Chapter Text
The halls of Dragonstone lay shrouded in silence, the stillness seeping into every crevice, deepening the shadows that clung to the ancient stone walls. Daemon moved through these dim corridors, his footsteps reverberating softly in the quiet. The weariness of a long day of training weighed heavily on him, each muscle straining under the fatigue, particularly along the curve of his spine and his right shoulder. Though aged had tempered his body, he remained strong and resilient, familiar with the depths of his endurance and how to push beyond his limits.
He had hoped the rigorous training would quell the restlessness that churned within him—a simmering irritation and agitation that coiled like a serpent beneath his skin, driving his need for action. The physical exertion, however, had done little to alleviate the restlessness prickling at his fingertips, refusing to dissipate.
“My prince!” A voice called out, halting Daemon in his march towards the Chamber of the Painted Table—where he’d lend his voice to the efforts of war.
Daemon turned to see Maester Gerardys approaching, his face carved with shadows that accentuated a deep, solemn sadness. The maester’s chains clinked softly with each step, swaying from his neck to below his belly, draped over the plain gray robes characteristic of his order.
Gerardys moved with a noticeable heaviness, his brows lifted in an expression that blended sympathy with a touch of fear. Daemon’s gaze sharpened, his spine straightening in anticipation of the news the Maester bore.
“A raven has flown in from Storm’s End…” Maester Gerardys began, his voice trailing off as Daemon turned fully towards him, a steely resolve hardening his features.
Daemon’s immediate thought was that Storm’s End had refused to heed Rhaenyra’s call—cowards and lickspittles, every one of them. If House Baratheon had declared to the usurpers, they had chosen the losing side, and he would ensure they faced the consequences, as would all who stood against them.
“It is the prince…” Maester Gerardys continued, hesitating and looking down at the small note in his hand. “He’s… he’s been slain—”
Daemon snatched the note from Maester Gerardys, unfurling it with a swift motion. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, dread and rage spilling into his stomach. As his eyes scanned the scribbled words of the parchment, the weight of the news settled heavily upon him, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach.
It grieves me to inform you that Prince Lucerys Velaryon is dead. House Baratheon welcomed the prince, and he delivered his missive. Discussions arose, and Prince Lucerys made to leave when Prince Aemond demanded that a debt be paid, insisting that Prince Lucerys put out his eye as payment for his own. Prince Lucerys refused and left. No blood was spilled beneath my roof, I assure you. What transpired occurred in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay.
I have sent my men to scour the coast of the Bay for the remains of the boy, if there is anything left for them to find. House Baratheon condemns Prince Aemond’s actions against the Princess’s son. No blood was spilled within our halls, and guest rights were upheld. I offer my condolences, and those of my house, for what happened to the young prince.
Borros Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End
The words confirmed his worst fears, each sentence like a blow, draining the color from his face. The scribbled note detailed the death of Lucerys, and the grim truth of what had happened once he arrived at Storm’s End.
An ache formed at the back of Daemon’s throat, his chest tightening as he read over the words again, as though needing to reaffirm them. He gritted his teeth, swallowing his emotions, allowing them to cut down his throat and fester in his stomach, steeling himself against the tide of grief and rage threatening to consume him.
Daemon rolled the parchment tightly in his hand, his grip like a vice. He blinked against the prickle of tears that burned at the back of his eyes and turned on his heels, forcing himself to move forward, leaving Maester Gerardys behind. A dismissal wasn’t necessary; Daemon knew it was his responsibility to deliver his news to his wife personally. It should come from him.
As Daemon strode through the dimly lit halls, his footsteps echoed with a somber resonance, each step heavy with the weight of the news he carried. The burden felt like a tangible cloak upon his shoulders, pressing down relentlessly. Dread coiled and writhed in his stomach, a restless serpent, as he anticipated the impact his news would have on his wife. A twist of fear slipped between his ribs and lodged itself in his heart at the thought that this news might break her, might shatter her so completely that she could not put herself back together again—loss compounded, wave after wave of it; Viserys, her throne, Daenera, Visenya, and now, Lucerys. It was a fresh wound cutting through her already bleeding heart. His fist curled tighter around the letter, the parchment bruning against his palm as his skin tightened over his knuckles.
No, it would not break her completely—it could not. Rhaenyra was strong, she was fierce, she was a dragon.
The weight of his grief and anger settled deep within his bones, a cold heaviness that seemed to anchor him, slowing his movements as he advanced through the castle. He pushed his own grief down, forcing his emotions into the back of his mind, letting it linger like a shadow trailing after him.
Reaching the Chamber of the Painted Table, Daemon halted just outside, poised at the threshold, hidden from view. The archway loomed before him, a daunting barrier between him and the devastation he was about to impart. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, the tightness in his chest persisting, the cold weight settling more firmly upon him. He steeled his expression, and then, pushed forth.
Daemon entered the room, shoulders taut and head low. A low murmur of conversation hung in the air as strategies and plans were deliberated, though to him it was nothing more than a distant buzz. His wife stood at the head of it all, framed by the crackling hearth behind her and the long, intricately carved table before her, candles burning and sputtering among the markers for allies and foes.
He moved through the bustling scene like a blade cleaving through flesh, his presence commanding. He felt her eyes on him, could almost sense the erratic beat of her heart as she watched him approach, a silent understanding–and anticipation of—the ill tidings he brought.
Their eyes met, hers searching and inquisitive, a light furrow on her brow as she seemed to note the solemnity in his expression. Daemon reached for her, gesturing for them to step away from the Painted Table, seeking a moment of privacy to deliver the news of her son’s passing. The room, filled with advisors and lords, seemed to blur into the background as they moved towards the hearth.
His hand found hers, her skin warm and soft against his own calloused and weary fingers. There was a heartbeat of hesitation, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon them. The low murmur of discussions had faded into a tense silence only filled by the knitting fire and the wind howling outside.
Finally, the words managed to find his lips, laden with sorrow, “Your son, Lucerys… He and his dragon have been slain by Aemond Targaryen.”
The revelation seemed to strike her like a blade, twisting cruelly into her stomach and arching upwards towards her heart. She drew in a sharp breath, swallowing whatever cry that might have emerged. Her brows furrowed together, and her eyes searched his desperately for any sign that it wasn’t true. Daemon could offer nothing but the cold bite of reality—her son was gone.
Daemon watched as the impact of his words washed over her, her face a canvas of raw, unfiltered pain. He wished he could shield her from this agony, but the truth was an unyielding force. “I’m so sorry, Rhaenyra…”
He squeezed her hand, a steely resolve hardening his voice. “I swear to you, my love, we shall avenge your son.”
Rhaenyra’s hand slipped from his grasp, the warmth of her touch leaving a burning ache on his skin. He longed to reach out to her again, to hold her close, but he stepped back, offering her the space she needed. He watched as she struggled to reconcile with the devastating news, her breath hitching and her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
Daemon stood silently, his heart aching, but his face set in a mask of determination. He understood that she needed this moment to herself, to process the loss and grief that threatened to overwhelm her.
“Rhaenyra…” Daemon’s voice was barely a whisper as he watched the devastation rip through her. A broken inhale shuddered through her body, her hands clawing at her stomach, grasping at anything as though she could claw out the pain. Her body folded in on itself, her face contorted with raw grief and agony. A strangled cry tore from her throat, a sound broken and harrowing, cut short as she swallowed the sob—the sound more horrifying than the ones she had released during the agonizing labor of their child just days ago.
The cry seemed to claw its way into existence, echoing off the stone walls and reverberating through Daemon’s body. He felt it as though it broke his chest apart, the force of her anguish snapping his bones and rendering his heart to nothing but torn flesh.
