to lie. Her Mother-in-law, disdainful to the chore when Mace had presented his gentle conquest, a young and terrified Alerie, the suitable and politically acceptable and appropriate, if neither savvy or daring choice, was watching her with ravenous glee.

 Gerold was paler than his little niece despite his naturally tanner skin.

The little hatchling dwindled her way behind Alerie’s feet and spat black flames.

                                                                                                                                                         Tywin Lannister

“Anyone heard spreading such egregious story tales should be hang without trials.”

Ser Jason almost ended up in the ground, where would and should be his real place, if his father hadn’t fucked the daughter of a rich low born noble, one who profited from curious cases of premature deaths in his family.

How…bothersome for Ser Jason if anyone ever investigated these tragic demises.

“Problem?” asked the Lord Paramount of the West with fake concern.

“But…my Lord…”

Tywin icy gaze conveyed just enough threat for the jumped-up knight to wisely rephrase his concerns.

“A…We suffered heavy lost already, and reported missing soldiers…”

“Deserters.”

“Ser” Jason gulped. High times this fifthly upshot learn who to fear. A life which wasn’t likely to be cut short by old maids’ tales about Rhaegar raising from the Trident suddenly holly water under the form of a ruby covered dragon, eyes as dark as his grief when he learnt about his children fate, an impenetrable armor protecting him from mere humans. No, Ser Jason was likely to met his death on some front line where Tywin would send him as soon as he outlived his usefulness. Any days now.

“I want all the tales tellers bring up to the gallows for all to see, their tongues cut, and listed with every crimes Lannister’s and Baratheon’s soldier had been accused of committing. Another lies, of course.”

Who would pass such a golden opportunity of offering the stinking mass their ‘justice’ while riding their own rank of elements rendered mad by the atrocities necessary to wage war?

War was a bloodied mess, best avoided when one could, but Aerys and that fool’s son of his didn’t left them other’s choices.

Every soldier needed an outlet. The ones unable to stand the world cruelty were better off dead, if the battlefield didn’t take care of them.

Tywin was extending them a merciful favor and stayfing the bloodlust of the crow with one swoop.

Dragons were dead. All of them. The pathetic progeny’s of Aery’s eldest failure and the beast which ensured their conquest and helped creating their legendary glow “exceptionalism”.

“Exceptionalism”.

Aery’s words still rang in Tywin ears’ burning his very spirit with unquenchable flames.

“Exceptionalism”.

One could argue the Targaryen’s failure was of an exceptional nature. For one to be given so much by being birthed into the world by an incestuous royal cunt to lose everything in the name of a frozen bitch.

Crown Prince Aerys, his cousin, booming Steffon Baratheon dotted with an equally calm and mediating nature when his friends fought, and Tywin Lannister, the Hope for the Westerland.

Tywin could remember, before Aerys even met Joanna, sweet, golden Lannister treasured Joanna, with her sharp tongue and her witty observation on their little bubble of joy, the pity in the Crown Prince’s eyes when Lord Lannister graced the court with his unwelcomed presence. Tyland had refused to allow Tywin the curtsies of forgetting, even for a few blessed months, who sired him.

Oh, Tywin’s sire had been liked well enough, even by the feeble minded Jaehaerys, who let his Throne occupied by his repugnant sister-wife, plowing to her whim, even the ridiculous idea of marrying their children, one disappointing soft spoken daughter and a son who had been their only hope to continue their lineage. Silver Aerys. Resolute, generous, ambitious. Admirable qualities and qualities Tywin had admired. Clouded head Aerys who dreamt of pure white city built in marble, on the south bank of the Blackwater Rush to sanitize the drench of King’s Landing. Invading the Step-Stones, which almost sounded as a matter of habits by this point for Targaryen eager to prove themselves.

Warring against Braavos after a dispute with the Iron Bank and, Seven Hell, even Tyland, wasn’t stupid enough for this stunt. “Bring the Titan to his knees” had spitted the barely recognizable beloved young king, still passing for what accounted for sane in the Targaryen tree’s branches, preparing to build a war fleet. How the Iron Bank must have shaken from fear. Or from laughing too hard. Death by asphyxia after a laughing strike had been their best chance of success in their King endeavor.

Tywin was getting second thoughts on the idea of a War Fleet worthy of Westeros, if only because it would be a neat mean to address the continued existence of Aerys’ Queen and their degenerated son.

The kindest or maddest idea springing in the King’s deteriorating mind had been the construction of an underwater canal from the rainwood to make the make the desert of Dorne bloom with cheerfulness, bright color and, as an afterthought, made arable grounds to feed their population.

What a strike of luck his detestation for his heir, this effeminate product of violation of every nature’s rules, spread to her promised wife, Elia Martell. And the dornishes as a whole. As if Rhaegar had been corrupted by Dorne disgusting, decadent, culture. The brat had always Although, Tywin would have been able to warn him of the disastrous outcome of putting any trust in these snake scaly grip, if Aerys had cared to listen by the to ‘his servant’.

‘His servant’. Not first friend, page and squire within the Red Keep, confident for all his mad dream, his hope for his reduced family future, his fear of messing up as a husband as his own parents did, even if they married for love.

Tywin had reassured him, cajoling the insecure crown Prince, roaring at Steffon’s bad jokes, even practical ones who let him reeling for days, for the royal cousins’ endless entertainment, been present for every of his increasingly frenetic whim, covered when his betrayed his parent’s and future Queen’s trust by visiting brothel, accepting the fall and the tasteless jap at his expense.

A Lannister always payed his debt.

The young lion he had been couldn’t have asked for a better settlement than Aerys ridding the Court of all the doddering old fools who had accepted Queen Shaena iron’s hand over the Kingdoms’ affairs for decades, not conceiting her hold over her father, then brother, mere puppets in the wretched woman’ tangled webs. Tywin ‘heard’ rumors about the Summerhall’s disaster being the result of her impulsiveness and her certitude than Greatness would surge anew from her line, a new area for the Targaryen to prosper and imposing their rules on the Lord Paramount.

Then, at least, the reward he suffered all these years through for. The Had of the King pins shinning on his chest.

He cleansed the outrageous decree passed by Aegon V, to the noble’s satisfaction, careful to credit his ‘good friend’ with his wise political move. The coffer engorged gold from taxes and the previously mentioned noble show of gratitude.

Rhaella, however, was unable, to perform her only task. Providing the realm with heir and spares to forge alliance.

Aerys was always…partial to Joanna, and Tywin had gloated over his perfect match with his delightful cousin, as clever as devoted to their legacy and family, careful to privately deal with any unsavory allegation over the course of the years Joanna nursed her friendship with the boring, simpleton Aerys had been cursed with. After all, Joanna’s faithfulness for him had never be put in doubt.

He had seen the bruise on her wrist, the frenetic scrub around her tights each time they they bathed together as if trying to erase the feeling of the uninvited wandering touch of the creeper’s hands.

He sat as the king leered over her, insanity written over his face and dripping from his words. Aerys had been frailer and frailer as time passed but to heavy for Joanna to push back. Who could push back a king? Not even Tywin, as he sipped his watered down wine, too spicy for his taste, feigning good humor.

Tywin’s hand grip on the peach made the fruit explode, juice, staining his red velvet he wore over his leathery armor, suiting over the protection on his shoulders, lions’ head. He took a bite of the too sweet fruit, mindful of the irreplaceable nutriment it provided – and he had to disguise a smile as a grimace of disdain, which, as the sickening sugary treat persisted to trickled down his well kept beard, wasn’t a hardship.

His ‘best friend’ for whom he had grovel when he had sworn to never be accountable toward another power calling his pretty, idiotic, Cersei ‘the daughter of a mere servant’. ‘Servant’. Robbing him of his golden heir, a young man he couldn’t raised, first because of Joanna tender heart, then because of his twin recklessness and the need to curve the blow his family’s reputation had owned after the imp’s birth – Joanna lying in a pool of blood, crying to be allowed to hold the monster who stole her life, his pride and joy, the happiness so carefully built together over decades, his only act of selfishness rewarded by an infamous taint over his name and pointed as a punition from the Gods he refused to pray for  - and finally Aerys last act of spite.

Soon enough, Jaime would be back at Casterly Rock, in his rightful place, the Heir of the richest Lord Paramount of the Seven Kingdom, the man who ruled in the stead a mad man and save Westeros from the Targaryen long before any Lords whispered the words rebellion they now clamored.

Lyanna Stark would be dealt with, if Rhaegar hadn’t already ruined her beyond recognition, and, the possibility of crowning her Queen.

A soiled Queen, an improper bride for a new dynasty. More than one year had passed since Rhaegar absconded with the bitch and Tywin doubted even the water blooded princeling had spent months spurting serenade.

However, neither their new ‘king’ nor his ‘brother by heart’ realized the precarious position of Lyanna Stark. For now, she was a martyr, the cause rallying thousands behind Baratheon’s and Stark’s banners.

As soon as she would step in the Red Keep she would be a ruined woman, barely above the courtesans her grieving promised fucked into the Royal’s bed daily and nightly, without care of discretion. 

Unfit for the Court. Unfit to provide the King with heir. Wouldn’t he be ironic if the bitch first litter opened purple eyes under a mane of silvery baby hair? After all, Robert was Targaryen thanks to his Grand-Mother and nature always had the last laugh in Tywin bitter experience. The child brain would join his cousin as a decoration on the nearest wall.

Tywin had never wondered if Steffon’s progeny could inherit of the famed Targaryen’s Madness. Robert statements and acts over the last weeks had broadened his horizon on the subject. Aerion Brightflam had been the son of a Dayne and the Grand Son of a Martell, after all. Madness ran deep in Targaryen’s blood. He was curious to see how it will manifest within Stannis or the little rat, Renly.

But Jon Arryn was too cunning to allow a match between the King and a woman who would be better off dead.

At best, Stark, if he had any intelligence left in his bones, which was doubtful given his choice of company and familial record, would hide the family shame inside the walls of Winterfell where the she-wolf would be able to hide her face from Westeros. Maybe he could pay a consequential dowry to marry her to a trusted vassal, like the Umber or the Mormont. Maybe these Reed, these Cragomen she had defended tooth and nails despite the highness of the stupidity. He may add to the dowry himself.

Yes, the swamp would be a perfect place to dispose of Lyanna Stark, once his own daughter was crowned in gold. Cersei would be a perfect Queen. Idiot, pretty and vain. She would insure the Lannister name was written down in History.

Tywin peeked through the dirty glass letting the sun illuminate the room. The corpse of his ‘old friend’ was still exposed, perched on pics to made his carrion more accessible to the murders of crows rounding around their feast.

A Lannister always payed his debt.

                                                                                                                                        Catelyn Tully Stark

Catelyn Tully Stark was on her knees, in front of the Father. The Father gave wise counsel, had taught her Septa and she was in dire need of sound advice.

She had to hide her smile as Robb, the light of her life tried to play with the white smoke from one of the candle. He was a sturdy, healthy infant, vocal about his desire, as newborn were prone too, according to her Main Wet Nurse. He looked like Edmure at the same age, a blurry memory in her mind, thank to the Mother.

Robb, however, had been easily born into this world. She lighted a candle in front of the Mother, thankful for the Gods to have answered her payers with an apt and bright son to present to her husband when he would return from the war, covered in glory and having avenged beloved Brandon.

Tears freely streamed down her delicate face, as they always did, when her mind wandered around Brandon. She refused to pray to the stranger, too afraid to attract His unwanted attention on the child carried in her maid’s arms.

She had longed for years for a child to present Brandon an heir, curly brown haired and clear grey eyed. Both traits Brandon shared with his younger brother.

The eagerness with which her own father inspected every inch of his first born Grand-Son – who, if the Gods were cruel toward Edmure could become his own heir, had tasted strangely bitter on her tongue.  A child inheriting her mother familial resemblance was unfortunate, in the case of the heir of a Lord Paramount, but far from unheard of.

Despite the undisputable fact that she had come to her wedding bed pure, and the impossibility for Brandon to even had fathered a child on her, her father had seemed relieved, almost too relieved when he rushed into her chamber, barely cleaned of all the bloodied towels and bassinets, fresh air allowed to enter through a window bringing the healthy breeze of the rivers.

Edmure, cherished Edmure, had fled his swords lessons once more, insisting to escort her sister and newborn nephew and heir to the Sept.

Catelyn shivered, wondering how long she would be able to beneficiate of the comfort of the benevolent figures looming over her childhood. Brandon had made clear than there was, and wouldn’t ever be a Sept in Winterfell.

She cringed at the tough of her precious child surrounded by so many uncouth savages, even if months getting to know Brandon had reassured her that civilization and comfort awaited them North, even if she would never enjoy the freshest gossip and newest delicacy of the South.

Her father had sounded in a hurry to secure their position, as if, with King Robert victorious over these heretics, these murderers who should have perish in Valyria Doom if not for their powerful sorcery, their places as prime members of the Court wasn’t guaranteed.

However, this morning, a new raven had arrived from Winterfell, from the Maester’s hand, her new brother-in-law preferring delegating most of his duties. As the former correspondence, they urged her to join the safety of Winterfell with the future Lord Paramount of the North. Father had expressed his own agreement but Catelyn heart ached to leave the only home she ever knew. Benjen himself hadn’t voiced any personal demand, save for a critic on her own son’s name, curtly reminding Lord Hoster of Northern tradition. She curled her lips in a frown unfit of her station. Robb will have decades to discover Northern tradition and she got so little time bathing him in the rivers where she learned to swim.  She reprimanded herself for the uncharitable thought. Soon enough, she would dine at the same table as Benjen Stark and her sons will gain their first training experience at his side, as he had now to shoulder the duties of second sons.

She observed her own brother shyly playing with some of Robb toys, some taken from his old nursery and repurposed.

 Edmure wasn’t yet cut to be a Lord paramount.

She remembered praying with her mother almost daily for the Gods to grant her a brother and remove the burden and pressure of being Lord Hoster eldest child from her. Of course, if such was the fate the Gods had imposed on her, she would have raised to the occasion, refusing to be anything save from the perfect, flawless daughter of the Tully. And she couldn’t imagine fragile, tender-hearted Lysa in a position to endure this weigh. For a split instant, she imagined Edmure cold and rigid under her touch, their mother wailing but alive, so very much alive. And Robb carrying the mantle of two Great House.

The Gods had been clement, even if Minisa Tully’s life had been the prize payed by the Riverlanders. Her mother had succeeded in presenting an heir for the Tully.

Catelyn lightened two new candles, letting their wax slowly melt, the burnt almost a relief. The heat on her skin, the redness on her otherwise unblemished skin grounded her, sweeping unease the sight of her little brother and son had woken inside her heart.  A candle in in front of the Mother, for Minisa and her own easy labor, as she did each day since she was deemed cleaned enough to be allowed outside the birthing chamber and another in front of the Father, to guide her brother, when she would be prisoner within icy walls.

Her breasts hurt. The Main wet nurse had explained such pain was expected, the milk gorging her plain usually plain chest. One night, the aching had been such that obedient, proper, Catelyn had tried to alleviate her discomfort by playing with her bandaged breast, hoping to find relief in mimicking the suckling of an infant. To not avail. Once, in a rare time of privacy, after swearing Edmure to discretion she tried to nurse Robb herself but the baby seemed had confused, unable to grip correctly the nipple in front of him.

Maybe something was wrong with her? Maybe noble women were not bred for such low task and lost the ability to feed their own children. The thought was disturbing.

Lysa had departed months ago, and even before her hasty travel toward the Erye, despite Catelyn pleas to keep her sister close to their family, far from the front line, helping her through her first pregnancy as her mother couldn’t, soft spoken Lysa had changed, her tone bitter and dry. Her sickness had robbed her from her childhood view. Something so cherished and fragile. Marrying a man old enough to be their Father’s Grand-Sire had been a sacrifice Catelyn was spared, by the grace of the Maiden. She had been surprised by their father swiftness in shipping his youngest daughter toward danger, letting her travel with minimal escort before Lord Arryn had been designed Hand of King Robert.

The honor couldn’t be greater and Catelyn hoped the boon will satisfy her sister need for attention and care. Who could better serve their new king than the man who raised him for most of her childhood? Jon Arryn was a wise, educated and pious man who would guide the realm from the dark period they went through. Lysa, for all her misfortune in getting chosen by her elderly spouse would rule over the Erye and the Vale, partaking in the most powerful alliance in Westeros. Her children will rule after her. No second born daughter could complain about such a grandiose fate. Even if Jon Arryn touch was the price to pay. The King. Catelyn reddened a little. Robert Baratheon was a prize of another category. The ultimate leader, dreamy on the heart and the eyes. The foster brother of the stranger she opened herself for as her husband.

Eddard. Ned. Brandon had always called his little brother Ned, the few times he spoke about him, for the Erye were far away from Winterfell.

Brandon had teased about wild Lyanna, wolf blooded Lyanna, defiant Lyanna. Everything Catelyn wasn’t.

She grief she felt thinking of her Good Sister, free spirited, abandoned without a mother or a gentle feminine guidance was true and profound. She would be gratified to assist in the poor child recovery, for her fate now lay within her family protective ties. Catelyn refused to fail Lyanna as so many women had before her.

Maybe Benjen, who Brandon liked to mock as ‘Lyanna little shadow’ would warm to her and the child replacing him as heir of Winterfell. Maybe…Maybe it was why he sounded so distant in his communication? He must have hoped for a girl, to give him more time as an heir to forge alliance and prepare his future. Except Robb’s miraculous’ birth had robbed him of every opportunity he could advance his own position within Westeros.

Catelyn lips thinned. She would make sure to protect her children, the alliance her father worked so hard to create.

Aurane Waters

The four years old toddler ran to follow the long strand of the Prince in disguise he had been tasked to protect by Monford, while his brother hold court. Viserys had short red hair which was a mess each time they went for a swim a got wet, which was always Aurane’s fault however it happened, Viserys’ hair letting patch of dark reddish brown everywhere. Aurane liked his silver shade better, so much like their, but was slapped the only time he dared to express his admiration. And enthusiasm at this proof of Viserys being really family as he claimed.

“A’e we there yet”, whined the young Aurane, his legs screaming in agony. He should be used to the never ending stairs by now, after weeks of trailing Viserys like a puppy.

Aurane hated the tunnels hidden under the ‘ruins of High Tides’ and Monford had forbidden them to play within them saying they could get hurt or killed by the roof collapsing on them. They had to wait for the silly island to be accessible by foot, by night, to not get caught – even if Viserys had a ‘knack’ as he bragged to escape their guards, well his guards -  scramble in the mud hoping to not open their feet on some shells – it hurt so bad ! – and being dressed down by the morning as soon as the servants saw the result of their escapade, even if Vis try burning their clothes once and nearly provoked a fire which may have destroyed all of Driftmark.

