Chapter Text
"His Grace, King Daemon Targaryen, first of his name, Protector of the Realm, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms…" The herald's voice rang through the hall, but Daemon ignored it.
In another life, this would have been the peak of his glory.
Now, he was burdened with a debt left by Viserys—one too heavy for him to bear.
When Viserys fell over the balcony of his bedchamber, right after Aemma’s death, Daemon had learned to smell a leech from miles away.
As a prince, it was simple—they were all too eager to flatter.
As king, it became far harder to discern the true threats beneath the sycophantic smiles and honeyed words.
He claimed Rhaenyra for himself, swiftly, but was forced to hone this skill furthermore, so the Bronze Bitch would not dare challenge her in court.
Eventually, he found himself in a trap.
He had convinced himself that Rhaenyra would be safe in the Vale, the very place he despised—the place of her mother’s birth. He should have known she would detest Runestone as much as he did. They truly were twins of the same flame.
But there was no other choice. For now…
His leather armor, embossed with the emblem of House Targaryen, gleamed faintly in the dim light, the polished black plates fitting him like a second skin. The hilt of Dark Sister, the blade he kept at his side, caught the light briefly.
His face, unreadable and cool, was framed by his silver hair, pulled back from his face in a simple tie, emphasizing the sharpness of his features as his gaze fixed upon Lord Royce, formerly known as Ser Gerold, with unsettling intensity.
Daemon was well aware of his reputation at court, but he did not hide it upon meeting the man he betrothed Rhaenyra to.
He would rather have the man know he could slaughter him any moment, than not.
Gerold stood nervously near the large wooden table.
The flickering torchlight cast erratic shadows against the stone walls, adding an air of menace to the dimly lit room, the warmth from the flames barely cutting through their cold encounter.
The king’s voice, when it came, was low, but it cut through the silence in his private meeting chambers. "You summoned me, Lord Royce. You are free to speak."
Gerold hesitated. Daemon’s eyes briefly flicked to the shadows in the corners, where the torchlight twisted and danced, as though the very walls were eavesdropping on their conversation.
"Your Grace," he began, "I thought it best we meet here, away from prying ears. I'm sure you wouldn't mind."
Daemon stood, an impatient edge to his tone, minding the Kingsguard who accompanied him here, sworn to secrecy. "For what purpose? I postponed a council meeting for this. Speak plainly, or I'll take my leave."
He could have sent her to a Lannister or a Velaryon, as the council pressured him to do so, but times demanded something else.
He blamed himself for moving too quickly.
Gerold glanced around as if checking for spies. "I require more land. Runestone’s holdings are insufficient for a man in my station. I need more, perhaps as much as the Eyries."
Daemon's eyes narrowed, "You were given Runestone as part of our arrangement, so your cousin could focus on her duties as my wife. You married my niece, and with her came lands, titles, and privileges you'd never have known otherwise. So tell me, Lord Royce—what more do you imagine you deserve?"
"Your Grace, it’s not an entitlement. It’s a necessity. There are whispers...about my wife. About her sons...these are difficult times."
"Whispers?" he said, his tone laced with amusement. Daemon’s lips curled into a smirk as he feigned ignorance.
He tilted his head slightly, studying Gerold with a mocking curiosity. "What does the Vale say of your lady wife and ‘her’ sons?"
Gerold spoke barely above a whisper with a glare. “They say the boys aren't mine. That Aegon looks more like his mother's uncle than I. Even Viserys—though fair in his mother’s image—bears her uncle's mannerisms, his speech, and his gait. It’s difficult to convince anyone otherwise.”
Daemon stepped closer, his shadow casting over the trembling lord. A surge of pride washed over him as he recalled the last time he held the boys in his arms. "So, the whispers trouble you, my lord?"
"A man cannot silence the realm, Your Grace. But with proper compensation, I might find the strength to endure their words and look the other way."
Daemon rested his hand on the hilt of Dark Sister. "—you want coin to keep your mouth shut. How much, Lord Royce?"
Gerold swallowed hard but tried to hold his ground. "One hundred thousand gold dragons. Enough to secure my family’s future and ensure the rumors are forgotten."
Daemon’s smile widened, cruel and calculating. He paced around the lord. "One hundred thousand gold dragons to buy your silence? Have you ever considered how cheap it is to silence a problem with a blade?"
Gerold squared his shoulders, "Your Grace, you wouldn’t dare. The realm watches you closely. Since your brother’s death and Lord Hand’s unfortunate demise, they’ve spoken of Maegor reborn—violent, cruel, mad. This arrangement shields you from such whispers. I remain the devoted husband of Princess Rhaenyra, and you...carry on with your marriage to my cousin. But if I’m to shoulder the humiliation, I will have my recompense."