In the midst of that terrible, awful tearing, an ember of rage ignited within him. It smoldered, feeding off the pain and growing into a fierce, burning resolve. Daemon clenched his fists, the fire in his chest growing stronger, fueled by the sight of his wife’s suffering.
As she teetered on the brink of collapse, Daemon moved towards her. Her knees wobbled, but she steadied herself before he could reach her, inhaling sharply and muffling her sob as she regained some composure. A palpable change enveloped her—a chilling, ghastly transformation—as if the air itself ignited in flames around her. With a vengeful expression, she spun to face the map of Westeros, her skin illuminated by the orange glow that seemed to consume her. Her eyes blazed with a fierce intensity.
Her gaze swept across the room, locking briefly with each set of eyes that dared meet hers. Her brows furrowed, deeping with each pass, as another surge of sorrow seemed to wash over her. The fire in her eyes flickered and waned, doused by the waves of grief, stealing her away from the flames of rage and dragging her out into the sea of sorrow.
It was an awful thing to watch her choke on it.
Her desperate eyes seemed to search each face surrounding her, seeking a glimpse of the son she lost, before her gaze finally settled on Daemon.
Daemon shared a silent exchange with her–a moment of a silent question and quiet answer. He reached for her, but she held up her hand, the moment stretching as a visible shudder passed through her, and she inhaled deeply, seemingly knitting herself together to maintain some semblance of composure. Her gaze then shifted towards Lord Bartimos Celtigar and her councilors.
“I must recuse myself, my lords,” she managed to say, her voice thick with sorrow and trembling with barely contained emotion. Without waiting for their response or even a nod of acknowledgement, she turned away.
Rhaenyra moved through the hushed room, each step measured and fraught with visible effort. The tension in her movements suggested that simply walking took great strength, each step laborious and pained.
The only sound that filled the heavy air was the mournful howl of the wind outside. Daemon’s gaze followed her as she walked away, tracing her descent down the few steps to the archway where she vanished from sight. He could feel the collective eyes of the room on him, sensing a growing restlessness as his fingers twitched at his sides. Then, a heart-wrenching cry echoed through the hall–a sound raw and primal, like that of a wounded animal, embodying the despair of a mother bereft of her child.
A stunned silence thrummed throughout the room, with everyone seemingly holding their breath in shock and confusion–and a palpable dread that seemed to ring out in the space between her sobs. As Daemon made his way towards the archway, he felt the intensity of their stares prickling against his skin like needles. Their unspoken questions and the weight of their scrutiny felt almost tangible in the air, though none dared to give voice to their questions.
“Father,” Baela’s voice pierced the heavy silence, halting Daemon as she stepped down the stairs. He paused, turning to finally face the gathered lords and ladies who had answered their summons and bent the knee to their queen. His gaze shifted to his daughters–one whose face was wrought with worry, brow in a flat line and the corner’s of her lips downturned, and the other with tears pooling in her eyes.
“Stay,” Daemon instructed firmly, then swept his eyes over the assembly, silently commanding them to remain while he saw to his wife. He pivoted sharply, descending the last steps before passing into the hallway, following her haunting cries.
Daemon didn’t hesitate as he found her collapsed on the cold stone floor, her nails clawing desperately as her body was wracked by sobs, quickly kneeling by her side. When she turned to him, tears streamed down her face, eyes burning with grief. Each tearful gasp echoed off the stone walls, amplifying the agony of her grief as her fingers clenched his doublet, pulling herself into his chest as she sobbed uncontrollably. His arms encircled her, holding her close with a firm yet gentle embrace. Leaning close, he whispered into the top of her head, “We need to get you out the hall.”
Rhaenyra nodded.
Daemon carefully positioned her arms around his neck, her fingers gripping him tightly. With a firm arm scooped beneath her knees and the one securing her against his chest, he lifted her from the cold stone floor. Despite the strain it put on his body, and the protesting ache in his muscles, he managed to lift her, drawing in a deep breath as he did so.
He carried her through the hall, each step deliberate as he ascended the stairs to their bedchamber. As they passed, he issued a gruff command to Lady Elinda Massey without breaking his stride.
“Fetch the Maester,” he ordered, his voice a low rumble filled with urgency. His focus remained steadfast on Rhaenyra, ensuring her comfort despite the physical demands of carrying her had on his body.
As the lady-in-waiting hurried out the room, her footsteps fading down the corridor, Daemon gently lowered Rhaenyra on their bed and settled himself on the edge. His hand moved soothingly across her back, murmuring soft, comforting words against her temple as her body trembled under his touch, her cries of sorrow enveloping him like a cold tide.
He whispered a solemn vow in her ear, his voice a steady, quiet force amid her storm of grief. “Tolvie qūvy bona ropagon hen aōha laesi, kesi addemmagon zirȳ arlī ampa jēdi toliot.”
For every tear that falls from your eyes, we will pay them back tenfold.
He would deliver each of their treacherous heads on a silver platter for Syrax to devour if she so desired–all she needed to do was command it, and he would obey. And he would start with taking that one-eyed c*nt’s head.
Daemon tenderly stroked her back, his touch meant as a quiet solace amidst the storm of her grief. Rhaenyra clung to him, her grip on his doublet desperate and unyielding, as if he were the sole tether keeping her afloat in a tumultuous sea of despair. Her fingers pressed into his flesh, her fear palpable–that he might slip away and leave her adrift.
“It can’t be,” Rhaenyra sobbed, her voice hearse and laden with fatigue, her words nearly lost in her tears. She leaned back to look into his eyes, her own red and swollen, eyelashes matted together with tears. The rails glistening on her cheeks reflected in the dim candlelight, her head slightly as if to deny the truth before her. Her brows arched in a plea for reassurance. “It can’t be–tell me it isn’t true, Daemon. He–he can’t–” She struggled for breath, her voice breaking, “he can’t be dead. He was just an envoy, not a warrior… I–I assured him it was safe, that he would be welcomed!”
Daemon attempted to offer comfort, reaching up to gently brush back her hair, his hand cradling the side of her face to anchor her as she spiraled deeper into despair. “Rhaenrya…”
“He can’t be dead,” Rhaenyra interrupted abruptly, her grip tightening on his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin–a sting that was almost comforting in its realness–as he choked down his own sorrow to steady her. “Please, Daemon. It can’t be true–”
“It is true,” Daemon whispered back softly, the gentle timbre of his voice was meant to soften the blow, yet the truth still cut deep.
“No,” she croaked in delian, her voice barely above a whisper. “It can’t be true–it can’t be… what happened?” Her eyes searched his for an explanation, desperate for something, anything, that might undo the grim news he had confirmed. “What happened? W–what happened?”
Daemon’s voice was heavy with the weight of the truth as he spoke, his eyes firmly on her. “Aemond Targaryen was at Storm’s End for the same reasons Lucerys was,” he explained, his tone deliberate and measured. “Lucerys had delivered his message for his Queen and made to leave when Aemond demanded he put out his eye for payment for his…”
Rhaenyra’s face contorted with raw anguish, her eyes wide and filled with disbelief as she searched Daemon’s face for some glimmer of hope. “And he took my son’s life for it?”
Daemon lowered his head, the fortification of his heart momentarily giving way to a flicker of grief of his own, and the sharp stab of anger. “Lucerys refused Aemond’s demand for retribution, and attempted to leave… Luke… Luke and Aemond clashed in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay,” he recounted solemnly, his voice thick with the gravity of the event.