There was nothing in this damp, dark caves. Every treasures accumulated by the Sea Snake had been sold a long time ago to settle debts or disappeared during tempests.

No, just darker, damp stones, too smooth and giving Aurane icky fellings.

The Merling’s King sanctuary was the worst.

The worst.

The walls, charcoal and slippery, were covered in weird symbols, many Aurane couldn’t recognize, some resembling a human with tentacles, barnacles over his whole body and a legit squid head with too many teeth.

If this was the Merling King, Aurane didn’t want to pray to it. He looked like more likely to eat his followers than grant whishes.

There was also a statue of a gigantic – oily black - Toad who seemed half human. If the one carving the toad had just heard of what humans looked like from unreliable tales.

And silhouettes of beautiful and scary green people, shining in the darkness, the only source of luminosity in the deepness of the gigantic room, illuminating their surrounding with an unnatural emerald’s brilliance. Their teeth where white, though. Weird. They had pointed, ivory teeth. Their lights the only source of comfort Aurane found in the horrible, abandoned castle.

He understood now why his ancestor – they were his ancestors – had forsaken High Tide.

Viceroys was a dragon, everybody said it, why did he care about some old legend about sea’s monsters anyways? He cradle the egg gifted to him by Prince Rhaegar in permanence. It was a pretty bauble, Auriane admitted with a touch of envy, silver with patch of golf and slight red and black design, barely noticeable among the sheer brightness of the shells. Auriane knew for having cut his own hand on them than each and every of these scales were sharps and angry for blood. Blood, blood…Valyrian’s blood. 

However, Vis seemed enthralled by all the legends he could find on the Ancient Velaryon God, despite the fact it had been centuries since Velaryon cared to remember the Merling King’s legend. Vis was a dragon, as he liked to remember everyone with ears and a passable comprehension of Westerosi or common Valyrian.

Aurane own progress in High Valyrian was advancing leaps and bound as, once he discovered their shared ancestry, Prince Viserys was horrified by Aurane lack of proper understanding of ‘their’ language.

Monford seemed pleased by this development, as the Maester hadn’t been given any instruction by their Father on Aurane education, so, the ‘ Bastard of Driftmark’ chose to find pride in his heritage.

And so, for weeks, and weeks, each times the boys succeeded in fooling their protection – a protection more and more discreet had time passed – Viserys dragged his ‘cousin’ as he insisted calling the other silver headed boy – and wasn’t it sad that the most superficial resemblance owned Aurane such a grand title? – toward the ancient place of cult.

And he offered sacrifices. Fishes. Shells. Gems. Toys. Scraps from their dinner – Aurane wasn’t consulted on that point.

Lately, Viserys fever had gotten worse. Two or three weeks ago he opened his own arm spreading blood all over the stones and the floor, without a care for his safety.

Aurane had never been so afraid. The already pastry child had been ghostly when they had they emerged from High Tides, almost getting stuck by the tides, as Aurane had to help Vis through the whole return trip.

Monford had been livid, but his little brother tears and obvious scares had prevented any harsh repercussion. Luckily, Father had been absent. Monford primary worry sounded like he feared Viserys could ask Aurane to spilled his own blood. Which, he hadn’t. Viserys would never. Aurane swore.

Viserys was his friend. He was his cousin. He had never called him a bastard. He threw tantrum when Father tried to teach him Aurane proper place.

He was like Monford.

His brother had been on the verge of tears as Aurane hiccupped through his explanation.

Monford hadn’t looked convince and the two boys watchers had been alert for a few weeks. Until this night.

The Prince always asked for bed time stories related to his favorite obsession, while Aurane pouted, deprived of the tales of the Sea Snake he loved so much.

Aurane hated the place. And he was a Velaryon. Whatever his name. Or his father dismissals. Monford said it. And he had charged him with Prince Viserys’protection! The most important task in Driftmark.

Viserys, who had lightened the feeble torch they had let at the entrance and managed to gain some gleam from despite the humidity, had stopped.

The longue table in the middle of the room – oily black, of course – was split in its middle, as if struck by lightening. The stone, a solid, beyond age stone, was now burn to crisp, the only remain eviscerated as if something had destroyed the ‘monument’ from the inside. Escaping. No. Awakening.

Awakening.

The eyes of the toad weren’t pitch black anymore but bloody red.

And it smiled.

Viserys let the torch fell from his hands. Gripping the dragon egg he refused to be parted from. And he yelled.

The cave was suddenly filled with burning green flams.

Chapter Text

   Be strong, be fearless, be beautiful. And believe that anything is possible when you have the right people there to support you."

Misty Copeland

                                                          The fumes of burned corpses reached them before King’s Landing was in their sightline. Burned corpses, shit and crass. In two hundred centuries, no Targaryen monarch had managed to rid the capitol of the stench. Daemon wondered how complicated setting up a sewer system could be. The Free City encountered no such problem. Two hundred years. What had his descendants been doing? Counting their toes? He fought the need to used his handkerchief as a shield. A poor shield was the cotton fabric sewn by Alerie Tyrell against the stomach turning odor. A nice piece of embroidery with two dragons, one red, one White and golden, forming a circle. He kept it preciously, next to Rhaella’s favor, a red tissue with the sigil of their House.

Ser Arthur had kept mostly silence since their departure of Dragonstone. Daemon was glad for small mercies, for his temper was never so tense than before a decisive battle. Or after discovering how his family has been spitted upon and was being preyed by the ones who should hold their loyalty to the dragonlords.

Fishermen and vagrants, soldiers far from their sentry had yelled at their approach but no alarm had been raised, Caraxes wings more swift than any horses or news. No omen would alert the usurper of his fate. A fate Daemon reassessed almost hourly. His preference was currently leaning toward tying each one of his members to a horse a tearing him apart. Corlys’ depiction of “Death by Thousand Cuts”, a favorite tale of his when his nephews became too much of a nuisance, was also tempting.

“My Prince, are you sure you don’t wish to take council with our allies before attacking in the midst of our enemies?”

“I only take my own council.”

Daemon meant for his voice to be menacingly suave but, somehow, the sentence was to rough and, if Rhaenyra, his other half, had been present, she probably could have discerned a touch of incertitude.

Daemon’s ‘own council’ had been, so far, to never stay put long enough to appraise the situation too deeply.

Can anyone blame him?

Hence, now finding himself barely a stone thrown away from King’s Landing, home, with a dornish White Cloak as back up to conquer the Iron Throne and torture, very slowly, everyone he could ‘reasonably’ hold responsible for this messy circumstances.

“Maybe, my Prince, if I may be so bold, now would be a splendid time to detail your immediate plans for the poor moronic dornishman on your dragon?”

Never be said Daemon couldn’t detect impertinence. Especially impertinence directed toward him. Unfortunately, glaring at Arthur would have require for him to forsake his quite comfortable position, by performing unnecessary acrobatics. He missed the to good old time – yesterday, literally – when Dayne was too afraid to slip or be tossed from the dragon to dare address the Prince Regent with such a tone.  He contented himself with glaring at some Stormlands’ patrols shouting and dispersing, as sensible as a hen without head, which Caraxes, loyal, sensible Caraxes, interpreted as permission to dive and set them on fire. Daemon patted his friend, his grudge against fearless White Cloak melting as quickly as the subpar armor of the newcomers in the afterlife. 

As his beautiful dragon raised once more in the bluish sky, as unostentatious as a storm of blood conjured by ancient sorcerers, Daemon could feel Arthur rolling his eyes, his exasperation bleeding through. The Rogue Prince had become unusually familiar with the soothing presence of the young man, his grip on his chest, his discreet affection for Caraxes when he thought Daemon was out of reach. Caraxes grumbled his approbation.

“My Prince?”

Daemon focused his attention ahead, cleaning his mind from any inappropriate imagery. The wind in Arthur black locks, his tan skin against his silver hair, his legs…

Dear, he could hear Rhaenyra and Laena howling with laughter. With a third laugh, with a distinct bark quality, he was attributing to Princess Lyanna. After all, Princess Lyanna was entirely at fault for his current predicament…

“My Prince?”

“Dayne, I am trying to concentrate. As you may be aware, I was a famous war leader, a commander of man, known for inspiring devotion and steadfastness in my armies? Surely, even the Greens and their Rats couldn’t alter history as to pass me as incompetent?”

Silence. A silence which soon become ominous.

“No, they didn’t…attack your character on your aptitude as a commander.”

Well, wasn’t that a relief. He probably wouldn’t have to assassinate too many subordinate to earn some respect. He mused longingly on the political savviness of the Green, to choose to not diminish his prowess to preserve their own exploit in their determination to steal the Iron Throne. Trust a Hightower to secure their own reputation. Wait…

The Rogue Prince gritted his teeth.

“May I know on which aspect of my personality I was defamed.”

He was sure he knew what those scourge had rumored bout the “Lord Flea Bottom”.

“May I know my part in your plan to claim the capital in the name of my Queen?”

Brat. Daemon stood corrected. If a Queensguard felt courageous enough to respond to Daemon as if they were in any way equal, the Greens couldn’t have presented the Rogue Prince as a tangible menace in their so called history book, despite the reverence bestowed on him since his arrival. He was still reluctant to open one of these fallacy.

Or maybe, Dayne were all rabid madmen and no Targaryen from Daemon’s time saw any reasons to alert him of the matter.

The Prince Regent smiled, all not-anymore-gritting-teeth.

“As you just explain, Ser Arthur, we claim the Capital of the Seven Kingdoms in the name of Queen Alyssa, First of her name.”

“The Maester did report how you conquered Harenhall…You have no plans.”

Daemon could almost hear the Queensguard’s jaw clenching.

“Good boy.”

Caraxes let out a piercing shriek which covered Dayne’s curses.

King’s Landing was in sight. And was due to welcome the first dragon to roam Westeros sky in centuries.

Observing the city of his birth, the walls he grew within, loved and being loved by his parents – maybe even his brother -, the city holding almost all his most cherished memories with Dragonstone didn’t bring him excitement.

The stones were bright in the sun, aggravating the smell impregnating each of them and, in the distance, the Dragonrider could discern the Red Keep. His Home. Not Dragonstone. But almost as dear to his heart.

Overlooking Blackwater Bay and the Narrow Sea, the silhouette of the Red keep on Aegon’s Hill stood almost untouched for a casual observer, but many additions blew away the illusion of familiarity chocking him. Towers, isolated edifice, all sore in the Targaryen Prince eyes, additions all too easy targets for any dragon’s attack. None of his ancestor would have included in an architectural plan. At his core the strut tower of Maegor’s Holdfast, the fortress which shielded the Targaryen family for generations was unblemished.

However, if Dragonstone had been spared the passage of time, anything further than a curtesy survey was sufficient to shatter any illusion Daemon may have entertain about King’s Landing. Flea Bottom was near identical, misery traversing ages, but new scars were still open and visible in its midst. The now infamous sack of King’s Landing had spared no one. The streets were eerily void of life. No hurrying passerby, banter between friends, thieves observing their next targets, gossiping wives or mourning relatives of the many fallen.

The harbor was void of any merchant vessels, the markets closed. Waiting. Few ships drifted in its water. Most under the Lannister’s or Westerlands’ flags. The Free City were still observing. Clever of them.

Worst, at the top of Visenya’s Hill an impressive marble structure surrounded by luscious garden with seven crystal arrow pointing toward the sky. An injure. An abomination. A sacrilege. Where, once, the Dragonpit stood, a Sept had replaced the Dragon’s caves. Daemon’s fists were clench one Caraxes’ reins, yearning to order his better half to destroy this abomination. Arthur arms clenched a little tighter around his waist, pleading. Willing himself to find solace in knowing they had reached their destination, for King’s Landing, despite his descendants’ best efforts, from what he had gathered, still stood and reeked, and invaded his every sense, the noise of alarmed fright at the sight of Caraxes carried by the wind.

The Bells rang. Too late. Way too late.

The Kinslayer, the Usurper, the ogre who devoured children from his own blood, one of his own descendant hide within the viper’s nest. And Daemon was determined to expose his argumentation against kinslaying – a recently acquired conviction – at lengths to the scum.

Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, kept silent in the heavy atmosphere which weighted the two men s’ minds. He was readying himself to act upon advanced fathering.

He descended upon Maegor’s Holdfast’s garden.

No one ever criticized his parenting style.

No one was expecting an attack from the sky.

From the corner of his eyes, Daemon, discarding the dead weight of the freshest corpse with a sneer, caught Arthur fluidly disposing of the few fools trying to block their path. For all the respect every soldiers and noble demonstrated toward Ser Arthur – and, he had no shame in admitting having letting his own hears linger in Highgarden as some men and women drooled over Dayne’s past prowess’s – he had never seen the man, acknowledged as his favorite acquaintance since he landed into this chaos, in the blaze of action.

Arthur Dayne was beyond any praise Daemon had heard, the most accomplished swordsman of his time, and Daemon quivered at the prospect of testing himself against such raw talent, decades of training and centuries of evolution in tactics.

All soreness was forgotten. Dawn swiftly cut through their opponent with as much ease as any Valyrian’s steel blade would, Arthur favoring usual combat stands with the legendary weapon, seemingly weighting no more than a feather in his wielder’s grip, but what captured Daemon attention was the Queensguard’s left hand.

“Reverse grip?”

“Mind you own, My Prince.”

What an elegant approach to instruct a Targaryen Prince to go fuck himself. 

The bells were still ringing in alarm, reverberating into Daemon skull. He resoluted to dismantle these dreadful bells the first chance crossing his way.

Dark Sister, always perfectly balanced, sliced a Lannister bouncing toward Daemon, his eyes crazed with fury or fear. Hard to distinguish one from the other. None of the soldiers seemed properly trained or equipped to face anything more threatening than inexperienced peasant with a fork. Some of them were armed with spadroon, a weapon no self-respecting mercenary would condescend to touch.

Some cutting heavy saber, too slow to be a menace to either men, and a lot of small sword, practical in scenario as such, but failing short when your opponent wasn’t the Rogue Prince and the best swordsman still breathing. A few try to parry and hold what could generously pass as position only to watch their blade shattered with a simple parry from Dark Sister.

Caraxes gleefully stomped over some reinforcement, either mindful of not burning the interior of the Red Keep, or, more likely, finding joy in the squashing sound of teared flesh and crushed bones under his claws.  Prince Daemon grinned, the satisfaction of his other-half bleeding in his own mind. He could almost feel the worthless worms struggle to held every second of life left in their body, amongst all odds and fails, miserably, their members disarticulating, gurgling blood and steamy vomit, piss and shit staining their red clothes.  

Far from being impended by the reducing reach of his reverse grip and the closeness he allowed enemies – so close, too close for Daemon’s taste - putting his wrist into a weaker position for blocking, defending near his body, a risky strategy if Daemon ever saw one, each of his stabbing motion was precise and graceful, blending perfectly with the longer reach and of Dawn, allowing him to cover every distance with impeccable dynamic.

Despite the blood overweighing his sense, blood iron on his tongue, blood quenching his skin, blood rushing in his ears, Daemon’s eyes couldn’t draw from the sheer exquisiteness of Dayne, his morals, codes and barriers cleared from his usually severe brow, shinning as the Morning Star he was born to be. Arthur’s structure was the most perfect Daemon ever witnesses. Safe his own.

He was a magnificent sight, as cadavers of their enemies, the traitors piled up in front of them.

The rogue Prince blow easily through the human sacrifice sent their way, a single pressure shattering their blades or sending them flying off.

An arrow whistled near his hear, almost etching itself in his neck.

Damn them to the Fourteen Fiery Hell.  Someone had managed to light their brain and called upon archery. Caraxes shook himself, the sting of the projectile to feeble to register as threatening, unable to pierce his unyielding scales, but distracting him from another group of Lannister’s soldier he was eying with eagerness. Halas, he had to forlorn his hope of squeezing slowly the lives out of them. Daemon didn’t fancy his dragon losing an eyes in a writhe with low ranking meat.

“To cover, My Prince.”

“You don’t tell.”

Caraxes retreated inside the Red Keep, unfortunately damaging his chosen entrance, his tailing sweeping any attempt to oppose him. Although, Daemon doubted the men from the Westerlands were actually trying to oppose the grown, battle weary, dragon. They were more likely trying to flee in despair.

For all the bards liked to glorified battle and duels the truth was, as many truths were, crude. Most of the men managing to escape Caraxes scaly self felt under Daemon and Arthur’s swords before registering their presence as their world crumbled, numerical advantage failing to balance the odds in their favor, the narrow hallway, nullifying ant hope of surrounding the two men.

A very human roar resonated in the now collapsing corridor. Daemon mourned the sound architecture of his forbearer in silence. He was certain renovation would be quick. Yes. He had even improvement in his mind already.

“Where are they! Where are the dragons’ cunts!”

The below came from the Royal’s Wings. And a man who could only be the infamous Usurper described to the Prince Regent by multiple sources appeared. A tall, lean a muscular man, with a reddish carnation contrasting black mane.

Rage swept away any thoughts from Daemon’s mind.

Borros. The Usurper was the image came to life once more of Borros Baratheon. The illiterate, traitor, coward who sent their sweet Lucerys to his death spitting on guest’s rights. Thousands of times, Daemon had imagined Lucerys last moment. The fear, loneliness, disbelief to be swept so young from his promising future. His impotence faced with his destiny. With Borros betrayal. A swine barely fit to lead the bottoms of a barrel of mercenary.  

Daemon had seethed his fury, turning grief into madness. Into the murder of a child.

Daemon had been helpless. Never again. He won’t loose another of his children to satisfy this stench in his family tree thirst for power.

Borros was the culprit. Yes.

Rage. Humiliation. Vengeance.

Other cries joined Lucerys’. The supplication of Lyanna. Princess Lyanna as her tears anointed her daughter. Her perfect dragon-blooded daughter. She must have been so close in age to Lucerys. To Baela and Rhaena. And she payed the price of a Baratheon greediness. He could still feel the life leaving her body as he held their precious daughter, grounded solely by the wet-cat weight of the newborn.

Never again.

Now wasn’t the time for compromising. Compromising had never been an option, whatever claim to his lineage the traitors bragged.

Daemon had been a kinslayer himself once. Or twice. He didn’t mind the moniker.

Robert Baratheon stumbled down the main stairs, his armor half put, without even the protection of a helmet, his plastron hanging too low on his upper body. Targaryen’s blood the beast may claim through an unfortunate grand-mother, but Daemon saw none in the pathetic drunk lurching at him with a Warhammer, reeking of whine and sex. The same Warhammer who made sure Alyssa was an orphan.