Daemon's hand tightened on Dark Sister’s hilt, his voice cold and threatening.
"One hundred thousand gold dragons, then. But hear me, Lord Royce—if you overstep again, I will not waste time haggling. The whispers you fear will be silenced, and your name will vanish from every hall in the Vale."
Gerold's confidence crumbled as he bowed deeply, "Thank you, Your Grace. You are most generous."
Daemon turned to leave but paused, glancing over his shoulder. "How are Aegon and Viserys? My sons?"
Gerold, struggling to keep his composure, answered cautiously. Daemon fought the urge to strangle him, but he remained calm.
"Strong boys, Your Grace. Growing quickly.”
Daemon’s voice softened, almost tender. "And their mother? Is she well?"
Gerold hesitated before nodding. "She fares well."
Daemon stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a whisper. "See that she remains that way. And remind her—the crown expects you both at the Kingswood hunt. It would not do for my family to appear divided. Your cousin, my wife, is eager to see you all there. Do not disappoint her."
Gerold bowed lower, trembling hands clasped. "Yes, Your Grace. We will be there."
Daemon lingered a moment longer. He finally turned and strode out, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
.
Gerold felt a sneer creep up when he left King’s Landing, then entered the Vale much later, his footsteps echoing through the stone corridors of the castle he no longer called home—Runestone.
His mind churned with thoughts of Daemon and the demands placed upon him, yet there was something else gnawing at him—an anger, a bitterness that had only deepened with time.
She stood near the study, her presence as commanding as it was ethereal.
Silvery hair cascaded down her small waist, catching the dim light that filtered through the windows, making her seem as though she were surrounded by a soft, silken glow.
Her features were perfect, as they always were, but tonight there was a hardness to her beauty, an imperious edge that made his pulse quicken—not from desire, but from something darker.
As she glanced up, their gazes met, her eyes sharp and knowing, taking in his every movement with that unsettling calm.
For a moment, Gerold felt a flicker of hesitation, but he quickly suppressed it.
Instead of being swept away by her beauty, as he had been so many times before, he seized the letter her uncle had given him. The parchment felt cold in his hand.
Without a word, he tossed it onto the floor before her, the crisp sound of paper landing harshly in the silence.
Rhaenyra glared, narrowing her eyes.
"From your uncle," he muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness, as if the very mention of Daemon's name left a bad taste in his mouth. “Do not worry, I did not bother to read it.”
"Do not throw the raven at me like I’m some servant to be humored."
Mocking, Gerold picked the letter up from the floor and placed it before her with a smirk. "Oh, forgive me. Is that better, Princess?”
He looked around, “Where are the boys?"
Rhaenyra replied, "In the bedchamber nearby, asleep ."
Grinning, Gerold leaned back casually. "Would you prefer they hear the two of us arguing through the walls? Might add some excitement to their night."
"You tread dangerously, husband."
Feigning indifference, Gerold crossed his arms. "I’ve got my gold, haven’t I? I’ll keep my mouth shut a little longer. No need for war.
“But your uncle... he demands we join him on the hunt in Kingswood. He wants you there." A sly grin spread across his face as he watched her closely.
"I’m not surprised. He likely knows I would ask for more coins after this trip. Let him vent his frustrations on you for a change—I don’t mind."
Rhaenyra stepped closer, venom in her voice. “You reek of piss. Wash yourself before we depart, or I’ll have the servants drag you to the nearest fountain and bathe you.”
She snatched the letter with a swift motion and stormed toward the door, leaving him fuming in her wake.
Gerold, calling after her with bitterness, sneered, "You Targaryens and your strange customs. You’re lucky my cousin, the queen, isn’t close to your children...or she’d have words with you."
Rhaenyra halted just before the door, her tone laced with disdain. "I would like to see her try. You are fortunate my uncle remains unaware of the insults you dare give me. But I shall leave you to grovel for your coin in peace... for now."
Fury boiled over in Gerold when she started opening the door.
"And here I was, thinking I’d taken a fine Targaryen bride, only to discover she’d already been claimed—by her uncle, no less. Of all the men in the Seven Kingdoms, you couldn’t even choose one outside your own blood."
"Speak again, and I’ll have your tongue. Don’t mistake me, husband—I don’t need my uncle to silence you. I can do that myself."
Gerold stood frozen, his anger bubbling beneath the surface but wisely held his ground.
He knew he had pushed too far, especially after his journey to King's Landing.
With a final, simmering glance, he turned and retreated to his chambers, leaving Rhaenyra standing alone, her presence like a storm in the room.
.