“It must be a mistake. He could–”Rhaenyra started, her brows knitting together as she desperately clung to any other choice than the grim truth–that her son had met his end at the hands of Aemond Targaryen. “He could still be alive, right? He might have fallen into the sea…”
“Rhaenyra–” Daemon tried to interject, his voice laden with empathy.
“Or perhaps they’ve taken him hostage, like they did Daenera…” she continued, her voice pleading, gripping him with a desperate strength, her face etched with torment and hope.
“If they had taken him hostage, we would have received a raven from the Hightowers with their demands–”
“So we are to trust the words that tell us my son is dead?!”
The letter he had tucked away seemed to scorch the fabric of his trousers, its weight oppressive in the pocket where he had hastily stashed it to free up his hands. Now, Daemon carefully withdrew the damning parchment and placed it on the side table beside them. It lay there, a simple roll of parchment, yet its mere existence was a curse.
Rhaenyra’s gaze fixed on the rolled parchment, her eyes wide with dread–the terror of a mother bracing herself to confront the devastating words it contained. She drew a ragged, shuddering breath, tearing her eyes away from the note that delivered such heartbreaking news. Her gaze drifted aimlessly, unfocused as her face contorted with pain. The muscles twitched involuntarily as something seemed to dawn on her. Her voice was a whisper of horror, a mother’s guilt flooding through her in a crushing wave. “Did I send him to his death? Oh, gods, did I send him to his death?”
“No,” Daemon counted firmly, his touch intensifying with his insistence. “The blame lies solely with Aemond Targaryen and those usurper c*nts who stole your birthright.”
“I can’t–I can’t do this,” she gasped, her face contouring with unbearable anguish as she clawed at him. “I can’t bear it–”
Daemon’s hands tightened reassuringly around her, cradling her face and bringing her forehead to his. His voice was resolute, yet tender as he murmured, “You can and you will.”
Her nails pressed into his wrists, the sting barely registering to him as he remained wholly focused on her. As he slightly withdrew, he noticed Maester Gerardys and Lady Elinda poised at the threshold of their bedchamber, ready to assist.
Turning his attention back on his wife, Daemon’s tone softened to a gentle whisper, “Let the Maester see to you.”
Daemon kissed her forehead gently, a soft gesture meant to reassure. As he drew back, he felt her grip on him loosen. Rising from the bed, he noted the deep frown etching her features, a look of utter desolation that mirrored the expression she had worn no more than days ago as they mourned the loss of their daughter–a visage marked by profound loss and emptiness, an echo of a woman. He turned away, his heart heavy, as he began to move towards the doors.
As he did, Maester Gerardys entered, their paths crossing in a silent exchange of roles. Daemon found himself at the threshold when her voice, fragile yet piercing, stopped him.
“You’re leaving me…” And though she didn’t continue the indictment, it was still there; again. When I need you.
The words hit Daemon like a physical blow, and he turned to face her again. Her eyes held a desolate scorn that seemed to almost burn, the glow of an ember in the fading light. He frowned, his response firm, “I’ll see to the council and come back.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted away from him, a silent acquiescence to his necessary departure. With a heavy heart, Daemon left the room, the cho of her despair lingering in the air as he stepped out.
Daemon moved with purpose through the halls towards the Chamber of the Painted Table, his expression set in a deep frown, his thoughts consumed by the daunting steps ahead. His heart pounded heavily in his chest, the restless energy tingling at his fingertips as he quickened his pace. Each of his footfalls echoed off the stone walls, a low thrum of urgency that permeated the corridors.
As he ascended the steps into the chamber, a low murmur of conversations filled the air, but his arrival swiftly cut through the noise, commanding immediate silence. The room’s attention snapped to him, a palpable and solemn tension hanging in the air.
Daemon’s gaze swept over the assembled lords and ladies, each one shifting uneasily under his intense scrutiny. Their faces were etched with apprehension and worry, waiting for him to speak, to explain what had happened with their queen and the course of action they were to take. His eyes lingered briefly on each face, measuring their resolve and their fear, before he prepared to address the council.
His gaze drifted across the Chamber of the Painted Table to the hearth at the far end, where it burned brightly–where his wife had once stood at the head of the table. A twitch of his fingers betrayed his unease. He led his ground, choosing instead to remain at the opposite end, near the steps.
From this position, he commanded the room just as effectively. Daemon drew in a deep, controlled breath before his voice cut through the silence, firm and clear: “Lucerys Velaryon is dead.” He paused, then continued. “He has been slain by Aemond Targaryen.”
A palpable stir swept through the assembly, the room descending into a heavy solemnity. Corlys Velaryon, seemingly overcome by the news, stepped back from the Painted Table, the tap of his cane piercing the quiet as he sank into a chair. His hands gripped the cane tightly, head bowed in a silent shroud of grief. Beside him, Rhaenys placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, her presence a silent pillar of support.
Nearby, Rhaena turned and sought solace in her sister’s embrace, burying her face in the crook of her neck, seeking a refuge from the storm of emotions unleashed by the news.
Daemon continued, his stance firm and voice resolute, fingers twitching at his sides. “The Queen needs her rest.” His tone left no room for debate. “The council meeting will resume on the morrow.”
Rhaenys, her resolve evident despite the tremble in her voice, declared her own intentions, “I will take Meleys and return to patrolling the Gullet.”
Daemon nodded decisively, signaling his intention to conclude the council for the night and return to Rhaenyra’s side. However, as he turned to leave, his gaze fell on his daughters–Rhaena, her head bowed in sorrow, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle her sobs, and Baela, gently rubbing her sister’s back, her own tears barely held back.
As the council began to disperse, the chamber filled with shocked murmurs and was heavy with apprehension. The shuffle of feet across the smooth floor created a low, continuous thrum. In this solemnity, Daemon approached his daughters. He placed a comforting hand on each of their shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze, a simple gesture.
He drew them close, enveloping them in a firm embrace–and though it was mostly to soothe their grief, Daemon found a semblance of comfort in holding them close. He had held them the same way once before, when their mother had died.
As they eventually stepped back, they moved only as far as his reach allowed, keeping his hands on their shoulders as he met their teary gazes. “You must be strong now. Rhaenyra will need you in the days ahead…”
Wiping away a tear and summoning a look of determined courage, Baela stood tall as she spoke, “We should take Caraxes, Meleys, Syrax, and Moondancer and fly to King’s Landing.”
Daemon responded with equal firmness, “You are needed here to look after and care for your younger siblings as their mother gathers herself.”
As much as Daemon wanted to mount Caraxes and fly to King’s Landing to lay waste to the usurper c*nts, he knew that the city would undoubtedly be on high alert, with defenses primed for such an assault. They’d be expecting them and that put them at a disadvantage. He understood that confronting Aemond Targaryen would necessitate at least the strength of Meleys to stand any chance against Vhagar in aerial combat.
Yet, despite his readiness to seek vengeance, Daemon knew he could not act on his impulse without Rhaenyra’s explicit command–and perhaps, more importantly, she needed him here.
“The Greens would have prepared for an attack,” Daemon said, when Rhaena wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, adding, “And they still have Daenera…”
Daemon nodded, “If we attack now, we risk her life…”
“If we do not bring the fight to them, at least let me fly to the Eyrie and inform Jace of his brother’s death,” Baela argued, her resolve hardening as she pressed her point.
A surge of solemn pride swelled in Daemon’s chest as he observed his daughter’s readiness to act, her resolve reflecting the strength of her lineage. Despite the turmoil within him, a faint smile curved his lips as he gently but firmly refused her proposal. “I will have a raven sent in the morning.”