Before Daemon could give the fatal blood, Arthur threw himself between his Prince Regent and the weapon still sullied by Dragon’s blood, still incrusted with the rubies on that fool armor.

‘You, traitor! You kidnapped Lyanna! You kept my love from me and threw her to your Dragon’s master! I’ll have you hang as any common criminals after watching you pay!”

Arthur’s voice was cold as ice.

“I will respond of my actions to Queen Alyssa, First of her name, daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna”.

The False King face displayed astonishment, horror, then switched to wrath. Wrath born from a tempest of emotions mirroring Daemon’s, still silent and expressionless.

Drunk as he was, Robert Baratheon still towered over Dayne who barely managed to parry the violent stoke of the brute, steels crossing, while the usurper pressed with his all mighty strength. Without hesitation Daemon sprung into action. His mind blank. Dark Sister raised and cut through Baratheon arm. The hammer stammered to the ground, carving a path in the marble, the usurper’s hand still clenched around the handle.

The Usurper howls rivaled Lyanna’s on her deathbed.

Daemon vision was little more than a tunnel of hatred and insanity as his own shadows laughed in his ears.

As the Demon of the Trident wriggled on the floor, blood flooding around the twitching figure of the once proud man, impure blood, a vision embittered by the reminiscent of Lyanna’s own as she gave birth to the Targaryen’s last hope, Daemon became dimly aware of other interlopers trying to still Arthur blades. Pleading. Daring to name the Usurper ‘King’ and remembering Arthur of his vows. The same vows he had kept for weeks at Daemon’s side.

 Arthur was for all appearance lost in his personal nightmares for he ignored them as Dawn severed Robert Baratheon’s head from the rest of his body, despite the cry for mercy of an old man costly dressed, if austerely. Soldiers bearing the Stag sigil were panicking around them, trying to follow inexistent orders. A young man, with sharp feature, white as a ghost was frozen in the stairs.

All Daemon comprehension of the situation unfolding before them was that the Usurper was dead. Laying before him, in a mockery of a bow, his torso bent in half against the drenched floor, on his knees.

The old man looked stricken and horrified. Stepping toward them despite himself, in a trance, ignoring the dragon screeching his pleasure at the smell of death, keeping Daemon and Arthur safe under his shadow.

“Arthur…Arthur what have you done?”

Well, that was an easy answered question. The White Cloak had robbed Daemon of his rightful vengeance.

The whole scene had been very anticlimactic. The Rogue Prince hadn’t even had the time to continue to taunt this Borros lookalike with Alyssa’s existence, describe Lyanna last thoughts and had to swallow his wishes to torture him more. Oh, how he would have relish in informing this abomination carrying Valyrian’s blood of the wedding between his ‘love’ and the Prince he assassinated.  His death had been all too swift and clean.

“Step aside, Lord Arryn, you will stand trial for your part in the rebellion but I’d prefer a fair trial for one as respected as the Lord of the Erye.”

Dayne voice was hoarse, a little erratic. Lost. Dark hair matted in sweat. Gaze searching for guidance. He needed his Prince. He needed him.

Daemon surge back into reality, managing to tore his gaze to the hand crisped around the hammer’s handle. He readied Dark Sister and tried to find his composure. The composure ingrained into his royal lineage before his birth.

Lord Arryn. Right. Foster father of the Usurper and Eddard Stark. A respected Lord Protector without direct issue who went to war to protect his wards. He could sympathize. The man will be dead within a week, and his execution a spectacle for all to feast upon but he could respect his choice. He offered him the same smile usually reserved for Royce. He levelled his helmet, letting his silver hair flow on his shoulder, with a simple leather lace to prevent them from impeding his vision and showing his perfectly sculpted cheekbones.

“Lord Arryn! A pleasure, I am sure. I am Prince Regent Daemon Targaryen and I should speak for our beloved Queen, Queen Alyssa first of her name, born of House Targaryen and House Stark.”

He could see the understanding and resignation passing through Arryn’s eyes. Mixed with uncertainty and disbelief.

“Why don’t you guide us to the dungeon where I am sure you kept Targaryen’s allies comfortable while awaiting their fates? You should be offered the same treatment”.

“I apologize, Lord Stannis, I fear I must insist on your presence, as the new Lord Baratheon.”

Daemon inspected the narrow boned youngster closer. Yes, there were those Baratheon eyes and…a Targaryen’s nose. His features seemed cut through glasses and Daemon was uncomfortably reminded of Rhaenys. Rhaenys…He shook himself, pushing his nostalgia in the deepest depths of his mind. He steeled himself.

“What a marvelous plan. Open the way, Ser Arthur, I am sure Caraxes will be enchanted to ensure our safety.”

Daemon patted his mount’s muzzle with fondness. Everyone in the room who hadn’t already fled took a step back.

Caraxes grumbled above them. Only Daemon knew he was smiling.

No one saw the shadowy figure slipping after them. With a smile of his own. 

A fair number of Gold Cloak, in the vain hope of being forgiven the betrayal helped Prince Daemon Targaryen and Ser Arthur – and Daemon was bemused to remark that the sole affirmation of Ser Arthur about his identity and rank was sufficient to gain him the title of Prince Regent without a single contestation from these men – to round up the main conspirators. Of course Daemon would make sure these Gold Cloaks join their current prisoners on the gallows once they outlived their utility.  He couldn’t risk untrustworthy guards in the city.

Ser Barristan was the only soul in the Red Keep to inquire about his relationship with "Blackfyre". Arthur reassurance that Prince Daemon was a Trueborn Targaryen, acknowledge as such by Queen Rhaella herself - when ?- sounded, if unfunded, sufficient for the old knight. He had been named Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdom by Princess Lyanna - and Daemon didn't care for Barristan open disaproval's expression at Lyanna's title - who trusted him with the newborn Queen. His easy acceptance of the idea of a Reigning Queen was more lined with what Daemon excepted of a Queensguard. 

Given Ser Barristan ride the world of one of his descendant's abomination, Daemon choose to not fault him with his defiance. Fourteen Flams knew Daemon didn't need to be assimilated to a treacherous bastard brach of his House. He readied himself to fend the rumors which would descend on him once his existence would be wild spread.

Avoidance had been his policy so far and served him well.

No one else questioned his identity or his relation to the Targaryen further. No even Lord Arryn or Stannis. Confirmed to be the pasty ghost. Freshly Lord Baratheon. Not that this tittle would matter for long.

The constant presence disruptive of Caraxes was probably a point in their favor. The dragon was damaging the holdfast, having outgrown these walls since decades, for the greatest enjoyment of Daemon who watched with glee as the decoration heavily dominated by the Sept was crashed under the pressure of red scales.

Lord Arryn, his eyes fixed on Caraxes, informed them with a tired voice that all Targaryen regalia and symbols had been hidden in the tunnels under the Red Keep. Safe and sound.

They had to entrust Caraxes sole presence to be their primarily deterrent as they escorted

The cells revealed some Lords and Knights who had chosen to stay true to their oaths and even a new Queensguard, Ser Barristan Selmy, whose fate had been uncertain. He was currently being healed by the soon to be dismembered Maester but had refused to bend the knee, for Daemon great satisfaction and relief. The Prince Regent tried to convince himself his pleasure was born from the knowledge of another legendary fighter added to their rank and not Arthur’s joy and emotion as he hugged Ser Barristan. The Sword of the Morning had such a nice smile. His pale lavender eyes blazed with almost the same fire as a dragonlord.

The knight being covered in the blood of their enemy wasn’t spoiling the sight.

Ser Barristan, once released from Arthur’s grip, knelt in front of Daemon pledging his sword to Queen Alyssa, repeating the oath Ser Arthur enounced for him. Daemon could see hundreds of interrogation in the White Cloak stare on him, but the man was clever enough to keep his curiosity for himself. Daemon could only hope he won’t harass Arthur once the shock ceased to operate. Plus, Dayne and Hightower may have been wrought with the summary execution of a sworn brother, weakling as he may have shown himself. Good White Cloak were always difficult to find.

Proof was he had to accept a Hightower as Lord Commander.

All the knights and soldiers within the black cells were put in charge of purging the Red Keep of any remaining rats under Ser Barristan watchful gaze.

To the credit of the Usurper, almost none of the prisoners had been maimed or mistreated. Daemon decided this achievement was to be granted to the Stark’s influence, to consolidate Alyssa’s legitimacy and reputation.

Yes, Eddard Stark would accept all the credit or Daemon would ensure his fish wife would be a widow before the Queen’s coronation.

The Prince was unsure of his new in-law’s disposition, his companions being unhelpful aside from the usual platitude about Stark’s honor, oathkeeping and blank looks when interrogated further about the Tully reliability.

Given the wedding sealing the alliance between the Great Houses, Daemon feared Kermit unusual competence and temper – for a fish – had been lost through generations.

Daemon couldn’t dispose of Five Great House in one strike, or allow their rebellion to go unpunished. He already nursed a headache at the thought of the political nightmare.

Rebellion. Betrayal. Treachery. Duplicity.

Slowly his mind filled with feeling forced for weeks in its darkest corner.

Rhaella’s bruises and the disdain of her vassals.

Despite the black cells now harboring the Lord of the Erye, Stannis Baratheon and a frightened and crying, sniveling, boy, if comely, revealed to be Renly Baratheon, all Lannister of any strategical importance had managed to flee, being in the Hand’s Tower far from most of the commotion.

The Hand’s Tower, where Tywin Lannister apartment were situated, where he kept the men directly involved in the brutal murder of a Targaryen Princess by marriage and two Targaryen infants. Alyssa’s sibling. His fist tightened around a void, a void where his daughter, by oath and blood, should be. A void more and more heavy to carry as he walked through the Royal Family wing, as Barristan explained in a broken voice how young Rhaenys – and Daemon could imagine all too well a three years old little girl with black curl and indigo eyes imploring for the protection of a long dead dragon, a kitten for sole defense – was stabbed fifty times by Armory Lorch. A Knight household. A former Knight household.  Daemon will melt every stone, torch every field, burn every living being carrying his color or his blood. The servants hadn’t been able to rid the stone and soft carpet. They will burn alongside the perpetrator. For trying to get rid of the evidence of Princess Rhaenys’ assassination. Or failing to perform a simple cleansing task. Daemon was unsure.

The vivid depiction of the youngest Aegon’s skull being fractured beyond recognition and Princess Elia’s rape by the murderer still covered with her son’s brain was more succinct, maybe the horror was still too fresh or Barristan wished to protect whatever remained of the memory of the Princess Consort of Dragonstone.

Protect. Between the White Cloak positioned at the Tower of Joy and the fallen ones on the battlefield most of the Royal family had been left defenseless.

Breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

He remembered each apartment as they had one been. Tasteful decoration with Valyrian's History, at its chore from the selected mobilier to the work of art needled by the women of his family. Rhaenyra's old rooms now beyond recogniton. Her haven where she took refuge in the memories of better times, when their sons where alive and thriving. Rhaegar's choices of ornaments ornaments seemed aimed to please some courtiers or allied. For all the support their allied provided them.

The KIng's Chamber didn't warrant a visit and Daemon refused to lower himself to ask. 

Every Seven Stars should be nomore than dust by the time of Alyssa's first tooth. Every single one of them.

In. Out.

He hated the pity on each men face. Not when he should have earned their fear.

His line. His family. So easily wiped off.  Where was Alyssa? Safe. Safe in Highgarden with Hightowers watching over her well being. Oh, the irony.

And also the other White Cloak. Whinny. Whendy? The other one. Who wasn’t a Hightower. Nor Arthur.

Daemon yearned to cuddle her anew, cover her porcelain skin with reverent kisses, murmur oaths of fealty until his death. Where was his anchor?

Mismatched eyes and uncoordinated grasp, hair almost as golden as silver, squirming under his palm since the second she was born. He needed to ensure she was shielded from the world. How could he have left her, his only remaining child, put under his care…

Arthur hand on his shoulder made him jerk back. He should have shrugged and glared at the Queensguard for daring such gesture in public but lacked the will. Most of it was concentrated on not turning around and embracing Arthur, consequences be damn, lifting his mind from the dread awaiting him in each corner of the Red Keep. He feigned to ignore Ser Barristan all too knowing glance.

Arthur had praised his White Cloak brother’s impeccable service as a Kingsguard, enhancing his exploit during a ‘Blackfyre Rebellion’ – for his descendant never seems to learn their lesson, however Daemon did not care for the careful study he was subjected to.

Ser Barristan took upon himself, as Daemon and Arthur found solace un each other closeness, to order the bodies of King Aerys, Second of his Name, Princess Elia’s, Princess Rhaenys’ and Prince Aegon’s to be bring in the Throne room. Outside, Daemon could feel Caraxes foul temper. He had to control himself.

Breath. In. Out. In. Out. 

The Throne Room was emptied of any Targaryen memorandum, or Sept decorum.

Daemon barely recognize the Throne, object of all his family woes. Most of the swords had disappeared, victims of times, or curious hands. Far from the symbol of Aegon’s conquest and victory over Westerosi Lords, the throne was barely more than a big chair made or swords. His own description echoed like a prophecy. No more than a big chair made of swords.

In front of it, candles had been lilted by silent sisters, respectfully bowing when he approached. In their middle, in a scene copying the presentation of a child to the Sept. The presentation of Alyssa.

Lying side by side a young woman, careful prepared by the silent sisters, covered in finery and jewels, visibly dornish, and two small shroud masking their occupants.

“Lord Arryn convinced Baratheon to send Princess Elia back to Dorne where she could have proper funerals. The…the young prince and princess should have been thrown with the commoners but the…usurper wanted to prove their death to anyone still enquiring.”

Daemon slowly uncovered the bodies of two of his descendants. Putrefaction already did its work. The little girl cheek had caved and despite the violet stones over her eyes, Daemon could see worms under the once tender flesh.  Her black hair was still shining in the soft light of the windows. He slowly replaced the red velvet over her, as if tucking her in bed for a nap. Then the boy. Almost nothing was left of the fragile head of the infant safe for strands of golden silver hair, a shade well known by Daemon. He had one eyes open, the stone purposed to cover it having fallen through the open skull.

Daemon didn’t even check on the Mad King remains. His flesh had been picked by crows and every scavenger, his intestines open and reeking of dejections.

The Prince Regent turned toward the Silent Sisters.

“I want the four bodies readied for a traditional Targaryen’s funerals. There would be five bodies to incinerate. The King pyre should be discreet but I want the four others savory enough to be exposed through the city streets with all honors due to their rank.”

He saw the surprise on their face but had little care. Behind him, Arthur had lost whatever battle he was waging against himself and retched his guts, trembling. Daemon may have been their distant ancestor but Arthur had carried these children in his arms, saw them cry and laugh, remembered life where Daemon would only ever know death.

For a moment Daemon was jealous of the White Cloak. Arthur could never partake in these children games, no more than the Prince Regent, but Rhaenys’ voice was forever a part of her only him could cherish.

Then his lips found the White Cloak’s. Daemon was so tender, as if Arthur was made of glass. The man melted, from shock, pleasure, or purely inability to comprehend what was even happening. Daemon didn’t remember a so simple gesture conveying so many sentiments. Being so soft, a softness he rarely showed, and angry at once. When he released Arthur to allow them to breath, the other man had a hazy expression, but his hands were firmly closed on Daemon arms pulling him closer. Both were covered in traitors’ blood. Still, no iron spoiled this moment of madness, grief and triumph.

Slowly, Daemon disentangled himself. The Sword of the Morning didn’t seem– or sound – complaisant in the separation. Less so when Daemon announced his next sentence clearly enough for whoever may be eavesdropping to hear.

“Arthur Dayne, in my absence you should be Hand of Queen Alyssa and rule in her stead. You have my entire trust and House Taragryen’s.”

Without awaiting a response, any reaction, Daemon put his helmet back and stride toward the hallway where Caraxes basked in the terror of the Red Keep inhabitants.

Robert Baratheon’s head was still abandoned on the floor, near his precious hammer. Daemon casually picked it – the head, what would he do with a hammer? - and threw it without hesitation or care in Caraxes’ saddle, near the dornish wine and the venison.

He barely heard Arthur’s voice as the knight hurled his name when he took to the sky. There was a spring in Caraxes flight. One Daemon didn’t reflect upon.

Daemon flight into dusk and through the night. The stars were cold and their silence deafening. Dead. Their light was nothing but a feeble illusion of a life longue extinguish. Death. How did he come by this knowledge? Was it knowledge or nothing more than his battle wary mind rejecting what one would have been comfort. 

A dark silhouette, coal black surrounded by stars. Shadows. Shadows. This stars were only shadows of thousands dreams.

Even the sun couldn’t chase the presence of a child, stitches around his throat.

Everyone threw themselves from his path as he stranded through Highgarden toward Alyssa’s Chamber. He payed them no mind.

No raven would have been able to carry the news of their victory, or even their meeting at Dragonstone, however none seemed inclined to stand in front of him for inquiring about the success of his venture.

Ser Oslo Whinny, the other White Cloak, was standing guard. He looked at Daemon with eyes like saucer before almost jumping from his post to let the Prince Regent into the coveted room.

The cozy apartment was nicely warm, not too hot, with a slight breeze carrying pure air. The fire was lighted, the unmistakable form of the newborn dragon rolled near it. Alerie Tyrell, nee Hightower was watching over the Queen, some menial embroidery in her lap, still pregnant. Harrow was kneeled near the crib, a book open in his lap, clearly reading out loud to the newborn, totally absorbed by his task, even miming some of the events on the pages for the benefit of spect of dust. 

His treasured daughter was awake, eyes half closed, sleep fading from her trait as she mewled, soon imitated by Elaenaerys, roused from her spot near the hearth. Daemon could have sworn the newborn smiled at him. Her lips slightly turned upward as she fumbled to grasp his finger.

“I missed you too, my little Queen.”

The hatchling sniffed the satchel Daemon had carelessly abandon at his feet, and began to squirm to reach what reposed inside, her curiosity stirred by the dried blood coating it.

“My Prince…”

Daemon snatched the package from the little dragon greedy paws, gripping Robert’s Baratheon’s head by the hair and discarding the soiled satchel, for Eleanaerys’ pleasure. Ignoring the woman immobile in the rocking chair.

Harrow cried out and threw himself at Alerie, almost knocking her from her sit. Daemon should have word with his ward - well it was Hightower's squire, technically - about the respect due to noble women, especially pregnant Lady Paramount and over reaction. He should have been used to some body part after the unfortunate fate of his childhood home. Alerie sole reaction was to steady the insolent child, her face void of emotions. 

Yes, the Hightower produced one Lady worthy of her title.

Daemon turned back his attention to the single occupant of the Chamber his heart belonged to. 