“But–” Baela started to protest, seeking to push her argument further.
“You are needed here,” Daemon interrupted, shaking his head to reinforce his point. “Moondancer is needed here to protect Dragonstone.”
Accepting her father’s decision, Baela took a deep breath, lifting her head high, and nodded firmly in acknowledgement. Daemon gave his daughters a final squeeze, releasing his hold on them. Then, turning on his heels, descended the steps and began the long, solemn walk back to the chambers he shared with his wife. Each step echoed through the halls, the night alive with the news of the prince’s death.
Daemon’s steps quickened as he approached the bedchambers he shared with Rhaenyra, his heart laden with the dread of finding her inconsolable. Upon entering, his eyes immediately sought the familiar comfort of their bed, but it was empty–a stark, unsettling void instead of the presence of the person he loved the most. He halted, a grown creasing his brow as he stared at the desolate bed, feeling his heart drop.
“Rhaenyra?” He called out, his voice encoding slightly in the spacious room.
Only silence greeted him, accompanied by the mournful howl of the wind sweeping over the ancient stones of the castle, as if lamenting in chorus with his own unease. The fire in the hearth crackled, the only other sound in the tense quiet. A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides.
With a sense of urgency, Daemon turned and hastily exited the room, the doors closing behind him with a definitive thud. His footsteps thundered against the stone floor, each echo resonating through the darkened halls like a determined march, as he searched the castle for any sign of his missing wife.
As soon as Daemon spotted Ser Erryk and Ser Lorent standing outside the Chamber of the Painted Table, deep in conversation, he approached them briskly, biting out, “Have you seen Rhaenyra?”
The two Queensguard members bowed quickly, their expressions growing concerned. “No, my prince.”
Without pausing for further discussion, Daemon issued a crisp command, “Find her.”
He moved swiftly past them, his presence commanding immediate action. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of their armor as they sprang into motion, Ser Erryk falling in step behind him while Ser Lorent headed in the opposite direction, likely to alert the guards.
Continuing his relentless search, Daemon descended the serpentine steps and walked through another hall. There, he found Maester Gerardys in conversation with Lord Bartimos Celtigar. Both men stopped and greeted him with the same deference as the Queensguard had. Without breaking stride, Daemon turned his intense gaze upon Maester Gerardys, his voice sharp as he addressed Maester Gerardys, “Where’s the Queen?”
“My prince?” Maester Gerardys responded, looking momentarily taken aback, his eyebrows knitting together in both surprise and confusion, then continuing uncertainty, “She’s in your chambers…”
“She is not,” Daemon retorted quickly, his tone terse. His agitation was palpable, each word punctuating by a rising beat of apprehension in his chest.
The maester shifted uncomfortably, a look of concern crossing his features. “I made Her Grace a draught to ease her nerves and help her sleep,” he explained, his voice steady despite the growing tension. “She thanked me and dismissed me afterward–”
Daemon did not linger to hear more from Maester Gerardys; instead, he quickly pushed past, his strides hurried as he made his way down another flight of stairs towards the lower levels of the castle, descending into its bowels. The halls were dimly lit by flickering torches and glowing braziers, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.
Accompanied by Ser Erryk, Daemon passed through the Library, a grand space with shelves reach up to the high, roughly hewn ceiling. It was a place where he had often found Rhaenyra lost in a book, bathed in the soft light streaming through the sparse windows. Tonight, however, the library stood silent, haunted by the echoes of their lineages storied past. The air was thick with dust moats and below the scent of aged parchment and the fire of the braziers, the scent of dragon reached them.
Apprehension pricked his skin, his heart pounding with increasing dread as they moved deeper into the castle. The familiar scent of dragon intensified, and a cold draft whispered through the corridors, adding a chill to the already tense atmosphere. In the distance, the low rush of waves against the cliffs at the foot of Dragonstone could be heard, accompanied by the mournful howl of the wind through the openings in the rock face of the Dragonmont.
As Daemon and Ser Erryk’s urgent footsteps resonated along the corridors, they penetrated deep into the cavernous expanse beneath the dragonmont, passing through an archway that led to the dragon landing. The cavern around them expanded massively, its edges swallowed by the enveloping darkness. Here, the thick smell of sulfur and dragon intensified–there was a usual comfort to be found in these familiar scents. Now, however, there was no comfort to be found–only a growing sense of urgency and dread.
A whistled roar suddenly split the air, echoing off the cavern walls and reverberating through the tunnels within the Dragonmont. The sound filled the vast empty space, twisting through the shadows and vibrating powerfully within Daemon’s chest–a clear expression of apprehension and frustration that echoed his own.
As they progressed, dragonkeepers emerged to meet them, carrying long staffs that towered above their heads. One of these keepers stopped directly in front of Daemon, bowing his head. The gesture, though respectful, did little to alleviate the palpable tension as Daemon prepared to engage with thim, his mind focused on the pressing need to find his wife. His fingers twitched at his sides, a visible sign of his growing frustration and agitation as he confronted the dragonkeeper, “Ñuha ābrazȳrys, skoriot iksis ziry?”
My wife, where is she?
The dragonkeeper responded with a solemn expression, the gravity of the situation reflected in his eyes. “Mazēdas Syraks.”
She left on Syrax.
Daemon’s frustration boiled over, his demand sharp and clipped. “Skorkydoso bōsa?”
How long?
“Daor bōsa, yn kesā daor māzigon zirȳla.” The keeper answered, the words heavy with a weight that seemed to echo in the vast cavern. His words hung in the air, suggesting a chase that might already be too late to begin. Not long, but you will not reach her.
Daemon exhaled deeply, lifting his gaze to the cavern’s ceiling, where the darkness stretched so thick and complete it seemed to swallow all light. His heart twisted with turmoil, and a vibration of frustration ran through him. He momentarily closed his eyes, attempting to ease the strain from his tense muscles, his agitation coiling within his chest like a serpent poised to strike.
How could she abandon her duties? How could she fly off to the gods know where without protection, without him?
“Skoriot?” Where?
“Naejuragon zirȳla eikon.” To face her loss.
A heavy weight seemed to drop into Daemon’s chest as he stared into the weathered eyes of the dragonkeeper. He was painfully aware of where Rhaenyra had gone and what she intended to do, yet a part of him had clung to the hope that perhaps he was wrong. Storm’s End offered her nothing; if any trace of her son remained, it would have been claimed by the sea. Worse still, the Stormlands had pledged their allegiance to the Greens–the enemy. Her decision to venture into enemy territory alone and undefeated was not just reckless, it was perilous.
With a sneer tinged with frustration and concern, Daemon bit out, “Se ao ivestragī zirȳla jikagon?”
And you let her go?
“Konīr iksin daor keligon zirȳla.” There was no stopping her.
Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt the onset of a headache. His chest tightened, the sensation almost like a physical constriction around his lungs. “Issa iā mittys naejot jikagon mērī.”
She was a fool to go alone.
With a deep breath, Daemon steeled himself and issued a command. “Osaishad Karaksys.”
Summon Caraxes.
The dragonkeeper’s response was measured, his expression somber with the knowledge he intoned, “Kessa daor āmāzinon, Ñuha dārilaros.”
She will not return.
Daemon’s hands balled into tight fists, the skin over his knuckles stretched taut as he clenched his jaw in frustration. The restless energy prickled beneath his skin, coiling tightly within his chest as he fixed a hardened gaze on the dragonkeeper. The keeper nodded in understanding of Daemon’s earlier command, then turned to signal the other dragonkeepers, who turned back around to call Caraxes forth and prepare the dragon for flight.
With a swift turn on his heels, Daemon headed back along the path he had come, Ser Erryk following closely behind. “Alert the guards that the Queen has left, and have them keep an eye out for her return. And inform Rhaenys.”
“Yes, my prince,” Ser Erryk replied, his tone respectful yet tinged with concern. After a brief pause, he ventured, “might I ask what you’re going to do?”
Daemon’s stride did not falter as he answered tersely, his voice echoing slightly as they moved through the library, their steps echoing off the stone walls as they wound their way back from the depths of the Dragonmont. “I’m going to find my wife.”
“And leave Dragonstone undefended?”
“Do you believe yourself incapable of protecting the royal family while I am away?” Daemon retorted sharply, his gaze piercing as he spun around to face Ser Erryk, who stopped abruptly. The white cloak of the Queensguard fluttered around him as he halted. Although Ser Erryk stood taller, Daemon’s intense glower seemed to diminish the knight slightly.
“No, my prince,” Ser Erryk responded, his voice steady. “But with the Princess Rhaenys patrolling the Gullet and you gone, you leave us without the defense of a dragon.”
“My daughter will be here to defend Dragonstone,” Daemon answered, turning to ascend the stairs, dismissing the knight's concerns. He could feel his patience waning, tethering on the terrible edge of a blade.
“Forgive me, my prince, but your daughter and her dragon are untested in battle,” Ser Erryk called out, holding his ground as Daemon paused and turned back, now standing higher on the steps and looking down at the Queensguard. “They are young–”
“You would have me abandon your Queen to fend for herself?” Daemon interjected sharply, his irritation flaring as he felt his patience snap. “Here I thought the Queensguard would wish to protect and defend their Queen…” He descended the steps to confront Ser Erryk more directly, his tone biting. “But I suppose you take your duty lightly, otherwise you wouldn’t have stood by and watched as the Hightowers usurped the throne. You and your traitorous twin.”
Daemon turned to walk away, granting Ser Erryk the opportunity to let the matter rest. However, Ser Erryk followed him, each of his footsteps echoing in the hall and push Daemon closer to the edge of his patience.
“No, my prince, Ser Erryk said, his voice firm, and his hand resting unthreatingly on the pummel of his sword. He stood tall, his expression solemn and serious. “I am ashamed by it. That is why I abandoned the Kingsguard, and my brother, and came here. I take my duty and honor–”
Daemon’s patience finally frayed completely, his voice snapping with unrestrained anger, stripping away any remaining pretense of civility. “I don’t care,” he retorted sharply, the frustration clearly sharpening his tone as he stepped closer to Ser Erryk, his face set in a sneer. “Aegon was in your grasp. You could have killed him yourself.”
“Arryk and I were named to the Kingsguard at just eight and ten,” Erryk responded, his voice firm with conviction as his expression hardened, his eyebrows knitting together as he stood his ground. “And we swore the same oath: to defend the whole of the royal family.” He paused, head shaking slightly with sad exasperation. “So what are we to do when they turn against one another?”
Fixing Ser Erryk with a long, asserting stare, Daemon’s eyes bore into the knight as he contemplated the cascading consequences of past decisions. If Ser Erryk had seized the opportunity to eliminate Aegon, the current strife might have been avoided–Lucerys would still be alive, and his wife would never be swallowed by her grief. The Hightowers would have found it a challenge to consolidate power behind a child or to crown that one-eyed c*nt. The path to the throne for Rhaenyra would have been smoother if Erryk had set aside his notions of honor to take decisive action that truly protected his Queen’s claim.
His gaze intensified, laden with judgment. “The very least you could have done was protect your Queen’s daughter.”
The accusation struck a nerve. Ser Erryk’s gaze dropped, a visible flicker of shame crossing his features. “And it shames me that I could not,” he admitted quietly, his voice reflecting the depths of his regret over his failures. The Hightowers kept her tightly locked up after her attempted escapes. There were guards posted at her doors, and she was never alone. I regret that I couldn’t help her escape, but it was impossible. Had I attempted, I wouldn't have succeeded–I would be dead. I did what I could. I released Rhaenys and took the crown, and then I came here.”
Daemon absorbed the explanation, his frustration simmering beneath a stoic exterior. Finally, he responded, his voice cold and final. “That’s not enough.”
With those parting words, Daemon turned sharply on his heels and left.
Rhaenys methodically adjusted the last buckle on her armor, ensuring the armguard confirmed perfectly to the curve of her arm. She could feel the firmness of the cool metal through the thick tunic she wore beneath it as she reached for her riding gloves, crafted from supple leather. A heavy sorrow lingered in her chest, a constant and familiar companion once again making its presence known after receiving the news of Lucerys’s death. It eased only slightly when Corlys’s strong arms encircled her, pulling her into a comforting embrace. She melted into the warmth of his hold, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. The anguish of losing Lucerys had settled deeply on her husband, robbing him not only of an heir and a grandson but also taking something else from him–something Rhaenys had already lost.
“Be careful,” Corlys murmured, his voice a soft, low hum that vibrated against her temple. His lips grazed her skin gently, each word infused with a tender urgency. His touch conveyed depths of unspoken fears and desperate hope, sending a clear, heartfelt message without words: I cannot lose you too.
Rhaenys responded with a gentle assurance, “I always am.”
She turned within his embrace to face her husband, her hands racing up to cradle his face tenderly. “We’ve endured losses before. We’ll get through this one too.”
Corlys leaned into her caress, his eyes revealing the unasked question that haunted him: Am I cursed to lose every heir I make? Rhaenys understood the depth of hope he had invested in Lucerys, the profound love he held for his grandson, bound not by blood but by another deep bond–a choice. He had been preparing Lucerys to succeed him as Lord of the Tides and Commander of the Velaryon fleet, placing upon him the same expectations and dreams once reserved for Laenor. Lucerys had been his legacy, his pride. The loss was another profound blow to his heart.
Corlys responded to her comforting words with a soft, reassuring kiss, their lips meeting in a moment of shared sorrow and support. After a brief, tender connection, he drew back, his dark eyes conveying both gratitude and resignation as he gently released her, nodding for her to fulfill her duties.
“I’m not sure when I’ll set feet upon solid ground again,” Rhaenys remarked, adjusting her boot where it pinched her leg uncomfortably, steadying herself with a hand on Corlys for balance. “There’s a council tomorrow, and Daemon will be restless, as usual–”
Her words were abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Enter,” Corlys called out authoritatively.
Ser Erryk Cargyll stepped into the room, bowing his bread respectfully. “Princess Rhaenys, Lord Corlys.”
“Ser Erryk,” Rhaenys greeted him, noting the solemn expression on his face and she felt a tightening of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. “What news do you bring?”
“The prince sent me to inform you that the Queen has departed from Dragonstone,” Ser Erryk announced, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his brow furrowed with concern, drawing a line between them.
Rhaenys’s gaze met her husbands, who voiced their shared concern first, “The Queen has left?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Rhaenys furrowed her brow, her voice laden with concern as she asked, “And what of Daemon?”
“The prince is… understandably worried that the Queen may be heading into danger,” Ser Erryk responded, his tone cautious.
A scoff escaped Rhaenys as she glanced down, fidgeting with the straps of her armguards.
“Of course, he is. We all should be, Corlys interjected with a measured tone, giving Rhaenys a significant look. Rhaenys returned the look with a lifted brow, challenging him to disprove her concern for her younger cousin.
Rhaenys shook her head slightly, a knowing expression crossing her features. “If I know my cousin well, he’d wish to go after her.”