“I brought you a gift from the Red Keep. I am afraid there was a pest infestation in our absence. I am certain Arthur is already caring about this inconvenience for you.”

He bended himself closer, as if sharing a secret, in a staged secretive tone.

“I suspect he may like you, my love.”

The wonderful news didn't affected the newborn as strongly as Daemon had hoped.

"Anyway, we are avenged. Avenged. Princess Lyanna, remember how I told you about her courage and wits, your mother, Dearest, is avenged. This pig - he made a rude gesture toward the head -died knowing she choose your Unwort..your Father. Birth Father."

This was a severe dent in Lyanna's supposed wit but Daemon was willing to work on this details. Maybe he could claim temporary madness at the prospect of marying the second coming of Borros Baratheon.

"Oh, some managed to avoid our Caraxes just retribution, but I'll ensure they regret their choices to give me more time to organize their punishment."

A kind heart had decorated the Royal crib by adding various wooden, vividly colored, sculpted animals and flowers – roses, how unoriginal – above the newborn bedding. Wolves, dragons, horses, foxes, bears, gently tingled against each other. No stags .

Daemon new addition needed stronger support. Support he was in no stance to provide and he predicted some resistance to his plans.

He dangled the head above Alyssa, cautious of keeping the foul fool’s head from the newborn reach. Who knew what disease he may have carried? Fourteen Flames. Daemon should have made sure of cleaning his trophy before allowing it in his daughter presence.  What was he thinking? The Queen’s eyes followed the strange novelty presented by the familiar smelling figure before losing interest and trying to reclaim her previous prize, latching to Daemon’s hand.

Elaenaerys was playing with the satchel in the corner of the room. Alerie Hightower continued her needle work, her lips white. Soon the hatchling was running hammock, blinded, a bloodied bag with tiny legs and fume coming from the stitches. Harrow was valiantly trying his best to coral her, in a foolish, if well intensed, attempt to avoid the Queen to be disturbed. 

Corlys, amongst his many tales counted a strange story of a tribe, far in the East – and how convenient for Corlys that such tales should always originated from the unmapped and unknown where savages had mastered the sorcery of reducing the head of their enemy to simple toys. If Daemon could find the Sea Snake book somewhere, maybe…

Alyssa was falling asleep, lulled by the move of the disfigured remains of the man who stole her family and would have opposed her birthright brought a strange, vindictive, gratification.

Baratheon, Lannister, Arryn, Tully…

He was unsure what Arthur’s opinion of this new pet project would be.

Then he spent two whole seconds wondering why Arthur’s impute mattered. Before remembering soft lips, parched by the dragon’s ride and the fights, which had no right to taste this sinful.

Daemon leaned himself against the bassinet, slowing falling to his knees. He barely heard the Usurper’s head rolling on the floor, a blue globe popping out of it’s socket, as the Prince Regent closed his eyes, peaceful for the first time in days. Surrounded by dragon and baby’s scent. His last child.

Chapter Text

The Lone Knight

All great leaders choose great advisors, people they really trust for their governance.                                      Tom Payne

The first decree signed by Seer Arthur Dayne, Hand of Queen Alyssa First of her name, Lady of the Seven Kingdome, Protector of the Faith, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynars and the First Men was to launch a manhunt for Ser Gregor Clegane, Amory Lorch, or any members of their Households. The reward was more than Ten Thousand golden dragons per head, double if brought to her Grace alive.

Aerys, Second of his name lay have been mad as a R’llor’s priest under poppy milk but the treasury was overflowing with gold. And the Bank of Bravos kept even more, secure in their impenetrable coffer.

Another matter for another day.

The second decree was an order of arrest aiming the former Warden of the West and his family, be their name Lannister of Frey.

Dornishmen were petty and vengeful and Arthur never defended the assesment .

He hoped Daemon wouldn’t make a habit of disappearing in the clouds with their enemies’ heads. Proving their identity would quickly become a hassle.

Someone – and Arthur would love to know the details – had apparently conserve the collar bore by former Hands who favored armor to courtlier outfits.

He felt like a dog, wearing it. The distasteful jewelry was heavy and unpractical.

Raven flew, dark wings carrying dark news to the more important, strategic fortress, cites and harbor.

Dark news of a massacre to come. Of Justice. Promises of Fire and Blood.

The name of the new Prince Regent right next the Targaryen sigil. And his. He hesitated before using the sigil of House Dayne, a sigil he renounced and had never used.

He wondered about Addam’s reaction. He wondered about Dorian and Oberyn’s furious shock. He was half surprise Oberyn hadn’t surge through thin air to gauge his eyes and cut his balls.

The servants had run like headless chick to polish the dreaded thing, adjust it, bowing so low at his simple approach Arthur actually feared they would begin to go to room to room like some kind of giant worms deprived of their member. He could only pray – to whom? - their absolute terror of his person – him! a renowned Knight, the Sword of the Morning, a son of House Dayane, but a well known sight in the Red Keep - would fade before Daem…The Prince Regent came back with the Queen. He doubted the Prince Regent would be amused by spineless coward – self preserving intelligent individual - around his protégé. For Arthur had little doubt on the whereabouts of the newest conqueror of King’s Landing.  The Seven – or the Fourteen – knew the man’s ego didn’t need any encouragement.

What an absolute jerk. Or cunt. Since it was his favorite insult.

He threw one of the most coveted piece of useless precious metal in the Seven Kingdom to his brow, almost knocking him out – Ser Barristan assured him he was dramatizing this side of the narrative, but Arthur had the bruise to prove it – and then disappeared with the dragon.

The dragon.

Their best weapon and insurance to maintain order in the capital flying off without a single look behind. Not a single word for the White Cloak who followed them through the whole madness. Nightsong. Highgarden. Dragonstone.  Not. A. Single. Word.

And now Ser Barristan was looking at him as if Arthur wasn’t his sworn brother but a dangerous bottle filled to the brim with wildfire.

Never had he felt so…exposed and powerless while every person in the city appeared to relied on him.

Him. For a different set of talent that didn’t include swinging Dawn at enemies.

Wildfire. A saccharine whisper in his head cooed he might as well be.

Arthur felt his check burning. As if he was still a squire enduring the japes of Oberyn Martell.

Thanks…whatever was out there listening him out, only Ser Barristan and the Silent Sister shad been witness to Daemon delirium post battle. Arthur had seen the symptoms often enough to recognize what possessed the Prince Regent. Battle lust. Yes. To his shame, could still remember the same desire cursing his flesh. The same insanity.

The Silent Sister were…well silent and Ser Barristan very impressed, as most of the occupants still roaming free in the Red Keep by the Caraxes’ shaped hole in Maegor Holdfast.

Another problem to solve as fast as possible. Dae…The Prince Regent had informed him of the main entrances by the secret tunnel built by Maegor, some he had known for following Rhaegar when he wanted to ‘disguise’ himself as a bard – and none of the White Cloak ever informed him he was the only fool in the city with these stunts – some he had ignored existed. He had checked each one, carefully, ordering Barristan – wasn’t that a novelty - and fighting against every instinct he had to not have them dismantled, blocked, destroyed. They were exit as much as entrance. He had to keep remind himself that if Elia had knew…Did Rhaegar never shown any of them to his first wife?

Some were too clean, too “fresh” to not have been used one way or the other. Maybe by the Mad King. Maybe by Varys little birds. A lot of them guided the ignorant in the middle of a brothel – too many of them – or flea bottom. Some, however seemed to have been long forgotten, one giving a view of the Small Council many would kill for. A few lead to the underground maze of the capital or the harbor. Many walls thoughts impregnable were nothing but empty, narrow path little Targaryen might have been exited to explore.

After a few hours, his head turned from the labyrinth Maegor had created within his Holdfast. So many escape built for protecting the royal family – he whished Elia had known, he whished…- but it was also nothing less than a security nightmare. The presence of traps, spying facility and unguarded pathways in the King’s – Queen’s- corridor would impend upon his sleeping schedule for months.

Nightmares he was to confront alone.

Arthur couldn’t post sentinel in front of every entrance, lest giving away ones of the better preserved secret of the Royal Family. He wasn’t even allowing Ser Barristan the disclosure the Prince Regent besotted on him – was it a tradition for the Hand of the King to be aware of these ways to abscond from one of the most guarded place in Westeros. It would explain Tywin Lannister swift disappearance.

He settled to order the constant presence of loyalists, picked up in the dungeon in the more sensitive area, after consulting with Ser Barristan on their character near every room deemed ‘sensible’ for the palace’s security. No question asked.

Once more, Barristan tried to get information on Daemon’s character, Arthur feigned to ignore him.

“He is the Prince Regent, who will reign until Queen Alyssa reach her majority.”

“He is no Blackfyre. Altough he probably would try to invade Essos to get that sword back.”

“He is a Truborn son of House Targaryen.”

“Yes. I have full confidence in your judgment and Queen Rhaelle. However, the name is unfortunate.”

Let it be said Arthur understood now why they spent one evening choosing a suiting name for a Reigning Queen. Visenya would have been…ill advised, indeed.

However, something was grating his nerves. Queen Rhaelle’s word should have been enough for Barristan the Bold. He had seen the Queen Dowager been born. Saw her became a vivacious young girl, if shy, flourish into a woman, and suffer though her marriage. He was overstepping.

Arthur was unfair. He knew. As Prince Rhaegar ‘best friend’ he rarely had to experience the sordid affair between the late King and the Queen Dowager. Even when Rhaegar visited the Red Keep, his father was so paranoiac, his wife and Queen got some respite.

“What don’t you ask for yourself the Prince Regent’s exact relation to King Aerys was?”

Barristan squirmed, bashful.

“Daemon Targaryen is a Trueborn son of House Targaryen, claimed as kin by Queen Rhaella and designated Prince Regent for our Queen. The White Cloaks don’t get the luxury to question the Royal Family.”

The Knight had repeated some of these sentences so often he was tempted to get it engraved on the highest step of the Iron Throne. The step he insisted to sit upon, refusing to sit on the bloody chair.

“We serve the Queen. The Lady of the Seven Kingdom. No one else. And Prince Daemon is Prince Regent, by the will of late Princess Lyanna. Maybe have I misunderstood our oaths for all this years?”

If his heart clenched when seeing Ser Barristan recoiled and observe him as if confronted by a brand new specimen, a stranger. He ignored his regrets.

Daemon was tainting his thoughts.

On the bright side, no one but Barristan had been bold enough – ha! – to try fishing intelligence from him. A chance for the Throne integrity. And the new Hand credibility.

Given the horror of what he could only imagine was a Throne depleted by time, felony and treachery, Daemon wouldn’t be forgiving of another outrage outrage to his legacy, if well meaning.

Already Arthur had ordered for all the swords of the newest captive to be confiscated and added to a pile near the Throne. A welcome back present. Caraxes would be delighted to melt them and Daemon having his own contribution recognize on the Iron Throne. Yes, the arrogant Valyrian would love the idea. Arthur and the other White Cloak wouldn’t hear the end of it. He would remind everyone in his vicinity each time a dispute arose.

Let’s hope Caraxes didn’t destroy the Throne in his enthusiasm.

Half the Gold Cloak, more than half, were in darkest the pit of the black cell, with rancid bread and not totally clean water. Ser Arthur reluctant to waste food on dead men unfortunate enough to still breath, when the city suffered from the consequences of the event which was to be recalled as ‘The Sack of King’s Landing.’

Every man, Gold Cloaks, Royal Guards, mercenaries – hadn’t that been a pleasant surprise – implicated in defiling the capital and crimes against unarmed civilians – and Arthur adopted a broad definition of ‘unarmed’ where destined to swing alongside the other traitors. Orders or no orders.

The numbers of God Cloaks had been depleted considerably and a lot of loyalist without proper tittle, or even not-so-loyalist with a silver of moral which ended them in the dungeon were promoted.

Queen Alyssa would be a symbol of an implacable, but fair, justice. To honor her Northern roots.

And hope Lord Eddard reaction to the lack of trial of the usurper could pass…as an unfortunate necessity in the confusion of the moment. Anyone present would be hard press to describe ‘confusion’ but he had faith in the witness valuing their lives.

Once he sorted the immediate consequences of their coup – he wondered how their attack and the decapitation of the Ususrper would be presented in History books. The divergence between History and the memory of events written in the Maesters books was a subject he dwelled on often, these last few weeks.

So he was leading men loyal to a Mad King, who may or may not accept Alyssa’s rule, despite the almost ominous lack of contestation, and potential rebels with actual limits in the horror they were willing to commit in the name of their cause.

Most of the noble could be put in one of these category.

Years would be necessary before solid, reliable, men in arms could be trust in the capital – and the realm.

His prayers went to the Old Gods worshipped by the Northerners.

The Hand of the Queen had also cared to offer commodity for every Northmen found in the Capital. Many Lords, stubborn to the end, had stayed despite the abrupt regime shift, trying to fight against these ‘New Targaryen Fiends’. Arthur was glad to report no causality was to be mourned on the Northerners side. The politic side of the sore affair was prickly enough without adding a few new corpses as grievance.

Arthur managed to convey to an almost reasonable and intelligible Karstark, assisted by men wearing the Manderly livery, the ascension to the Throne of Queen Alyssa, Trueborn Daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna and after an unnecessary amount of shouting on their part – thanks the Seven, Daemon was on the other side of Westeros – Arthur assured them, giving his word and engaging his honor, that no deception was offered.

Yes, Prince Rhaegar was touched by madness, perhaps, but the wild she-wolf had been a willing party in her ‘kidnapping’. Yes, they had been properly married in front of a heart tree. No, no one excluded polygamy from the Targaryen exceptionalism. He witnessed it. Yes, maybe, the morality was unsound. He was a White Cloak. Judging the behavior of his Royal charge wasn’t in his habit – it was. The Queen would see justice for her Grand-Father and Uncle. No she wasn’t Mad. She was three weeks old.

He avoided with an ability born from decades amongst southerner’s nobility the subject of the Prince Regent.

Due should be offered offered when and where it should. The Northerners were apparently the sole resident of the Red Keep unimpressed by the dragon.

If Queen Alyssa inherited the stoicism of her maternal family and the fire of her paternal House, she was going to be a force to reckon with.

Arthur had no success in getting the Northerners to use the proper title of their new Queen, claimed as Lyanna’s girl. On the bright side, they seemed very fond of the child, even if misguided in the circumstance surrounding her. He wished luck to Eddard Stark.

The North had shield maiden? Despite this song about the girl and the Night Watch. Hadn’t they. By the sight of the Mormont, it seemed so.

They couldn’t be that strict on inheritance.

The little party of Northerners present in the Red Keep were kept in better amenity than other ‘guests’, as vassals to the Queen’s uncle. Diplomacy.

Separate amenities.

 The Riverlanders were absent, safe for Lady Lysa Arryn, nee Tully, a young girl, maybe even younger than Lyanna, Princess Lyanna, with a voice which piped and scared eyes. Scared eyes revealing too much. The knight knew pain, not the physical, easily dealt with suffering of the flesh, but the desolation where a mind could lose track, drowning in anguish, until the person own self was devoured and the only solace to be found was their agony. Lysa Tully was on her way down a tragic path and Arthur was unable to prevent her fall. He wondered if Hoster Tully would even care for his second born daughter.

All Lannister were killed on sight, Stormlanders paraded in front of him, one by one, as he gave his temporary judgment. He knew a lot of them would never see their lands again. Even if they had just obeyed to their Lord Paramount orders. He prided himself by offering them better treatment than the fate reserved to loyalists.

Until Daemon came back.

Aerys, Second of his name, had been Mad. Tywin Lannister wasn’t. And the escapee hadn’t managed to smuggle any part of the overflowing treasury. Nor the rations for their armed forces.

The Reach couldn’t arrive soon enough. And with them, trails and trails of foods. Foods promised by the first ravens to fly with news of the loyalist army’s movement. Promise of the chance of a peaceful power transition.

The Sword of the Morning’s, aborning his new, shiny decoration and an unmistakable Targaryen banner, second impulsion, after checking the relative safety of the Royal Quarter – he would at least fight Daemon on the secret passage leading from the King’s, now Queen’s, apartment straight into a brothel. This one ominously was also connected to the Tower of the Hand and far from decrepit – had been to assuage the damage to the City, from the rich neighborhood to Flea Bottom.

Everywhere the same stories. Murder, maiming, sons taken from their parents who where dependent of them, be it for succeeding to their ailing father’s business or just ensuring the family’s daily sustenance, daughters soiled and traumatized – Elia…- children orphaned.

The wealthiest citizens were the more vocals, vocals in their complaints as they were in their fealty to the Targaryen lineage. The new Monarch’s identity and lineage didn’t leave the Red Keep, Arthur, copying one of Daemon’s trademark expression and describing the various methods of punishment the Prince Regent openly enjoyed, had made sure of it. As sur as one can be. Which means he had to be contented with the truth being thrown around amongst fifteen ridiculous rumors.

However, despite their ignorance, to hear them Aerys had been Baelor reborn.

If they couldn’t pander the actual ruler, they would make due.

Hand of the Queen obliged, Arthur didn’t sneer at them.

He wasn’t even getting payed for his trouble, apart from the satisfaction of serving Rhaegar’s last heir. Upholding his oath.

He should really inform himself on the possibility of a monetary compensation. Pregerably payed by these insufferable social climbers.

If he chose to stay silent on Rhaegar heir and the Seven Kingdom newest Ruler…. Serve them right.

Trade route were also a priority, complex arrangement, treaty, invoked to founded wrongdoing.

They had to find a treasurer somewhere. Because Arthur capacity in commerce and diplomatic matters weren’t honed by decades of teaching and training. He doubted Daemon fared better. He was decided to keep his certitude for himself.

As per usual, though, Flea Bottom had suffered the worst of the pillage. You would think the poverty would prevent the dweller of the more miserable streets to be aimed at by soldier seeking riches but no one had ever taught these lessons to the meat bearing armors that burned stable, fighting pits, brothels and simple muddy houses where ten children squeezed themselves, trying to hide from the envoy of the Crown who owned them protection. The next few days were occupied by the distribution of food, food until then kept under lock for the army, and any products deemed necessary. Maester were ordered a decent amount of Moon Tea of prohibited from questioning the women presenting themselves.

“Queen Rhaella would approve,” was the only comment Arthur gratified Ser Barristan, who had become his right hands by default.

Some women refused any treatment. Fear? Attornment? Lack of thrust? Arthur couldn’t fight their demons.

He dispatched the Maesters in the different Healing House still standing, the orphanage and…location of ill repute, more spared than the rest, structurally. They were tasked with distributing medications, food, practical feeling food and some treats for the youngsters. More important, they were to offer compassion, hears for registering the crimes committed by the Usurper’s men. Eyes to witness the consequences of the atrocities allowed in the name of love.

Arthur had known Lyanna, no more than a child in his mind, with her stubbornness and sense of fairness, and egoism, and he knew she would have cut the throat of Robert Baratheon herself in front of such repulsing spectacle.

Each charity gesture was to be made in the name of ‘Queen Alyssa’. None cared which Royal was behind such generosity. Arthur hoped to smoothen Rhaegar’s daughter ascension.

No one asked who Queen Alyssa was. Mouth too filled and mind focused on survival.

They had received new words from the Reach. The confirmation own army was on the Rose Road, escorting wagon of decent food and clothes, on the initiative of House Tyrell and Redwyne, seconded by their vassals. The workforce travelling with them will be more than welcome. The ravens must have been sent as soon as Daemon and Arthur managed to tear themselves from Queen Alyssa’s side, which meant the Tyrell were extraordinary confident in their success – the did have a dragon – or supposed their help would be welcome whoever managed the capital by the time of the ravens’ arrival. Untimely. They were lucky Arthur had no intention of informing Daemon of this peculiar oddity. There had been enough death. And the two others realms they hoped to align with Queen Alyssa were too horrified by the Usurper’s fate to be reliable just yet.

The few Gold Cloak whom Arthur didn’t link – just wait a little – to the atrocities committed against the Crown and the population were servile to the extreme. Worst than the actual servants. They treated Arthur as Aegon the Conqueror reincarnated and he wasn’t the one to whom the dragon actually obeyed. Maybe he had, for fun, cried ‘Dracarys’ a few times, but it was in the excitation of the moment and the dragon didn’t obey. Certainly not. Arthur scratched at the abominable collar Daemon imposed upon him. Authority. Being responsible. In charge. In all his life, Arthur had wonderfully avoided all leadership and the hassle many Lords seek. Madmen, for Arthur.

In the mirror his reflection showed a tired man, the splendid collar – whose idea has it been to add ruby to the damned thing? He was a walking target with these shiny rock around his neck – taunting him. He was pretty sure the Hand was doing a rude gesture. Sevens, he was exhausted.

His eyes scouted the sky for the now familiar red silhouette each time.

A few days later his patience was rewarded.

Not before another raven came. From Starfall.

                Dear Brother,

I can only hope this letter find you well, at the side of the righteous Ruler of the Seven Kingdom. I fear I must add to your grief, the grief every dornishmen suffer at the news of sweet Princess Elia and her children’s fate, even if rumors are already flowing about miraculous escape. I am too old to trust romantic maid’s tale and Doran would not be fool.

Our beloved sister, Lady Ashara, Heir of Starfall, choose death to dishonor. I lay her broken body myself near our parents sepulture, in the hope they can protect her in her eternal sleep as I was unable to do in her life. Her swirling, glamorous, full of joy and enchantment, life. Joy she brought to others, her family first among them.

I dearly hope her memory endure in Allyria, my new heir, unless, you are freed of the Cloak on your shoulder, a Cloak many think you wore for too long. I will never command you, Sword of the Morning, beloved brother, for everyone of us has their own place to forge in this mad word.

Forgive the rambling of an old man. Even Allyria, few months as she is seemed barely tolerating of my moodiness.

Would you believe Eddard Stark, of all the Seven Hells scion, came, believing I would welcome him? After his family dishonored Ashara so?

I enclosed a painting of our youngest sister. The Gods have been clement, as they rarely show themselves for she inherited most of your look.

Lord Addam Dayne, Lord of Starfall.

Arthur wondered if he would have been able to prevent his sister desperate decision has they directed their party toward Starfall.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t react. Not yet. After. When the numbness would allow him to be no one else than Arthur Dayne.

Arthur spent days imagining how he would gauge the Prince Regent’s eyes for putting him in this precarious position.

Nobles, nourished and correctly clothed, were nervously shifting in the Throne room, unsure of the protocol to observe, or what they were even doing here in the first place. If Arthur didn’t wish to impose his presence as much as possible near the seat of legitimacy, he would have agreed with them. Damn if he remembered their name. He needed a month of rest.

None could deny the truth. Not a single one of them, Arthur included wanted to be among the sinister decor.

A commotion announced the impending arrival of the source of all Arthur’s miseries. From now on, Prince Daemon Targaryen should be remembered as the Sword of the Morning’s bane.

He was sure people were fleeing the Red Keep, again, and many assembled figure looked like they wanted to faint.

The Hand of the Queen forgot his murderous intent as soon as Daemon sauntered in the Throne room –pristine clean and reeking of dragon.

With a lack of dramatic entrance very out of character. By his standard.

In his arm, the Queen, the reason for the upheaval in the Seven Kingdom. The Queen born from war and rebellion. Theirs.

A part of Arthur wanted to jump from the step he was sited, leaning against a sword’s hilt, and cover his Queen with caress, reassure himself of her health, her growth. Could she hold herself a little better? Raise her head? No, of course not, she was too young. Still, she must have change so much. Would she recognize him?

Given the satisfying look on Daemon’s face, smug and superior, he had no reason to fear a single mark marred her skin. Or the Gods couldn’t save Highgarden. For all he knew Highgarden may be burnt to the ground, a second Harrenhall. He hoped Daemon managed to be reasoned with. The Reach was the only reliable Realm. Well, reliable was far fetched, he trusted them as far as he could throw Mace, to say, not really far. Weight toss was never a favorited activity of his.

Dear…Whoever listened, he was burn out after a few days in office.

Arthur barely noted how the noble, knight and Lords fled the room, closely followed by the servants.

Prince Daemon seemed please by the security he spotted in the Holdfast, but perplexed by Arthur’s chosen position.

Barristan, who had stood in front of him, hastily joined the Prince side, reuniting briefly with Ser Oswald, who looked very green, but immediately assumed his role of Queensguard.

As a matter of fact, he looked as green as a Green Man. Arthur sympathized with his brother, having mixed memories of his own air travel experience but he failed to imagine how a smooth ride alongside their Queen and Prince Regent could elicit this shade. How dramatic of Ser Oswald. Maybe Targaryen’s histrionic was catching.

Arthur’s ride had elicited another shade…

Prince Daemon ignored the effusion, aside for a slight approval in his stance. One many would have missed.

“Ser Arthur! You look…terrible.”

What a charmer.

“My Prince.”

Maybe, maybe, Arthur should have kept the grudge in his voice down.

Shark had less teeth than this man.

But no firmer lips, demanding and unyielding, breath of blood and life…

Oh, Gods, he was waxing poems on the Prince Regent lips. A Prince Regent known for his numerous conquests

“I wonder…Shouldn’t the Hand of the Queen occupy the Throne in her absence?”

“I was hoping her absence would be short, indeed, and my hasty nomination scrutinize. I fear I lack political experience.”

Daemon laugh shouldn’t qualify as such.

“No one who sat on that Throne was prepared, not in my experience, and their lives was the cost. You are very wise for your age, young Dayne.”

Young Dayne, Young Dayne…He was the Sword of the Morning!

“However, I would be grateful if you didn’t rebut my judgment. I wasn’t impaired when I trusted you with such responsibilities and you have to prove me wrong.”

Can you prove me wrong?

Arthur, at least, gave in and walked, in what he hoped was a dignified pace toward his Queen. She was fully awake, eyes half closed but curiously alert, and squeezing one of Daemon’s finger. Sharp pain crossed Arthur. Pain no Maester would ever be able to appease. He ignored the Prince Regent piercing stare. Was the man a freaking scavenger in his precedent incarnation?

“The Royal Wing had been secured, as well as we could, without you impute, my Prince. Targaryen effects discarded during the short, although too long, Usurper’s occupation, had been saved. Some had been gathered by opportunists who hoped to make good gold from our treasure in the free cities. They had been made see reason. I listed all the prospective buyers, if you wish to inspect. The damage suffered by the city had been ascertained. Mainly, the cost had been human lives and resources. The defenses are intact, Aerys having open the door willingly to the traitors. The Northerners are detained in the best conditions, as are Lord Arryn and the two Baratheon brothers.”

With each sentences Arthur could feel tension bleed from Daemon posture. However, some of his composure looked…worried. Well, worried may be an exaggeration.

Arthur focused his attention on his two sworn brothers. One was carefully looking at a dragon skull – allegedly DreamFyre – the other barely managed to hold himself straight as his whole attention was centered on the bundle in the Prince’s arms.

Daemon didn’t smile. Not yet. Ser Barristan was still…an outsider. He allowed the White Cloak to peek at the new Queen. Arthur realized he never described Queen Alyssa to Ser Barristan and the old knight was too polite, old school to demand anything from the Hand of the Queen. Arthur reddened. How absurd. Only him could find himself in such ridiculous situation.

Ser Barristan didn’t coo. Cooing was undignified. Well, at least in the middle of the Targaryen siege of power. However, his eyes were a little misty as he inspected the gleaming golden silver tuft, so typical of Targaryen newborn, even if the usual tuft so common for Targaryen newborn had been replaced, in a few weeks by a head full of curly hair, one even her half-sister couldn’t have competed with, – Dayne wondered if Alyssa’s hair would darken as so many infants’ did – and beamed with surprised. At her eyes. A beam of approval.

“Her mother family would be most pleased with her showing traits of the North.”

Despite Ser Barristan neutral tone, Daemon tensed.

“I dare hope, whatever her appearance, they would be most honored to claim the first Regnant Queen of the Seven Kingdom, the Blood of Old Valyria, the first Targaryen to hatch a dragon for centuries as their kin.”

Ser Barristan blinked.

Did Arthur omitted Elaenaerys?  He couldn’t have. Arthur totally omitted Elaenaerys. Oh.

The days had been stretching long and so short at once.

As if summoned from the darkest corner of Asshaï, the hatchling perked above Daemon shoulder. She had been sleeping steadily in a contraception not unlike some Arthur had remarked some mother favored to transport their progeny on their back. She scented the new odor, and, Arthur prided himself in recognizing she didn’t really approve of this new surrounding, her who was born among flowers and sickly sweet scent. King’s Landing must be a shock.

She let black fumes out of her nostrils to express her disgust. Fortunately, Daemon’s hair didn’t catch fire. His credibility wasn’t entirely dependent on his silver mane – the familiar sounds of a dragon stomping outside and terrify cries reassured Arthur of Caraxes well-being, if need be. Still Arthur would have considered their lost as personal. He was used to the crone’s hair.

Between their cute new Queen – Ser Arthur should stop associating words as ‘cute’ to his sovereign, but it was a fight for another day – and the black fire – was it normal? Maybe all dragon’s fumes were this impenetrable black, a black which appeared to suck colors from its vicinity, creating a void, an unnatural nothingness - breathing, living dragon Ser Barristan’s eyes almost busted out of their socket.

So like…so reminiscent of the creature. He couldn’t…Could he?

Daemon, after accepting the slightly confused, but heartfelt and emotional compliments in the name of the Queen stranded toward the Throne with a total irreverence, Arthur following him as if the two men were attached by some invisible cord.

Ser Oswald and Ser Barristan immediately joined their place to protect the Queen, and the Prince Regent. Arthur knelt at the Throne side. Uncaring of the image he gave to the other guards. Only the most irreproachable men were allowed so close of the Throne by any means. Arthur could see their excitation and pleasure – for all that many of them still disapproved of a Reigning Queen, Arthur was no fool – at the idea of the gossip gained after the Prince Regent dramatic entrance.

Daemon sat without hesitation, as if he had one so every day of his life, knew every angle of the damned horror, careful to shield the Queen from the rusty swords.

The Queen, three weeks of age, on the Throne which was her birthright. Enclosed in the arms of a Regent who would ensure she would be ready to, one day, deliver sentences and decrees for all to obey. Even if, for now, the imposing figure captivated the attention the black and red cloak of the infant nested against his chest was a clear message to all.

“I am Prince Regent Daemon Targaryen, Regent of Queen Alyssa, First of Her Name, Lady of the Seven Kingdom, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynars and the First Men, Protector of the Faith. The only surviving child of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, by his second wife, Princess Lyanna of House Targaryen and House Stark. I will receive your oaths of fealty, but for now, the Court is adjourned.”

The nobles rushed toward the door with as much dignity as possible. Daemon grinned.

“So Lord Hand, what should be our first move?”

“Aside sending our prayer for the swift arrival of trustworthy reinforcement from the Reach? Probably trying to work through the skull of the Northerners under our hospitality while waiting for Lord Stark to present himself.”

The Prince Regent pouted. At the idea of the Reach being the fiercest allies – the cost was still pending above their heads, and each of them was very aware such price would have to be consequent – or entertaining the notion of playing nice with a part of the rebels, Arthur couldn’t say.

Since he received his brother’s letter, a vindictive strike wished for Eddard Stark to provoke Daemon’s ire. Even if, Arthur could attest, Eddard couldn’t be involved in Ashara’s predicament. No, it had been Brandon.

Daemon, crossed his legs, in a very non regal manner.

“Sounds like matters which don’t request the Crown immediate attention.”

Arthur wholeheartedly disagreed with that assessment and made it known in non uncertain terms.

Terms which may have included ‘hardheaded dragonrider, who should ride a rooster instead of Caraxes to match his pride’.

The sole sound was the fracas of Ser Barristan’s jaws on the floor. Ser Oswald just looked tired and…exasperated.

No anger was visible on Daemon regular traits. His ridiculous perfect, beautiful traits, which would demand his head any minutes now.

“You really don’t care for responsibility. Do you?”

Arthur deflated.

“I abandon responsibilities when I choose the White Cloak.”

“A White Cloak to serve a madman. Oh, calm yourself, out of all Targaryen still, or once again, dwelling in Westeros, I should be the one allowed to judge King Aerys, Second of his name.”

The disappointment in Daemon’s eyes hurt more than any grieve in his brother, family, or friends’ eyes.

“He wasn’t always mad” sounded empty. Empty excuses. For a man thirsty for glory, battle, and distaste for responsibility.

“The North will follow Stark lead. And we can, as you pointed so usefully, that the Riverlanders would seek their best interest and join them. The Erye would be in a succession crisis. We hold the Stormlanders’ principal leaders, if you can call these children leaders, hostages. The Reach is gained to…Alyssa. The Iron Island would sail where they pleased, little concerned by our quarrels. That let the Westerland and Dorne. Did you get any news from your family?”

Arthur got the disagreeable sensation of being propelled under a frozen cascade.

“Only…Personal matter. I fear my brother was too…occupied with our lost for seeking intelligence or any sort of advantage.”

Daemon perfectly drawn eyebrows formed a line.

Arthur prayed he wouldn’t…

“Personal matters? I fail to see what could be more important than a war waged for the Throne itself.”

“My sister is dead.”

Arthur didn’t mean to sound aggressive and resentful. Daemon was…Daemon. He shouldn’t act so brashly toward the man acting as the gods crafted him – not their best work, temperament wise.

The Prince Regent froze.

“Oh.”

Yes. Oh.

Daemon cleared his throat. He sounded almost a little lost.

“My condolences.”

Arthur ignored Barristan stare.

“I would perish if something happened to Alyssa.”

Arthur realized the misunderstanding immediately.

“No! No! Allyria is fine. I think. She was, in Addam last letter. It’s Ashara.”

“Lady Ashara is dead?”

Arthur burnt under Barristan’s scrutiny. A scrutiny seemingly appealing to the Prince Regent who signaled for Arthur to come closer.

Arthur try to concentrate on the Queen, playing with a little smooth blue rose broach, added to her velvety cloak. A rose. A blue rose. Symbol of House Tyrell but acceptable as a bittersweet reminder of Princess Lyanna.

“Arthur? Dayne?”

“Forgive me my Prince. My sister…brought shame on our House by…she threw herself by a window. After the death of her infant daughter. She had no marry, no suitor, no prospect. The child was…her everything.”

Arthur felt the urge to steal Alyssa from Daemon’s grip and bury his burning face in her softness, her regular breath soothing. Even if El’ may not be kind to his hair. He was no Targaryen.

Fingers forced him to raise his chin, crossing the enraged look of the Prince Regent.

“I had heard Dorne was welcoming of children, whoever their parent’s faults.”

Arthur laugh bitterly.

“Dorne would like to assure so. Alas, the Gods are yet to create such a place.”

A sneer.

“Hypocrite.”

“Very much so.”

“Maybe we should pay Starfall a visit to present our respect? Your sister’s fate saddens a joyous victory.”

How unusually empathic of Prince Daemon.

Arthur offered a sad smile. His sister’s loss was far from the only casualty of the rebellion. If her act of despair could even be attributed to the fate of her dearest friend.

Had Rhaegar lived, has he ruled, would he have forced House Stark to assume responsibility? The slight on House Dayne which couldn’t be allowed to grow old. Shouldn’t.

“Addam acted as best as he could. I do not fault him. I couldn’t fault him more than he does.”

Something was brewing behind the Prince Regent Purple eyes. Calculations, cunning, hundreds of possibilities, passing through his expressive gaze. Arthur did not care for the strange gleam they settled for. Victory and malice poorly hidden by a soft smile. A smile reserved to Arthur and the memories privy to Daemon.

“I still wish to present my condolences personally and declare House Dayne as a staunch ally of House Targaryen.”

The political uproar would be magnificent.

Despite himself, for the first time in days, Arthur let escape a pitiful laugh.

Daemon’s hands were suddenly tugging the Hand’s collar.

“Why are you wearing this?”

His hiss would make Caraxes proud.

“You named me Hand’s of the Queen!”

Did he? Oh, by the gods Arthur must have misunderstood…

“You look like…This is…By the Fourteen Flames, take it off!”

“I…apologize for assuming…”

“What? No! I gave you a pin, not a fucking collar!”

Of course he hadn’t been assuming, Daemon confirmed his position as soon as he entered the Throne room.

The next ten minutes of fretting let Arthur totally astounded.

Targaryen. Who could hope to understand them?

“You reek, my Prince.”

Queen Alyssa’s First Official Court and official presentation was postponed for the excellent reason that said Court, aside from being sadly depleted, was still judged too untrustworthy.

Also, the slightly detail of the new “Lord” of the Seven Kingdom’s gender, while far from being a secret, as Arthur used her name in multiple occasion, despite cautioness as her parentage, had seemingly escaped the rumor mill. Or they had mistakenly thought Arthur was Rhaella’s Hand.

Maybe the rumor mongers were afraid of repercussion or septic.

The truth lost in the falsities.

When a dragon should take residence in the Royal Garden, skepticism should fade. But humans’ minds, men’s especially were incredibly resilient. A High Mystery, really.

Daemon wasn’t pleased.

`

Arthur couldn’t wait to see his reaction to be mistakenly identify as the hidden son of a Night Watch’s Maester who had secretly served the Stark’s interest in the shadow.