Daemon, ever the impulsive one, had earned the moniker ‘The Rogue Prince’ for good reason, though under current circ*mstances, she found it hard to fault his urge to act. However, she understood that even if Daemon pursued Rhaenyra, she would not return until she had achieved what she sought–until she was ready to return. Rhaenys suspected that, deep down, Daemon recognized this truth as well, and she could only hope it would temper him.
“He cannot leave,” Corlys asserted firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “With the Queen absent, the council will need him to assume her duties.”
At this, Ser Erryk shifted, the sound of his armor rustling softly and his white cloak swaying behind him. “He intended to leave, but it seems he has reconsidered and called it off…”
“At least he regains some sense,” Rhaenys muttered under her breath, her words barely a whisper.
“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” Corlys said, effectively dismissing the knight. Ser Erryk bowed respectfully to both of them before exiting the room. Corlys then turned to Rhaenys, his dark eyes meeting hers with an expression that hovered between a shrug and exasperation. “The council meeting will be interesting.”
“I have a feeling that will be an understatement,” Rhaenys remarked, her tone laden with foreboding. “Temper him if you can, he shouldn’t be making rash decisions in place of the Queen.”
“Daemon may be reckless and impulsive, but age has tempered him,” Corlys replied, trying to reassure her. Despite his words, Rhaenys couldn’t help but scoff in disbelief. Undeterred, Corlys moved closer, placing his hands on her arms gently. “He understands his duty and will do anything to protect Rhaenyra’s claim.”
“That is what I fear,” Rhaenys answered apprehensively.
Corlys expression softened slightly at her words. He pressed another tender kiss to her brow, a gesture of support and affection. Rhaenys squeezed his hand in gratitude and acknowledgement, then walked past him and out the door.
With a heavy heart but a resolved demeanor, Rhaenys departed their chambers to make her way to the caves beneath the castle. Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone as she moved through the corridors of Dragonstone. A slight frown creased her brow, her thoughts with Rhaenyra and the profound grief that she must be enduring–a grief all too familiar to her own.
“Wait!” A familiar voice suddenly pierced the air, “Stop, Joffrey!”
Rhaenys halted, her foot poised to step into the flickering light of a new corridor. Her gaze followed the voice down the hallway where she saw her granddaughter, Rhaena, in a flurry of motion. Rhaena scrambled after a small, determined Joffrey, managing to thrust herself in front of him, effectively blocking his path. Rhaenys remained concealed in the shadows, observing the scene unfold as Joffre, bristling with frustration, tried to push past Rhaena. Despite his efforts, Rhaena’s hands clasped firmly around him, holding him in place even as he resisted.
“Where are you going?” Rhaena demanded, her brow furrowed with concern as she gripped him tightly, refusing to let go.
“I’m going to find my mother!” Joffrey retorted, his small fingers struggling to pry hers away. “And we’re going to find Luke and bring him back!”
Hearing Joffrey’s words, Rhaenys felt a pang of grief stab between her ribs, the loss of Luke piercing her heart anew. Her fingers clenched tightly around her riding gloves, a surge of sorrow gripping her. Meanwhile, Rhaena gently lowered herself to Joffrey’s level, her grip softening slightly yet remaining secure. Her voice shook as she tried to explain, “Luke is gone, Joff–”
“No he is not!” Joffrey’s scream echoed through the hallway, his defiance clear. “Mother will find him and bring him back, and I will help her–I will protect her and bring them back home!”
“And how are you going to do that?” Rhaena’s voice was gentle, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she posed the question.
“I will mount Tyraxes and we’ll protect them together,” Joffrey declared resolutely, struggling to free himself from her grip.
“Tyraxes is too young to carry you,” Rhaena corrected him, her tone firm yet tender, not yet letting him slip away. “He can’t fly you all the way to Storm’s End–”
“I don’t care!” Joffrey shouted, then continued, “Then I will ride Caraxes or Moondancer; they’re big enough to make the journey!”
Rhaenys watched as her granddaughter fought to keep her composure, blinking rapidly to ward off the tears. A slight tremor tugged at the corner of Rhaena’s lips, her gaze softening and her head tilting slightly as she inhaled deeply. Her hands, previously firm around Joffrey, now gently rubbed up and down his arms, maintaining a comforting yet restraining touch.
“You cannot mount another rider’s dragon,” she gently informed the boy.
“Why not?”
“A dragon can only have one rider at the time,” Rhaena explained, her voice carrying a hint of sadness, even as she strived to remain composed. “You cannot mount another rider’s dragon; it won’t recognize you. If you try, it will throw you off or worse.”
“I don’t care, if Tyraxes is too small to fly to Storm’s End, I have to try! I have to take another dragon!” Joffrey protested, undeterred by the consequences such actions could have. His voice trembled then, thick with tears as he insisted, “I have to protect mother and find Luke.”
“I know you want to protect your mother, but I promise you, she will be fine–”
“You can’t promise that!”
Rhaena softened her approach, racing out to gently touch his shoulder. “Your mother is strong and fierce. She has Syrax with her to protect her. You know she won’t let anything happen to your mother,” she reassured him, hoping to ease his fears about his mother’s safety. “Rhaenyra will return to you soon.”
“And Luke?” Joffrey’s voice was a whisper now, a mix of hope and dread lingering in his question.
As Rhaena tried to maintain her composure, her expression faltered momentarily and she swallowed thickly, her distress evident even as Rhaenys observed her heartache from a distance. Finally, with a voice barely steady, she managed to say, “Luke is gone. He won’t come back.”
The words shattered the fragile calm around Joffrey, triggering his tears as he vehemently insisted on finding his brother and bringing him back and protecting his mother. Struggling free from Rhaena’s grasp, he pushed away from her, angrily wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his doublet as he shouted. “It’s not true! He is not gone! If you had a dragon, you could go and bring them back!”
Overwhelmed, he spun on his heels and dashed back to his room, slamming the door with such force that it echoed through the hall. Rhaenys stepped fully into the corridor then, her own heart heavy. She watched as Rhaena lingered crouched for a moment longer, then rose and wiped away her tears upon noticing Rhaenys approaching.
“Do not take his words to heart,” Rhaenys advised softly. “He is grieving and lashing out. He did not mean anything of it. It will take some time for him to understand.”
“He is not wrong, though,” Rhaena admitted, her voice breaking as the pain she felt was etched clearly on her face. “If I had a dragon, I could have gone with him–I could have protected him…” Her head shook and she looked down at her hands. “Maybe if I had been quicker, I could have claimed Vhagar,” she continued, her voice trembling as a sob broke through. Her eyebrows lifted in despair, tears welling in her eyes once more, “If I had claimed Vhagar, none of this would have happened–Luke would still be alive.”
Rhaenys felt the sting of tears in her own eyes as she reached out to her granddaughter, gently brushing a long lock of pale hair over her shoulder. She then firmly gripped her, meeting Rhaena’s grief-stricken gaze with her own steady one. “None of this is on you. The fault lies solely with Aemond,” she affirmed, her tone both soothing and firm, seeking to assuage the heavy burden of guilt Rhaena seemed to have taken on. “You are not to blame for his actions.”
“But Vhagar was my mother’s dragon,” Rhaena choked out, her voice faltering as she blinked back a relentless tide of sorrow, tears streaming down her cheeks. “If I had claimed Vhagar before Aemond–”
“A dragon chooses its rider,” Rhaenys interjected firmly, her voice steady. “I don’t know what Vhagar saw in Aemond, but she chose him as her rider.” Her hand gently slid to lift Rhaena’s chin, ensuring their eyes met again. “Regrets of the past do nothing for the present. You cannot torment yourself with ‘what ifs’–believe me, it will only haunt you. Vhagar made her choice, and we cannot say there would have been another outcome.