He wondered if he could sell the idea of the Prince Regent being the son of Daeron and Jeremy, Jeremy being a brave shield maiden who dissimulated her true identity to follow her love to the war.

Arthur and Oswald were confident they could sketch rumors even more ridiculous than the truth. And they would give their best tries.

The Prince Regent’s first preoccupation was also centered on the Royal Quarter.

However, he was mainly lamenting the absence of Targaryen’s heraldry. King Aerys room has been repurposed for the Usurper, who hadn’t really settled in the apartment.

Arthur may have ordered to burn the bed. Who new what disease festered between the sheets?

Any cribs having belong to one of the Queen’s sibling were discarded, stored away in the hope of future, happier generations.

Daemon settled on a black cribb, carved as a dragon cradling their young, roaring in defiance. The piece, made of ebony and Dragonglass, with the accursed rubies, had belonged to young Prince Viserys, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the throne. Arthur remembered Rhaegar commissioning the piece and wisely kept the information for himself. Draperies, tapestries, toys who had been worthy to be brought on Caraxes were exposed, the Prince Regent terrorizing servants by seething ever changing orders in his carefully deceitful calm voice. The tone promising dracarys if his will wasn’t executed. The Prince Regent was a Master in his craft.

Alas, Arthur was doubtful on his mastery in decoration. Or taste. He guessed there was only so much one could achieve when one’s House’s colors were black and red. Or when one’s family’s history where a succession of tragedy. How many depiction of violent death, including immolation, needed to be added to a newborn nursery? The main tapestry exhibited centuries of suffering, from the Doom of Valyria to the death of almost all the Targaryen at Summerhall.

Ser Oswald, presumably used to not entirely sane environment, courtesy of Harrenhall, managed to install shelves supporting colorful books, hopefully adapted to children’ hears. Most of the stories were ballads illustrated with vivid and lively pictures, every single one crafted to please little dreamers who hoped to see a dragon fly, or mystery knight crowning his lady love, meeting heroes from ancient age and visit exotic places. The Hand’s of the Queen was especially gleeful to remark the presence of Northerner’s lore among them. If the Prince Regent pursed his lips, he chose to swallow any derogatory comments. Arthur desperately concentrated on the task of organizing toys and gifts – most from Caraxes satchels, some from savvy Court members quicker than the others to adapt - to capture any visitor’s gaze.

The hearth was lighted and El’ squeaked from joy. Soon the Queen’s Quarter actually felt homely.

When Daemon Targaryen deemed the rooms feet to welcome the Queen, who didn’t look bothered by the agitation, despite her reluctance to accept any wetnurse whose name wasn’t Willa, provoking winds of panic among the closely knitted gathering.

Daemon may have tried to fit Willa in Caraxes’s satchel, according to Ser Oswald, only to be rebutted by Lady Alerie.

Arthur, sleep deprived, wondered out loud how the Prince Regent had succumbed to Alerie’s authority of all people.

He may even have wish her ill for a few, noisy, minutes. Until the Queen accepted the tits of one of the wet nurse, previously Prince Aegon’s.

Daemon explanation on his pliancy didn’t sound convincing. A tirade fervently questioning the Hightower’s morals since the creation of Hightown and praising Lady Alerie for rising above the scum in her blood. And about her strangely Targaryen appearence. Valyrian appearance.

Arthur wasn’t mindful of his black curly hair and dornish’s nose. He was a renowned Knight. A living legend. The Sword of the Morning. His sister had been the most admired Lady in Waiting of the Red Keep. Her beauty was famed in all the Seven Kingdoms. Alerie may une exotic for a Westerosi, she will never suffer the comparison with House Dayne.

Arthur had just cached up a few hour rest when a sentry busted into his room – the Hand’s Room, far from the comfort of his own quarter where he could have vented among his sworn brothers. He had the heaviest desk blocking this secret pathway.

 Queen Rhaella was at the Red Keep gates. Alone.

Chapter Text

Chapter XII : The Ghost of Maegor and other unpleasantness as dealt by the Prince Regent

Anybody can become angry - that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.          Aristotle

The two guard were shifting from one feet to another, evidently ill at ease. Dying to engage in a debate and fearful to open any controversies. The two of them seemed, and sounded, terribly young, too young to be in charge of the Royal family protection and inexperienced, crushed by the weight of the stones surrounding them history, an history whispered by every stones, covering the atmosphere in a thick blanket. An obscure mantel ready to spring and strangle any murmurs displeasing for the ears of generations of Targaryen King. The two men had been recruited from the dungeon, where they had been rotting for daring protest the sack, their gold cloaks new, untainted by blood and combat.

“Do you…”

His unfortunate fellow scowled in warning, surveying the pathway and every corner for spy. The Maester of Whisper had disappear in a cloud of smoke but his ‘little birds’ were still dreaded, an omnipresent silent threat.

“I don’t.”

Alas, his younger was determined.

“You didn’t see the…the Queen? Queen Alyssa.”

Good boy.

The other man relaxed, allowing himself a sight of relief. Or maybe frustration.

“I saw her in the care of the Prince Regent. And the Lord Hand.”

“Isn’t it weird to call Ser Arthur Lord Hand.” A grumble was his only response.

“A few days ago loyalists were…”

“A few days ago, dragons were extinct.”

The gossip prone sentry’s face brightened in awe.

“I can’t believe I witnessed the flight of a dragon. He is terrifying. And magnificent. Have you…”.

“I can promise you, boy, you will encounter the dragon from close up if you don’t learn to shut that mouth of yours.”

Offense was intended and offense was received.

“I am no oathbreaker.”

“Depend on who will judge you.”

However, instead of taking his clue to swallow further attempt to engage, the fool kept encouraging defiance.

“Did you see the Queen’s dragon. A dragon! For centuries the Kings had tried to hatch the damn eggs, they were no more than pretty stones for centuries, and the…Queen hatched one by breathing.”

“Let me guess. You heard such miracle must be a divine sign from the Seven. A blessing upon Queen Alyssa.”

The dreamer’s eyes shined.

“How would you call the feat?”

“Lucky. Mainly. For all we know, the Prince Regent hatched the egg. Sure, sound and look as if he could.”

“And he chose to beset a newborn with a dragon on a whim.”

“You got it.”

“And you dare to accuse me of traitorous words.”

“Nothing traitorous about the truth.”

“Why…”

His companion sounded prepared to put an end to the conversation by any mean necessary. Even cracking the skull of the thick headed against a pillar.

“May well be the child is his. Not natural, a men grown acting as a nurse maiden. Seven Hells, even Fathers doesn’t care about their Firstborn son as much as Prince Daemon dote upon the spawn. Heard from a wet nurse, Merry, he slept in the Queen’s room. In the nursery! Can you believe it?”

“Of course. Can you imagine if anything were to happen to the baby?”

The Gold cloak surveyed their vicinity before continuing his thoughts.

“No one had heard of Prince Viserys since Queen Rhaella left for Dragonstone. The Prince may be dead. He must be. A male come first.”

Daemon fist clenched. He breathed deeply the moldy air of the long forgotten pathway, inside the wall, peeping through a discreet hole. Alyssa was agitated, against his chest, firmly held by the same harness he used when they flied. Maybe she could understand the insult served by the tongue of these undeserving, ungrateful, cunts.

“As for the Queen paternity, I don’t believe for an instant Ser Arthur would lie about the paternity. He was Prince Rhaegar closest confident.”

Daemon’s nails were buried into his skin, paler with each breath. Breath.

How fascinating. How educative. Ser Arthur was so immaculate, his word ensured Alyssa recognition as Rhaegar and Lyanna’s progeny. No one, from the lowest servants to the proudest noble had dare question her legitimacy, Caraxes roaring in the sky above the Red Keep, stretching his wing and entertaining himself with the admiration and alarm his presence planted in the heart of the inhabitants of King’s Landing. The envoy from the Faith, presenting himself to abjure any wrong from the Church of the Seven and denounce the usurper with as much fervor as they had sworn themselves to him weeks prior, had shown satisfaction when informed of the farcical ceremony Hightower insisted upon on Highgarden. 

The confirmation from the Hight Septon, securely relocated in Oldtown since the start of the war was yet to arrive, however, Daemon was confident in Ser Gerold ability to convince him of where laid his best interest. The only decision assuring the Sept wouldn’t become a far memory, as far as Daemon was concerned. Too many stars in their iconography to begin with.

“If he is not dead he would be soon enough. The new…member of the Royal family should be grateful the Lannister dispose of the Dornish spawns. I shudder to imagine Prince Aegon serve as a snack to this…beast.”

The man was to be made an example of. For all his cadet provocation, Daemon seethed at the sole idea he could ever be compared to a Lannister in any way or shape.

Jaehaerys had been…an unhappy casualty of a hastily prepared scheme, born from the grief of Luke’s lost.

Viserys…Viserys…He never would have harmed Viserys…

Alyssa decided she had quiet enough of her adoptive parent brooding and sneering from his post of observation. Maybe she was insulted and injured at the probability of a conflict between siblings, as she got every right to be. The Gods sent Daemon to raise and love the child born in the Tower of Joy, not Prince Aegon or Princess Rhaenys. Had the Spirits lingering from Old Valyria discarded the assassinated heirs before their intolerable murders at the hands of their inferior, had they been deemed them unfit to bear the crown from some ineffable reason? Such will rose beyond humans’ comprehension. The Rogue Prince would mourn his sacrificed descendant as was fitting. And the Queen would honor their memory for as long as she reigned.

They had not lived and whatever conflict breed from Prince Rhaegar’s choices was stillborn.

Prince Viserys…Daemon was torn.

Rhaella’s desperate ‘s grip, pleading gaze, as they pronounce their farewell, his descendant offering him her favor, haunted him.

Alyssa began to wail. A development gained from her stay in Highgarden. Well, Daemon was at fault for believing the Roses wouldn’t spoil his perfect, well behaved, charge.

The Rogue Prince swiftly rocked her, with practiced rhythm. The familiar sound of a distressed newborn echoed around him, resonating against the secret path’s walls, crafted to spy on the unsuspecting.

When the cry reverberated in the open corridor amplified some mysterious process, deformed and unrecognizable the gold cloak stilled, horror plain on their traits.

“The Ghost. It’s the Ghost.”

“Silence, you, moron. Not another idiotic musing. You hear?”

Daemon retreated as the guards, shaken to their core kept their vigil.

The rumors of ghosts raging in Maegor’s Holdfast had spread even more quickly than allusion to his own mysterious origin and appearance from thin air. Some speculated the Mad King’s spirit stalled in the Red Keep, too tormented to find his way to the afterlife. Other blamed the ghosts of late Kings seeking vengeance for the spilled blood of innocent. Jaehaerys the Wise wrath was considered as Maegor’s ire. Aegon the unworthy – unfortunately, not his nibbling but his own grandson – was said to create chaos for the sake of alleviate his boredom.

He reached the Queen’s Quarter, emerging from the shadow to find a Ser Oswald’s oozing reprobation. Ser Oswell. The Harrenhall’s spawn.

He was satisfied to know this one had no fondness for rats. Or weird and vague prediction.

Ser Barristan was still healing from his wounds and ordered to assist Dayne until he was cleared to train against his sworn brothers.

Daemon ignored the knight to tend to his daughter. He carefully arranged the cribs while he reassured himself on his precious’ health. She would have strong lungs avenging herself of her feeble stature in her first weeks of existence. Daemon studied her with fascination, remembering the fragile lump barely bigger than his hand, an eternity ago, yesterday, admiring the kicking and screaming little dragon affirming her place as Queen. Noisily. Elaenaerys sauntered in the cover, purring. The hatchling had been exceptionally affectionate, another proof of Alyssa’s resilient blood.

Arthur had remarked the Queen had profited from dornish’s milk. A sneaky comment which elicited terror in the eavesdropper and a giggled from Daemon.

The Queen grasp had strengthened. As her appetite. She was sucking and swallowing with gusto, her fist days of suffering from the premature birth long forgotten. Daemon whished he could forget the horror show as easily. He found comfort in the character Alyssa already showed, in his opinion and despite Arthur’s skepticism. The young monarch was aware of her place and didn’t hesitate to remind her surrounding each occasion presenting to her. Especially every evening, when for one hour, She unfaillingly criee her heart out.

 « It’s perfectly normal, My Prince, she is assimilating her day’s learning and communicating to the best of her ability. She is only overstimulated.» Still, the Rogue Prince blamed the Tyrell for her moods swings.

“Should I call for the wet nurse?”

Daemon gestured his consent.

Whinny had barely reached the door when he narrowly escaped a stumbling Arthur, eyes wild.

The day was already more bright.

Alas, the chance of a boring day was fading in the horizon.

Daemon saw a frail hooded silhouette, trembling as stepping in the formerly King’s room.

The hood revealed Queen Rhaella, her pale skin ravaged by tears shed, her beautiful, too white, hair cut short, like a common born. The Dowager Queen fall to her knees. Her lips were bleeding and a hematoma was forming one her emaciated cheekbones. Her arms rocking a dark green egg.

Fire and Blood could be the only retaliation.

Daemon didn’t know for how long Caraxes had flied before he descended on Driftmark, rage and contempt blinding his senses.

Whent was the Queensguard who had ride at his side. Or more accurately, clamped at his back while recommending their soul to whatever deity he thought of. Too few, too valuable, dearly needed at the Queen and the Queen Dowager side, to assuage the later fear and the former rule. Daemon needed to add to their number.

The men wearing the Velaryon livery – and how he grieved the days this coat of arms had belonged to Rhaenys, his cousin, family – didn’t demonstrate surprise, their expression ones of men waiting for their inevitable demise.

Daemon’s fury wasn’t aimed at the shields made of flesh Lucerys Velaryon – how he despised the pure spurn served to his second shared son with Rhaenyra and Laenor’ memory, a sacred name. His desire for compensation, just retribution laid with their Lord, and only their Lord. Before the sun set, Driftmark would be ruled by another or destroyed. 

How he thirsted to see the ruins of Corlys’ ambition crashed to dust under his feet.

Without a glance for the disposable men, who couldn’t decide if they should defend their position or beg for his forgiveness he hurled into the Great Hall, immediately confronted by a portrait of the Conqueror, glaring down at him. Conqueror. Dreamer. Weak. Weak. For all his military prowess he had let a realm barely held by a thread of loyalty to his sons.

Lucerys Velaryon, the pretender, was sited among half a dozen men, aborning House sigil. Few Daemon cared enough to identify. He would make certain they disappeared into oblivion before he had to produce any effort in remedying to his lacuna.

Velaryon rose, head held high, red from remain of his humiliation on Dragonstone. Pitiful man, whose sole argument resided in his impeccable combed mane of silver, traits deformed by hate and frustrated ambition.

“Hail! Hail! Here come the false Prince, the mad man who intend to usurp King Viserys, Third of his name, by placing a puppet Queen on the iron throne.”

His grabbed his sword, leaning at his side. No Valyrian steel as the Velaryon for all their boasting couldn’t even pretend belonging to a dragonrider valyrian’s family.

The venom in his spat was a sham of Vaemond’s tantrums and for a moment, Daemon was tempted to howl in laugher.

“A puppet. You dare presume to detain the truth of my intention? A puppet, the daughter of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna? The puppet is the boy you so seek to crown in her stead and mold for you to control. You name Queen Alyssa usurper when I offered the Baratheon usurper’s head, the usurper you failed to vanquish, too occupy to drain privilege and gold from your liege, as a toy to our Queen to her satisfaction? Your head will join his, no blood tie will protect you today.”

Velaryon sword shook. His torso inflated. He brandished his toy, as if the westerosi made weapon stood a chance against Dark Sister. How mad was this Lucerys Velaryon? How outraged till he lost any sheer common sense?

“My House know no Queen. There can only be one King on the Iron Throne, a male, and we bow to none other. King Viserys should grant us with a new golden age of prosperity under the guidance of King Aerys truest friend and ally.”

Two step toward the table. Daemon draw his dagger, the dagger he used in the Tower of Joy and planted it in the nearest hand lingering on the table. A man with short dirty blond hair who holllered as if he recived the injury in his guts.

As one, the other conspirator put as much distance betwenn them and the crazy Taragryen-looking man as achievable without actually made a run for it. They should have made a run for it. Daemon needed to reassert his reputation.

Daemon twisted the knife, the man who had the misfortune of placing his fate into Velaryon’s care yelling in pain. Soft. This one was of no use to anyone. Daemon unsheathed the blade from the flesh, Dark Sister, which as the object of frenetic stares pointed toward the claimant to the Regency. For Regency was denied to him, for Rhaella would die before trusting her son to her late husband’s friend.

“You forgot your place, it seemed. A common falling of your House. You were not the King’s ally. Nor his confident. Nor his friend. You were his vassal. You owed him obedience. Whether he deserved such. And you now owed your pathetic life to Her Grace, for Her to dispose of it as she whishes.”

Velaryon rushed toward him, his face distorted by loathing. He wasn’t even able to place a strike as his sword shattered in piece against Dark Sister, letting him with what amounted to a pointy, irregular, morsel of steel. A broken bootle in a bar fight would have serve him better and suited his coloring.

Without hesitation, uncaring of their alleged family link Daemon relieved him of his hand. The Lord had no use for it and the Prince Regent doubted he ever had, if not for pandering to his better.

Then with eyes beaming from unrestrained malice he cut through the man belly. Let his agony be long and fitting the crime he planned to put in motion.

A trembling man, a brunette with clear eyes, managed to torn his eyes from the spectacle.

“My Lo…My Prince…Mercy. We were fooled into believing…” Dark Sister cut him short.

Daemon snarled. Caraxes shrieked outside, the room shaking as he presumably roosted nearby. Daemon may have been the Ghost of Ancient Targaryen rose to avenge his blood, but the pallor of the conjuror challenged the assertion.

“Mercy? Mercy. My mercy is long since dead. Dead with my sons’ light, with my daughters’ laughter and my wife’s hope. I suffered through the near destruction of my House, the last dragonlords, the whims of the Gods to find valyrian from my kin plotting against the last hope of a stable future for Westeros. The Red Keep despoiled, Targaryen heritage spat upon, King’s Landing sacked, my line surviving through two remaining, defenseless, children and a violated woman. Preyed upon. By our vassals. Worst of all your offense you planned to defile the Queen Dowager and manipulate her son by any means to satisfy your pithiness. Hold her down, as she was held down all her life. Handled by men too inferior to even look at her. To even smile at Viserys, Prince of Dragonstone. I. Have Had Enough.”

Daemon realized his soft tone had turned into a roar, worthy of Vhagar herself, when the frozen Lords, by common if implicit accord, fled the table, scattering, each reaching for his own escape, hoping their skin wouldn’t be peeled off from them. How sweet. Without a care for the cowards, Daemon amorously stroked Dark Sister against Velaryon cheek.

The only idea of Rhaella, his descendant, the proud and unflappable Queen Dowager condemned to serve under such waste was enough to ignite his passion afresh. Never. As he still drew breath, as Arthur still drew breath, no harm will befall Queen Rhaella. Defiled her.

They feared him, suspected him of madness so common among Targaryen according to the Grey Rats.

He would prove them right.

“I do advise you, if you wish for any member of your House to, one day, rule Driftmark, to surrender the Prince of Dragonstone, unhurt.”

Velaryon gurgled blood.

Maybe Daemon should have aimed for his legs first. Yes, the spine of the spineless Lord was severed, Dark Sister splitting through with ease. What a bother.

Daemon remembered Queen Rhaella deep indigo eyes filled with so much pain, infinite sorrow, she showed just enough strength to supplicate her son’s cause. Pleading for her last child’s life. His descendants.

“My…my Prince, Prince Regent?”

Daemon turned around almost decapitating a boy on the verge of manhood, with a enthrallment for the floor. His slightly tanned skin, despite the lack of blood cursing through his veins at the moment, his silvery straight and neglected hair, as well as the costly – too costly – clothes he was wearing, their coloring a non needed confirmation of the boy standing, identified him as Velaryon’s son. One of his son. Daemon was unsure of the number of Velaryon running around.

The boy kneeled, without sparing a glance for his presumed father twitching on the floor.

For an instant Daemon wondered if he should kill the presumptive heir in front of his dying sire, a last act of torture before sending him to his damnation, his last sight the annihilation of his legacy. Gods preserve him from vengeful son.

However, the boy couldn’t be older than…thirteen? Fourteen?

“My Prince,” continued the young Velaryon, without letting Daemon pounder on his reaction to the development, “I have no part in my Father’s folly, for despite his fault and treachery I had to acknowledged him as such”.

By his expression, he dearly whished to denounce the connection and likely refrained himself for the sake of his claim to Driftmak. Daemon could empathize with the feeling.

“Lord Velaryon was scared. Scared to announce he had lost his principal asset in the contestation and riots he desired to elicit.”

Daemon could have been a statue. Or a snake ready to launch himself at his dinner.

“Prince Viserys, had fled Driftmark and our men were unable to find the young Prince. My Father hoped to keep his disappearance a secret. Pretending he sent him safely in one of the free city.”

The Velaryon House would rejoin their ancestors, another Valyrian House who forgot to whom they owed their position in Westeros.

“You misplaced the Prince of Dragonstone? The Queen’s beloved Uncle? Her Heir?”

The boy was on the verge of crying. He had lost composure at « The Queen’s Heir ». Only heir for a long time if Daemon manage to eliminate pretendants . Accentuating his resemblance to Laenor, a resemblance far from uncanny but still…familiar.

“My Father declared that you, with all due respect, My Prince, would want him dead, for suppressing any contestation.”

Daemon was honest enough to not refute the accusation. His hypocrisy went only so far. He had thought about ridding themselves of the main claimant to the Iron Throne, dreading another civil war as the realm barely licked the wounds from the Rebellion. The Prince Regent carefully weighted any arguments in favor or disfavor. He waited to meet the child and asses his nature.

Then, Queen Rhaella trust her fate and his son’s in his hands.

Without according more attention to the dying man at his foot, trying to grab his ankle for Gods knew forsaken reason and the scared but unexpectedly brave young man – he could believe Baela’s blood was strong in this one, if in none other Velaryon – his mind turned toward a land barely visible, hidden by the midst. Hight Tide.

Daemon had raised seven children, seven children who, in better circumstance would have reach adulthood, a feat in itself. And he knew where a bored seven yeard old, deprived from any familiar faces, obsessing about his family whose news were probably kept from his hears, and considering himself an impotent weight on his host would try to dispel his dark thoughts.

As soon as Daemon stepped on High Tide, he barely was able to recognize the pride and joy of Corly. Don’t get him wrong he would add Corlys’ Velaryon head to Alyssa’s collection if he had the opportunity, however he was no grave robber. His personal opinion aside, these walls had been the Sea Snake unevaluable proof of adventures Daemon could have only dreamt of as a young Prince searching for bones to pick. Treasure from the Dothraki Sea, Yi-Ti, and even Sotharyos, the mysterious continent. Gifts from the Summer Island, Free Cities hunting for the famous sailor favor and, perhaps more importantly, his wife, the dragon riding Princess Rhaenys. So many object Daemon never ask the utility or background, too prideful to concede admiration. He would never be able to correct this oversight. How stupid he has been.

Daemon patted Caraxes, feigning to ignore Ser Oswell helping Monford to free himself from the harness, eyes wet with emtional turmoil. A dream can true for his descendant’ this day. Ser Oswell didn’t take to the sky with the same ease as Arthur. And, judging by Monford complexion, his blood run salty and watery, despite his emitional’s reaction .

The Holdfast was crumbling and death by falling through a hole or receiving a part of the roof collapsing was in the cards.

How a Royal Prince had been allowed to visit the ruin was beyond Daemon and he regretted not torturing Velaryon the similacre further. Monford– not even a proper Valyrian name, poor child- assured him of Viserys fascination for the place.

Sounded like the Viserys of their family were curse to gave into their curiosity toward the past. Well, it bode well for Daemon. Maybe he would be able to charm the brat.

Nothing in his life has ever been that easy.

There was not blood, no decaying odor. Meager consolation. Not yet. However,…Was this fish?

“Here my Prince, a stair.”

Stair was a generous description. A ramp and unstable rocks pilled together was a more apt description. They plunged into darkness. According to the trace in the dust a few feet high one which have been used recently.

“Amazing.”

Daemon invited Whent open the passage, ordering the Velaryon to cover their back. Which would have been a show of trust if the child had weapons. He expected reluctance but Monford seemed as motivated as himself to find Prince Viserys. Suspicious. Maybe he hoped to be allowed to keep whatever would be left of Driftmark.

The carving were the first clues. Nothing unusual. Sailors were prone to superstition, circulating tales for harbor to harbor. And Corlys and his successor would have try to stale any intruder. Carvings depicting barely humanoid form, fish fresh from nightmares, eyes glowing in the dark, be it due to the muss or some artifice from the “artist”.

Maybe Daemon should have listen to Arthur and allowed himself some rest before flying to tear the heart from the scums who dared presume put a Targaryen Queen to her knees.

He was under the uneasy, and awkward, impression the carving followed their progress. Carvings. Nothing else. Carving which eyes followed silently their progression down narrow, slippery, stairs. Daemon, by reflex, try to find ground by pressing against the wall, searching a way to guide his step in the darkness, to scrutinize where his feet landed. He almost threw himself in the abyss, more than once, gripping Whant at the last second. The man might be half cat.Green luminosity lulled the scenery. Humming. The moisture was humming. Every fiber of Daemon being was prepared to a fight or flight response. His hairs dressed, his heart beating in cadence with a music beyond humanity, a song no mean for mortal’s ears.  And, without luminous violet eyes, he would have fly as far away from this cursed place as possible. Penthos was lovely this time of the year. Penthos was always lovely. What need did his daughter have for a depleted big chair made of rusty sword?

The painting appeared so lively they seemed to dance. Circling them. The more the advanced, the less humanoid the people depicted appeared. Tentacule, too many arms, roo few, large teeth in place of features. Webbed member. Daemon remembered a few Lord with webbed hands. He should have interrogated them further on the difformity. They always sounded so proud of their heritage.  They even sharpened their teeth and wore sharp skeletons, as the Stark favored wolves’ pelts. Scale covering what could be called their modesty, if they bothered at all.  And the stairs descended, drop falling from the stone. Volcanic stone, remarked Daemon. Curious. Were they underneath the sea?

Then he saw. More accurately he almost destabilized Whent by encountering suddenly his back tensed as a bow with a arrow ready to fly and hit the mark.

Monford cries of distress confirmed they had entered a dire situation.

“Aurane!”

In the center of the circular cave once stood an altar. An Altar broken in two, neat, parts, releasing dark, thick liquid. Pouring black water. Fishes – how were the fishes still alive? – struggled on the floor. Some were blind, some presented two tails, touch of colors almost gruesome against the blackness of the scene. One was trying to actually stand. Stand on a pair of appendage which could be assimilated to premise of legs. And the odor. How could they have missed the stench? Probably by the same phenomena which had prevented them from admiring the statue of a monster Daemon could only presumed was meant to represent the Merling King. If so, the Velaryon were crazier than any Targaryen to sacrifice to a deity with such malevolent intent goosing from each feature. The statue was black, black and oily, as so many vestiges from Sothoryos. Daemon remembered Corlys counting the tale of a human race worshipping a God presenting as a gigantic toad. The idea had always sounded ridiculous. Right now, faced with the too tangible presence, it sounded like common sense and a solid self-preservation advice. Was Corlys mad enough to bring the horror back from its natural habitat? What madness consumed him? Was he even aware as he did the deed? Corly wouldn’t have…Not if he acted on his own accord, free willed as he had been. He was too cautious, too cunning and careful of respecting what was stripped from his understanding.

The eyes of the Beast were the main source of light. And Daemon prayed to the Fourteen to have been reckless enough to neglect bringing their own torches. He suspected fire would be unwelcome in this cultish cave. To be honest none had planned adventuring into unknown gloom.

“Monford!”

Half hidden by a pan of the wall, rolled over themselves in a cavity, were two, silver-blond children. Two.

Monford willingness suddenly made a lot more sense and Daemon relaxed despite the unsolvable mess his descendants had find themselves in.

A brother. A beloved brother.

“Monford?” peaked another voice, more grating. More sniveling.

Prince Viserys Targaryen had his arm clenched around the youngest Velaryon, eyes round with fright but resolute and awed by the miracle apparition of the rescue mission. Which was not prepared to perform any rescuing. Viserys was visibly older, as he was seven going on his eight namedays, his long hair a mess contrasting with the casual, practical cut of the second boy. Not a spare very valorized, then. He was wearing rich but overused fabric torn to shred but undoubtedly sown from quality materials, which helped the two little frame to melt in the background. ‘Aurane’ was shivering from cold. Daemon regretted his hastiness in killing Lord Velaryon and he would carry this regret to his funeral pyre.

“You found us” cried Viserys, no longer caring for discretion. Granted Daemon never encounter a golem and the statue didn’t seem to move, or the children, disappeared for the Fourteen known how long, would have demonstrate cautions. The Rogue Prince hoped so. Or his whole line was doomed to be carried by a one-month old baby, treasured as she was.

An inhuman yelp made his head turned as a hatchling appeared from the intertwined bodies sizable, silver mixed with gold with a vibrant red muzzle and mark continuing toward his corns.  A second hatchling. When for centuries none had judged fit to quit the security of their shells.

A new development, if the sharp breath intake of Monford was to be trusted. And another proof of the danger Viserys represented. As well as his potential in a world where Targaryen had become vulnerable.

“Are you Caraxes? The God of Righteous War? I prayed to the Gods for Caraxes’s favor. He wasn’t able to save my brother. Or my niblings. But we are safe now? You are Caraxes you must be.”

The absolute certitude in Viserys’s assertion was catching and Daemon almost acquiesced. Before shaking himself out of the stupor.

“I fear I am no God, let alone one from Old Valyria, although it please me to learn not all my family had forsaken their roots.”

Deception almost shattered Viserys composure. The child was an open book.

“They really forget us, then. As the Sept said.”

Daemon added the Sept of Driftmark to his list of people to be dealt with as soon as this madness allowed him.

“Apparently not. For I am here.”

Viserys failed to look suitably impressed.

“Be brave little brother”, intervened Monford, monopolizing Oswell in his effort to prevent the young fool to rush toward his brother. They could only be brother. Daemon was familiar with the devotion in Monford gaze. Similar to his own when studying Viserys, his Viserys. ‘Be brave..’ the children had showed more bravery than the assembly of noble surrounding Lord Velaryon,  clenching to their life, refusing to conceded defeat.

“We can’t reach the stairs,” pointed Viserys, pouting, he had lips made to pout, “and I am famished and thirsty. We try for a fish but…”

He showed his hand blackened from the experience.

“Can you still use you fingers?”

“They hurt”.

Daemon felt a certain vindication at the idea Viserys didn’t order ‘Aurane’ to grab the fish for him. Good omen for his future temper.

“I told him it was a stupid idea. I told him Caraxes would never answer.”

Family ties obliged, Daemon glared at the toddler.

“I may not be Caraxes reborn, but my Dragon was named in His honor. The God of Fair Warfare.”

As if such existed. Uncle Aemon was really a dreamer. Not this kind of dreamer.

“Oh.”

Viserys was lost in his own mind before acknowledging Daemon’s fear. Pieces were falling inti places.

“We should have been more precise, I guess?”

Or, no God named Caraxes existed and Power beyond any of their comprehension decided Caraxes the Dragon and his bonded pet were the next best thing.

Viserys barely visible face beamed almost providing a new source of light.

“You have a Dragon? A True Dragon? One you can ride?”

“Of Course, little Prince. I was guided into this word with my better half, the dragon Caraxes. Just in time to ensure our line would survive to the next centuries, and Gods willing, many generations after.”

“Am no Prince! Velaryon said I was King! King Viserys, third of my name.”

“I regret to inform you Lord Velaryon was nothing but a liar and a usurper himself. He hurt your Queen Dowager Mother, and try to ripe your niece of her birthright.” Here would be decided Viserys’ futur. The boy frowned, anger plain at Daemon little speech.

“He hurted Mother? My Mother? I hope he suffered. I’d have burned him.”

Good boy. He seemed to naturally assumed the cunt was dealt with. Then Viserys glow shone brighter.

“Rhaenys is alive? But…she is a girl?”

The boy was more delighted and perplexe than hostile. Good. Daemon could be bothered with finding a solution to their current predicament without fearing having to cut the child’s life short in the week following. It would be a shame for the dragon, too.

“Your brother was your elder, he designated his youngest as his successor. A third child.”

“Oh. Viserys considered something, playing with Aurane hand. Aurane looked ready to faint from exhaustion any minute now.

“The dragon’s Third head. The dragon must have three heads. Well, everyone said Rhaegar would be a just King. And wise.”

Compared to Aerys, a goose would be deemed wise, but Daemon managed to keep his observation for more sympathetic ears – Arthurs’s.

Especially if this non sense was Rhaegar’s obsession. He sounded awfully like Viserys’ gibberish about his wonderful dream of dragons roaring in unison.

The fluid level had barely augmented, sucked by the earth beneath them. If this find a way to the sea, the Prince Regent would have to forbid any form of fishing and create a famine on Driftmak. Not to mention the promised horror from the sole contact with the water. Problem for another day. Preferably once he fetched back his two newest descendants.

Aurane…Pretty name. Mother’s choice, assuredly.

Across the floor, circles were left untouched, red shining painting delimiting them. Blood magic if Daemon ever saw an example of such.

“Ser Oswell, you will knot our rope to your waist. Monford, time to put money where your mouth had been.”

To his credit, and the credit of Baela’s legacy, the young man didn’t hesitate. Arranging his end of the rope to not impend his movements he sauntered into the nearest circle. Daemon held his breath. Nothing Not even a murmur from the nightmarish figure surrounding them. With more confidence, Monford managed to join the next closest circle. The next. A fish slithered toward him, forcing him to accelerate his endeavor.

The boys were barely breathing, gripping each other hands. Aurane blinked, fighting to stay awake. How long had they been left, abandoned to themselves?

“I must congratulate you, nephew, for I hope to name you nephew, on the hatching of your egg.”

Viserys attention was immediately diverted. Not Aurane’s.

“Yes! Rhaegar will…would be so proud! And Mother! Father said I was barely a dragon because I am weak. But I can’t be weak if my dragon’s egg hatched! Only Targaryen, Truest Dragon Blood can hatch dragon. The first dragon to hatch in centuries! Millenia! How can you be my uncle, though?”

Daemon smothered a scoff. And ignored the pestering interrogation.

“Millennia may be an exaggeration or Caraxes would soon need spectacles. And I am please to report the birth of the Queen’s own dragon. Elaenaerys.”

Far from discomfiture, Viserys bloomed under the attention, reserve on the Mystery Uncle long forgotten.

“Another Dragon? Is he stronger than Azantyrex? He can’t. My Azantyrex will be the fiercest Dragon to roam the sky of Westeros. He will put Old Valyria Giant Lizard to shame.”

“I am sure.”

Wait a minute…

“Azantyrex?” Daemon couldn’t hide the strangle quality of his voice. Even Monford lost his concentration for a second to turn a worried glance toward the Prince Regent, presumably checking apoplexy didn’t sweep him. That would be hard to explain to the Lord Hand. And the full grown dragon outside.

“Azantyr means ‘From the military’ and I liked the ‘ex’, as we were waiting for Caraxes to save us.”

“Caraxes, not Caraxex!”

“Maybe we could discuss hatchling’s name later”, peeped Ser Oswell, Ser Whinny, unaware a Dragon, once offered a name, could be possessive and jealous of the gift.

“I like it”. Viserys shrugged.

Another brilliant example of why the Targaryen never let their youngs chose the name of their mounts.

Monford, one jump ahead at the time had reached the nearest ‘clean’ spot where he could hope to grab the boys.

“Prince Viserys? Do you wish to pass first?”

How could he even ask such question? Daemon was going to order Monford to privilege the Prince of Dragonstone, but said Prince, proving himself as strong headed as any of his ancestor, gently pushed Aurane, small frail, trembling Aurane between him and Monford.

“Azantyrex and me can wait a little.”

Given the wobbly quality of his voice, Daemon doubted he was as confident as he whished to establish.

“Alright. Brother, you need to jump. Can you do it for me? Aurane. I will catch you. I will always catch you.”

Aurane breathed the rancid air of the former cult cave, eyes fixed on his brother.

“Don’t overthink, boy,” advised Ser Oswell. ‘Don’t overthink it’ was becoming Oswell Whent’s personal motto.

Monford extended his arms, in a silent plea. Aurane breathed, closed his eyes and…Viserys threw him toward his brother, almost propelling the two Velaryon into the dark, malevolent mass, trying to fight whatever sorcery kept the circle from their influence. A few feet to the left and the Velaryon would have join the rest of old Valyria.

Daemon cursed and he was sure Whinny echoed him. The two brothers hugged each other, Monford shaking from shock.

“Hurry up! Touching reunion later!”

Slowly Monford crossed the room toward the stairs and safety. Without hesitation Daemon opened his hands catching the terrified toddler with grace. Small fingers buried themselves into his skin. Barely tanned skin, freckles, big green-blue eyes.