As much as Rhaenys wished to believe that Vhagar might have accepted Rhaena, had she attempted to claim her, she knew there was no certainty in the perilous ritual of dragon claiming. Vhagar made her choice; she had accepted Aemond as her rider, and nothing could alter that now.
“I feel useless,” Rhaena confessed, her large, dark eyes–so reminiscent of her mother’s–reflecing a depths of despair. “Baela is patrolling Dragonstone, and Jace is at the Eyrie. If I had a dragon, I could help, I could… I could be useful.”
Her voice trailed off, seeming to choke on the weight of her unfulfilled potential and the feeling of being sidelined at a time when every action could tip the scales. Rhaenys listened intently, her heart aching for her granddaughter’s feeling of helplessness in the face of such family responsibility and danger.
“There’s still time,” Rhaenys reassured gently, her eyes locking with Rhaena’s in a moment of comfort. “You are your mother’s daughter. I see so much of her in you.” Seeming to feel the weight of Rhaenys’s words, Rhaena leaned into her embrace, resting her cheek against Rhaenys’s armored collarbone, her arms wrapping tightly around her.
“You are Laena’s daughter, never forget that. And your mother was more than just a dragon rider; she was a force in her own right. So are you.” Rhaenys’s voice was firm and encouraging, emphasizing the strengths that lay within Rhaena beyond the legacy of dragon riding.
In the bedchamber, the fire crackled and sputtered within the hearth, casting a warm glow that fought against the creeping chill of the darkness. Daemon sat slumped in his chair, his gaze locked on the dancing flames, one leg bouncing with restless energy. A cup of spiced wine stood on the table beside the chair, the flagon at its side half-empty. Night dominated the chamber, its dark, heavy silence broken only by the occasional pop and hiss from the fire. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision as he watched the flames twist and writhe.
He had dismissed the dragonkeepers earlier, sending Caraxes back to the hidden recesses of the Dragonmont. With Rhaenyra gon, the weight of the crown rested squarely on his shoulders, yet her absence left him feeling powerless, confined to waiting and watching.
The longing to follow Rhaenyra tugged relentlessly at Daemon’s heart, yet he remained in place. He harbored a deep desire to mount his dragon, fly to Storm’s End, and bring her safely back to Dragonstone. However, he knew all too well that she would never consent to such an action. Equally, while his instinct was to stand by her side as she grieved, he recognized that they could not both forsake their duties. The responsibility to defend her claim to the throne, especially in her absence, anchored him firmly to Dragonstone, compelling him to set aside his personal desires in favor of the greater need at the moment.
Irritation simmered beneath Daemon’s skin, his frustration mounting with each passing hour. He understood Rhaenyra’s need to mourn her son, yet he also knew the realm couldn’t afford for its Queen to linger long in her grief. Responsibilities to the crown couldn't be so easily set aside–not like his brother had done so often. His mind echoed with troubling questions: How long would she be consumed by her sorrow before she could return to rule? How long before the alliances of the great houses and their men began to waver in her absence? How much time could pass before their support crumbled completely?
As he gritted his teeth, a more haunting question emerged–would she ever return? The possibility that she might not twisted inside him like a knife, stroking the dark embers of fear and doubt that threatened to overwhelm his resolve. These uncertainties echoed ominously, feeding the shadows that flickered in the corners of the room, mirroring the turmoil within him.
Rhaenyra was queen now to a throne that had been usurped. She had to be a queen before a mother. The longer she remained absent, the weaker her claim became and the weaker their alliances grew. It pained him deeply that they had lost Luke, yet he recognized the necessity for them to remain steadfast. More was at stake than their personal grief–there were the futures and lives of their children, and the legacy of their house to consider.
Had they taken decisive action earlier as he had pressed for, their circ*mstances would be different. They would have been able to lay siege around King’s Landing by now, with the Hightowers facing justice, displayed on spies as a grim testament to their treachery, and Rhaenyra would be seated on her rightful throne. But they hadn’t heeded him. Instead, they had engaged in a drawn-out war of diplomacy and ravens.
Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the persistent throb of tension behind his eyes. With a weary sigh, he reached for the cup of wine on the table beside him, quickly draining the remnants of its contents. The wine, rich with spices, briefly masked the sour taste that had settled in his mouth. Setting the empty cup aside, he leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. He rubbed at the tension behind his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing just enough to send a swirl of colors dancing behind his closed eyelids.
Lucerys had been like a son to Daemon–in truth, he was a son to him. Daemon had raised him since the boy was eight, witnessing his growth from a child into a young man. He had presented Lucerys with his first saddle for Arrax on his tenths birthday, and had proudly watched as he had mounted his dragon for the first time. He was there, too, when Lucerys had dismounted, albeit shakinly, losing his footing and hitting his head against the saddle before falling to his ass on the beach, his teeth leaving a permanent impression in the leather.
Daemon had overseen Jace and Lukes training with swords, joining the boys in mock battles and regaling them with tales of their father, Laenor, and his own battles in the Stepstones–and had at times mentioned Ser Harwin’s service under him as the Commander of the City Watch.
He had loved Lucerys, and yet, like so much else that was theirs, the Hightowers had cruelly ripped him away.
Part of Daemon felt a deep, gnawing responsibility for Luke's death. He replayed the events in his mind, knowing he should have been present at the council meeting when the decision was made. Instead, he had been patrolling with Caraxes, driven by his frustration. He should have advised Rhaenyra to send Rhaenys to Storm’s End—Rhaenys, with Baratheon blood in her veins, would have secured the allegiance of the blustering stag.
If Rhaenyra insisted on sending Luke, Daemon should have accompanied him. He should have done something—anything—to protect the boy. Now, the guilt weighed heavily on him, mingling with the cold fury that simmered just beneath the surface.
The relentless itch for action tingled at Daemon’s fingertips, a deep-seated need for decisive moves. Vhagar, the oldest and most formidable dragon alive, had witnessed the conquest of Westeros by Aegon and his sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya. She had survived a hundred battles and was part of the Targaryen legacy. He loathed to see such a historic creature destroyed, yet Daemon recognized the necessity of the act.
Eliminating Vhagar and her rider, that one-eyed c*nt, would critically wound the Greens. With Vhagar gone, their most potent weapon against Rhaenyra would be lost, leaving them undefended. The only other battle-ready dragon they possessed was Sunfyre–a young, untested dragon ridden by their usurper king, whom Otto Hightower would hardly risk in open battle. Without Vhagar the Greens’ defenses and position would be severely weakened, diminishing their ability to maintain power.
Given Vhagar’s immense size and formidable battle prowess, Daemon know that facing her alone was tantamount to suicide. But Vhagar, for all her might and experience, had grown old and slow–this was to their advantage. Still, victory against such a behemoth would require more than just bravery; it necessitated more than one dragon. With the help of Meleys, he was sure they could take on that gaudy old bitch. Her agility and speed, coupled with Caraxes’ own strengths, would provide crucial advantage.
Daemon’s plan was to set a trap: he needed to draw Aemond and Vhagar away from the safety of King’s Landing and into an ambush where Meleys and Caraxes could engage them. By leveraging the combined might of the two dragons against the aging Vhagar, they could hope to overcome her defenses swiftly and with minimal casualties.
By successfully eliminating Vhagar and Aemond, Daemon could not only avenge Lucerys but strategically cripple the Greens. The loss of their strongest dragon and its rider would leave King’s Landing vulnerable and ripe for siege, especially with the Velaryon fleet starving the city of its recourse.