“My Prince, my brother…”

“I’ll protect your brother as mine own blood. Now bring me the Heir to the Throne, will you?”

With more assurance now than he knew Aurane safe and sound in the Prince Regent care – seemingly already forgiving the premature passing of Lord Velaryon – Monford traced back his path until Viserys could securely spring into his grip, his dragon in tow, rolled around his shoulders.

To the end of his days, Daemon would wonder if he should have seen the next to last circle breaking and the dark ooze forming a tide to flounce the intruders. Monford had just enough reflex, brotherly reflex, to cover Viserys with his body, protecting his charge with his own frame.

Then the screaming.

Monford’s twisted and grotesque, Aurane’s confounded and uncomprehending, Viserys’, who made a run for it bouncing from Monford’s trashing figure and clasping his hands around the rope leaping in a clash against the aghast White Cloak, Azantyrex flapping his wings in panic.  

Daemon rounded his descendants without further thoughts turning to flee the lunacy, the laugh, the laugh, the drawings were alive, the drawings were mocking them, all this scenery had been a trap…

“Don’t look at them! Don’t! They wanted us to look…They lied…” yelled Viserys, his eyes closed, his blackened hand covering Aurane’s face.

Daemon had no intention to disobey the cunning child.

The Rogue Prince, two boys held against his plastron exited the ruins of Corlys’ glory. Fire. He should burn every stone, every herbs and seed on High Tide. Where was Ser Whinny? The children cried and clenched at him and each other. The winds didn’t carry the fresh air Daemon soughed. He tumbled toward Caraxes who, loyal Caraxes, joined him, expending his neck, searching for the danger. Daemon could not, would not risk him against such intangible threats. The familiar burn of his dragon scales, the awed gasps of his newest acquisitions. Aurane was sobbing openly, unimpressed by Caraxes’ presence, Viserys clasping Azantyrex to warm his chest, shaking from a cold no fire could fight.

At least, as Daemon was already planning to secure the children on Caraxes’ saddle, Whent emerged from the nothingness. Monford still roped to him, his legs knocking the void, his eyes unseeing. Without hesitation Daemon severed the bond, refusing to allow feelings swallow his practicality. The White Cloak croaked with relief and seek Caraxes comforting stature, his eyes rolling around, inspecting the water. The sea was gaining ground. For the first time since his arrival in this world, Daemon allowed himself to find solace in the stars’ lights. None would rise from the abyss, teeth black and sharp, mouth decaying, as long as they shone.

Chapter Text

Chapter XIII : The Targaryen’s Family Line

“The strength of a family, like the strength of an army, lies in its loyalty to each other.”                                     Mario Puzo

Daemon flied, regretting having to halt at Driftmak to collect Prince Viserys and young Lord Aurane’s belonging. Although Daemon was glad for the opportunity to finish the cleansing of the place, a few Lording having hope he wouldn’t came back for HigTide alive. Folls. He assisted to the place building.  By the time he left three keep where without Lord and reap for the taking. He would have reward to offer the loyalist. Viserys having been send for safe keeping and in the prospect of protecting him from the Usurper – the irony – such belongings were few and worthless, most presumably secured in Dragonstone or the Red Keep. Viserys’ chamber had been given, on Ser Arthur's order, to Lord Renly who, barely installed had clung to his brother Stannis. A more modest - as much modest as Royal family’ s quarter allowed - room, was adjacent.  Daemon was comfortable in his conviction the child would not miss anything of import until returned to his rightful place. At his brother's side.

 Lord Aurane’s lack of personal effects was the fuel for his ire. If he dutifully ignored the fearful and almost shocked glances of the servants and knights when he loudly made his desire and opinions clear  the clothing were barely fit for a merchant’s son, he was within his right, as the Queen’s Prince Regent. His word alone should be valued as truth, without question.

Daemon did manage to fed and water his two newest…charge, careful to solely allowing them clear broth and water and sweetened, soothing tea prepared in haste by the old as dirt Grey Rat. Said Rat seemed to want to object at the sight of the boys still gripping each other as life line – Daemon scowled at the expression, he never whished to hear about life line again, not when vision of Monford struggling at the end of the thrice damned rope was summoned by the imagery. Said Rat was justly put in his place. At the Dragon’s Blood heels, for them to command and dispose of.

How old had been Monford? No. How old was Monford? Monford, abandoned far from his mind – liar – in the arm of Whent, as they waited for boats and supplies to reach them. Abandonned by Daemon…

A squire was sent in their temporally claimed Quarters, presumably the former Lady’s, if the decor was to be trusted. Aurane seemed oddly ill at ease and tense, when he wasn’t busy crying his heart out and clinging to the Prince of Dragonstone. Viserys encouraged him to swallow some of the, admittingly, tasty offered supper, despite the lack of consistent morsels.

Daemon ignored how long the shame on his fiery Baela’s reputation had failed to find and protect his own.

Too long judging by Viserys attempted to wolf down white bread. The dragonrider could only pray – he was never praying again – his stomach would settled not be upset.

Being vomited upon, be it by Lady, Princes, a Crown Princess or a Queen was part of the experience of a family man choosing to included his flying mount in his private life, but wasn’t to be seek out.

Thankfully, food and clean water, as well as undesired sweetwine and beer to cut the water were quickly packed in Caraxes’ saddleback along with other essential and some sentimental trinkets and toys. A wooden boat, carved by unexperienced but careful hands was the subject of a short lived controversy, Viserys sudden sullen mood and dark glare explanation enough for “Uncle Daemon”.  The Rogue Prince wondered if he could convince Aurane of changing the sails, obviously sewed by a total novice.

They raised in the sky before Whent and Monford – how old? – joined the keep and the waiting Maester, doubtful and in a confused frenzy after Daemon’s tentative explanation. Well, he didn’t understand what happened either, so he Maester could stick it up, as far as he was concerned.

Viserys doublets and wardrobe was a clear marker of his status and House, soft and costly fabric and needlework mixing their colors, the Three Headed Dragon a constant reminder of his identity. Aurane’s… Daemon’s lasting aversion of Lord Velaryon, and the hope the barely out of toddler years would be prevented to ask too many question on what happened to his Father, or inquiring about his brother if he wasn’t waved a reminder of tem each time he caught his reflection, encouraged the Prince Regent to order the child to be dressed as a lesser Prince of House Targaryen – owning him new scared and even outraged looks. The man didn’t deserve a week- raised, calm, behaved s son. His list and Daemon win. Stick of mischied, not cruelty could be distinguished in hi aqua-marine eyes. 

As a result, Aurane looked in mourning. Daemon presumed it was, in fact, his elder brother’s or another member of the Velaryon curiously depleted House’ mourning attire. The hostility barely veiled of Monford toward their genitors made sense. Daemon was ready to bet his right leg Monford petitioned in favor of his little brother weekly. Why nor? Velaryon wasn’t surnumerous by Daemon’s assesment of the decrepit state of what once had been the Second House of Westeros, whose Patriach sailed and to the Basilik Island the let lethal North Sea, and visited all the known and described Fish People revering the same monstruosty poisoning Driftmark. Aerys, Mad as he was, would accept on the principal of reinforcing Velaryon blood. Late Lord Velaryon had been his favorit sycophante. A brother so much adored by his heir. Destined to act as his Fight hand. Monford despisal and absence of reprisal, and spit over filial’s duty was easily explain.

An irritation for the Prince Regent who didn’t care for an accidental show of mourning Lord Velaryon. 

However, as they departed, one child on each side, and he spotted the rescue boats, he felt relief at their…retreat. Evacuation. The children shouldn’t be subjected to a reminder of their trials.

Their flight was uneventful, all excitation, dead in the heart of his passengers, more tempted by a nap than assaulting him with requests.

As he landed in the Red Keep already thoroughly destroyed gardens and saw Rhaella on her knees, arms open to receive the embraces of her son who immediately tried merging with her, he allowed his heart to loose the fear rooted in his chest.

Daemon squeezed Aurane’s small, shaking, hand in his gloved one’s – probably best, he was willing to bet the child’s had sticky palms wit so much stress. He drove him toward the reuniting mother and son, noting Arthur’s astonished face. Rhaella was atempting to tame Viserys mess of hair, a task rendered hopeless by the winds above the bay, straightening his tunic, ensuring his neck was properly covered from the imaginary cold. Daemon didn’t care for fuss. He didn’t. What Motherly love wasn’t heartwarming? The sudden press of a little head against his tight remembered him not every child in his Household would beneficiate from the freely bestowed attention.

Rhaella purple eyes, almost violet in the encompassing natural light sharply crossed his before observing little Aurane.

“And who had we the honor of welcoming as a guest in our midst?”

“Mother, this is Aurane Velaryon.”

Arthur eyebrows shooted toward his hair’s line.

“…Velaryon.”

“Yes, Lord Hand, Velaryon.” And why do you insist on that ridiculous collar?

Ser Arthur, without any form of graduation, looked like Cole, taking Daemon by surprise. For all the weeks the had spent together. Same mi-long hair, with luxurious curls, same fitness and fluidity, same tan skin and falsely confident smile. He was but a fifth son.

“If, the Queen decreed it.”

The careful tone used by Dayne sounded like Cole’s. Oh. Oh, indeed. It explained the ominous reaction to his treatment of Aurane.

“The Queen will actually decree the legitimation of Lord Aurane Velaryon during her First Court. Aurane should be known as her beloved kin and welcomed in the Royal Wing.”

The softening traits of the knight would have look estranged on Ser Crispin’s. And worry lifted from Daemon’s mind.

Breath.

He knew. He already knew. Always knew.

Arthur wasn’t Cole. Never would be. Cole couldn’t have tended to a Queen which such care or look upon a bastard born with concern in lieu of annoyance. A Velaryon’s bastard. Beloved by his brother. Protected by his sacrifice. A new wave of tenderness threatened to drown Daemon. The child had silver hair, not brown, features less valyrian than any of his first three sons with Rhaenyra, save for the otherworldliness which had conceded to his mother’s inferior breeding. Grounding him in a world where he wasn’t desired or welcomed. He would be. A word where Cole and his ilk were dead and worms food.

Very different positions in the World. Very different circumstance. A Dornish White Cloak opposing all his predecessor had stood for. Daemon had to believe in Ser Arthur. His chest hurt with the desire to see the pureness, fairness and all the qualities neither Cole of Him could have pretend to.

Breath.

He had to melt this ridiculous collar.

The silver Hatchling, woke from his nap around Viserys’ shoulders, the sudden movement provoking a barely  controlled panic between the Queen’s Hand and the Dowager Queen.

“And this is Azantyrex! He is mine!”

The hatchling was a sight promising to be as regal, if not more so than Elaenaerys. His scale mostly silver mixed with random golden pattern, liquid silver eyes, and wings bones blood red, as their contours. Some of his scales lloked dripped in fresh blood, adding a little ferocity to his hypnotic beauty.

Arthur was desensitized to fanged babies reptiles by this point, and Rhaella must have had some contact with her Grand-daughter never-do-well hatchling, for they recovered quickly from the shock. More so that the kitchen servants at Driftmark.

“Congratulation, Prince Viserys, on the hatching of your egg.”

The glare gratifying Daemon carried the promise of tourough interrogation. Daemon, since his latest near death experience, couldn’t wait. He almost purred in anticipation.

Forced to assert some control, let shocking poor Rhaella, the Rogue Prince reaffirmed his grasp of the younger child. His youngest boy.

“Would you like to offer curtesy and compliment to the Queen Dowager, Lord Aurane?”

The horrified stare was enough to inform the Prince of the lack of formal training in young Aurane’s life. He would have decade to honed his skill and, Daemon was confident in his assertion that he would beneficiate from excellent education.

The Queen Dowager acted upon Aurane own panicked distress by puking her guts for all the indiscreet set of scouring eyes to report.

The two healers and Maester dug up from the city, Maester Pycell currently occupying one of the most uncomfortable cell of the Dungeon, upon Arthur’s affirmation of his loyalty toward the Lannister – and wasn’t it informative of the Prince Regent mindset that a Lord Paramount House still openly rebelling against his authority and guilty of Blood Crime against the crown, Kingslaying being the least enraging of their actions, wasn’t at the forefront of his priorities – examined Queen Rhaella from head to toes on Daemon orders.

Aurane was trying to climb on him, afraid of being accused of the new development, while Viserys’ nails left red mark on his mother wrist despite Arthur attempt to reassure him. Azantyrex was still doing his best imitation of a silvery scarf

Rhaella swore to the Seven, the Old Gold, the Fourteen Flames, and any God to the Church of the Stars that she couldn’t possibly contaminate the children, let alone Alyssa. Daemon refused to take any chance with the later, under Ser Barristan’s lumpy but diligent care, with a few Golden Cloak as last resort, but didn’t have any luck finding trusted guardians for the Prince and the future Lord.  Or a chance in the Seven Hell to tear Viserys from his Mother’s side without alerting the few living soul in the Red Keep unaware of the Dowager’s Queen ailment.

Rhaella seemed way too fond of the fretting over her condition and even sounded amused, as if Daemon was overreacting.

 The Master, the aptly Maester Thorren Snow, from a minor knight House of Barrowtown, imitated a rabbit caught in a snare with great acumen.

“My…Dowager Queen? If I may, this discussion should be…”

“This discussion can be held in front of the men who brought my last remaining son and my sole surviving Grand-Daughter to me. Who slaughtered the one who would have seen me their hostage against the Crown.”

Viserys’ eyes shined with a strange light, akin to so many in their family when reason was no longer on the table. Daemon had spotted the identical stare too many time in his reflect to miss his appearance or misunderstood his significance. Even the “Wise King” had harbored it, when his council had not been the wiser.  The bruises on Rhaella face had been covered by artistic make-up, the Queen Dowager, having manage to rally former courtesan but Daemon could not, would not forget the swollen hematoma inflicted to his descendants. The insult of underestimating her dragon-blood when she succeeded in disguising her identity and guide this worthless smugglers to King’s Landing safe shore. Prepared to plead for her son’s safe return. And Daemon delivered two!

Rhaella’s hair was cut short, but clean, her maids having found the time to salvage the situation, accentuating, her fragility, her delicate cheekbones, her caved eyes and cheeks. Dressed in black, a velvety fabric molding her ungenerous forms as a second skin, from head to toes, with white and red dragon dancing on large sleeves, breaking the illusion of mourning clothes, she was the picture of tragedy and dignity. Maybe Viserys and Alyssa – and Aurane – could bring colors in her life once more. Not as vivid but children’s laughs were better than any Grey Rats’s cure.

“My Queen…”

“Queen Dowager. I was unaware there could be any confusion between me and my grand daughter but you flatter me, Grand Maester. In truth.”

Grand Maester? Since when?

A Northmen without politic leverage would not be bothersome. Arthur barely covered smile, was all the insurance Daemon needed. As long as Ser Arthur Dayne maintained his pristine reputation in the Red Keep, King’s Landing and a good part of the Seven Kingdom, he was the most precious ally Daemon had. Had since he landed in this Tower with…with…

Daemon stepped backward, his bust searching to some support to lean his suddenly wobbly frame against.

Maester Snow lost some credit by turning toward Daemon, the Prince Regent, instead of standing by his patient.  He should be broached on protocol. Or basic manners.

The savviness of keeping a Snow near a Queen who would be probably insulted by allegation of that nature was debatable. However, if he showed himself competent…Daemon, if he was right, refused to suffer through another birtbed nightmare.

“I found him in Flea Bottom, My Prince,” introduced, a little too late, Ser Arthur.

Close to the little folks. Good.

“Her Grace, The Queen Dowager, is pregnant. Probably…” Snow checked his better for confirmation. “…two months?”

“The Maester at Dragonstone offered the same assessment. I must admit I was ignorant of my condition for far too long. I had…an unfortunate History with pregnancy. I was surprise myself by the diagnostic and the fact this child seemed stubbornly gripping to life despite our misadventure. I did not whish to kept my condition a secret. I didn’t carry a child since Viserys.”

Bitter wrinkles appeared around her mouth.

“I was unsure the pregnancy would last long enough for becoming relevant.”

Even if the pregnancy had lasted for a few weeks, Daemon would have fit it in his propaganda’s plans. He wasn’t a contemporary of Lord Otto for nothing. He learnt. And he had no doubt Gerold, once relived of his relatives would be a great help, through his leverage in Oldtown.

Daemon whished to flee to the darkest corner of the shadiest tavern of Flea Bottom and enfolded his descendant hands in his, swearing oath he couldn’t see through.

He had no doubt this little discourse had been carefully prepared by the Dowager Queen for inflaming the ember of his sympathy.

He already lost so many child and relative in the birthing room.

If this pregnancy ever come to this state.

“Did the Master at Dragonstone gave any advice?”

Clever Arthur. Daemon didn’t have the pleasure of knowing the Maester himself but he would remedy to it. This Grey Rat was the more likely to care about the well being of both the Dowager Queen and the second spare. A spare who was welcome, as far as Daemon was concerned, accounting for his “nephew” impulsivity while dealing with unknown entity.

Aurane was bright with glee, untouched by the gravity of the situation or the risk, as gleeful as sounded Viserys.

“I am an Uncle. I got an Uncle. And I am going to be a big brother!”.

The pure childish joy was so precious that, for a moment, every nightmares Daemon would suffer for the rest of his life was worth the price.

Azantyrex sang, more bird than dragon. Daemon had to mask his smile.

Rhaella, prevented him for throwing himself at her belly, in a well meaning hug for his new sibling.

“Careful now, your future sister or brother isn’t sure of their decision to join us in this existence.”

“But we are Prince and Princess? How could they whish for better?”

“Would you prefer a little brother or a little sister, Prince Viserys”, smiled Arthur, good humored, and swiftly changing the slippery conversation.

Viserys used his natural talent at pouting.

“Already had a brother. He wasn’t very…”

The child cut himself, realizing their mother might still be sore. To Daemon it sounded like a long dwelled over subject. At least Daemon wouldn’t have trouble presenting Rhaegar as a counter-example.

“But, I do not whish to marry my sister. Rhaegar should have married our sister.”

Rhaella recoiled.

“No one, as long as Caraxes and myself still breath, would force you to marry you sister or your niece.”

The idea apparently didn’t occurr to him yet.

“Marrying…my niece? But she is the Queen? And I am her heir? You told me so.”

“Exactly.”

Rhaella looked dubious, almost prepared to interject.

“We will discuss it further.”

Daemon’s tone didn’t invite to further debate.

For now, Viserys was appeased and excitedly shared Targaryen’s name with Aurane who shyly gave some impute. For his part, Daemon felt like his duty had been done with “Alyssa” and had every intention of staying at a secure length of this giant man eating worm.