With King’s Landing surrounded, Daemon’s forces could press the city hard, leveraging their newfound advantage to compel the Greens into making concessions–most crucially, the release of Daenera.
Exhausted and infuriated, Daemon rubbed his brow, exhaling deeply. Just then, a soft knock at the door broke the silence of the room. There was no response from him, and yet the door slowly creaked open, allowing a frail stream of light to slice through the darkness, mingling with the flickering glow from the hearth. Daemon’s gaze shifted wearily to the figure hesitating at the threshold of his chambers, who, after a moment’s pause, gathered the courage to step inside.
Rhaena moved gracefully through the dimly lit room, her form draped in a loose dress covered by a robe. Her hair was neatly tied back, secured with silk–a trick she had picked up on from her mother. The firelight softened her delicate features, casting gentle shadows that accentuated a slight furrow in her brows as she looked at him. Her presence brought a quiet tension to the air as Daemon withdrew his gaze.
With a gruff exhale, Daemon leaned back in his chair, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m in no mind to offer good company right now.”
“I know,” Rhaena replied softly, hesitating on the fringe of the hearth’s light before gathering her resolve once more and moving to sit in the chair opposite him. “But I don’t think you should be alone.” There was a moment of silence before she continued, “Joffrey tried to mount Tyraxes and fly off…”
Daemon let out a humorless, sardonic laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. He shook his head slightly, turning his attention back to the flames in the hearth.
“He doesn’t understand that Luke isn’t…” Rhaena’s voice wavered, her emotions barely contained. “He doesn’t understand that Luke isn’t coming back. He wants to find his brother.”
Daemon poured himself another cup of wine then, with a gesture of subdued generosity, filled another cup halfway and slid it across the table towards Rhaena. She acknowledged the gesture with a gentle smile but left the wine untouched. Settling the flagon aside, Daemon took up his own cup, cradling it in his hands. He absentmindedly toyed with the foot of the cup, his blunt nails tracing the grooves etched into its surface.
They sat together in silence, the only sound the crackling of the flames, each lost in their own thoughts. The quiet stretched between them, a comfortable yet heavy blanket, until Rhaena finally spoke, her voice soft but carrying a sharp edge of pain. “If mother had been alive, Luke would be too…”
Dameon let out a breath, his voice laden with weary warning, “Rhaena…”
He closed his eyes briefly, signaling his exhaustion. Comforting words and reminiscing were beyond him at the moment; solitude with his thoughts were what he craved, and more than anything, he yearned to hold his wife close again.
But Rhaena did not heed his warning, her voice quivering with emotion, tears threatening to break through her composure. “Vhagar was mother’s dragon,” she said, the pain evident in her trembling words. “I can’t–she was mother’s dragon… If I had been quicker, if I had claimed Vhagar then–”
The volatile, restless energy that had been simmering within Daemon reached a boiling point. Abruptly, he slammed the cup of wine down on the table, the sound echoing like a thunderclap through the dimly lit room. Wine splaced from the cup, staining his hand and spilling over the table onto the floor. He fixed his daughter with a long, stern look, wrestling with the urge to lash out as frustration and grief mingled within him.
Rhaena, with her eyes wide and filled with unshed tears, stared at a spot on the floor, deliberately avoiding his gaze.
Daemon understood the pain behind her words–he knew that she was grappling with knowing that the dragon, who had once belonged to her fierce and gentle mother, Laena, had killed someone she loved. They had once chosen each other. Rhaena struggled to reconcile that her mother’s dragon could be part of the violence they now face. Daemon, however, was painfully aware of the harsh truth–that the bond between dragon and rider had perished with Laena, leaving Vhagar a different creature altogether, driven by new allegiances and the brutal instincts of its rider.
Claiming a dragon was more than an act of dominion; it was the forging of a deep and profound bond, almost as if their souls were intertwined. A dragon was not a pet but an extension of the baser instincts that reside within all beings, a tangible connection to a primal force dwelling within each person. A dragon was a weapon with a mind of its own, the greatest force of nature that existed and it was to be respected, revered and feared. When Aemond claimed Vhagar, their souls became intertwined, uniting rider and beast, man and his purest, most unguarded instincts. In response, Vhagar had become an instrument of Aemond’s will, embodying his desires and ambitions as only a dragon could.
Regret gnawed at Daemon’s stomach as he processed Rhaena’s expression. Reaching out, he took his daughter's hand in his own, enveloping it warmly as he offered the only comfort he could muster–a gentle squeeze. “A dragon is not a pet to be inherited. Vhagar chose Aemond as much as he chose her. There was nothing you could have done to prevent that. Aemond wanted Luke dead, and Vhagar acted on that desire. It was Aemond who killed Luke–his will, his desire. The bond between a dragon and its rider is profound.”
Rhaena’s voice was soft as she met Daemon’s eyes, her hand gently squeezing his. “Is it like that for all dragonriders?”
“It should be,” Daemon responded, a slight furrow on his brow. His thoughts briefly touched upon his own connection with Caraxes. To Daemon, Caraxes was more than just a dragon; he was an extension of himself, much like Dark Sister was. Riding Caraxes allowed him to embody his truest form: a fusion of immense power and potential for destruction, yet also a profound source of unconditional love and support. This bond was not merely about the might Caraxes brought to battle but also the deep, unwavering companionship he offered–he was a mirror of Daemon’s nature. “A dragon is both an extension of the rider’s will and a creature with its own nature. It is to be respected.”
Rhaena grew quiet.
Together, they remained seated in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
After a while, Rhaena broke the quiet, bidding him goodnight with a soft voice. She then quietly withdrew, leaving Daemon alone with his contemplations. The room felt emptier without her presence, and the weight of his desired solitude pressed heavily on him as he sat back, left to wrestle with his thoughts in the flickering light of the dying fire.
As the first light of dawn filtered through the tall, narrow windows, the council convened with an air thick with solemnity. The Chamber of the Painted Table was tense as Daemon entered, the members of Rhaenyra’s council seated apprehensively around the table. Daemon moved with purposeful strides, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, drawing a sense of comfort from its familiar weight on his hip as he assumed the position as the head of the table–a position rightfully belonging to his wife.
Lord Bartimos Celtigar adjusted in his seat, a frown creasing his features as he spoke warily, “The Queen?”
“Is indisposed,” Daemon replied curtly, his tone as sharp as the edge of his blade. His expression darkened as he continued, “The death of Lucerys has taken a toll on her, and she needs time to properly mourn her son.”
The night had dragged on slowly for Daemon, who had spent the hours gazing into the flickering flames of the hearth, lost in the solitude of his contemplation. His thoughts turned over their next strategic moves and how best to avenge his stepson’s death. Despite the growing unease in his heart, he had held onto a sliver of hope, waiting for Rhaenyra’s return. Against his better judgment, he had hoped she would walk through the door and take up her responsibilities once more. But as dawn crept in and the shadows receded, it became clear she would not return–not until she had found whatever she needed outthere. She had left him alone, burdened with the weight of continuing in her stead, steering their course forward without her.
Lord Simon Staunton shifted uneasily, the black wings upon a white fess emblazoned across his doublet standing out against the black and gray checkered background. He nervously fiddled with a ring on his fingers, clearly unsettled by Daemon’s intense glare. “Is it true that the Queen has left Dragonstone?
“She has gone to Storm’s End.”Lord Corlys Velaryon responded when Daemon remained silent, informing them of where their Queen had gone.
“Alone?” Lord Gormn Massey interjected sharply, his voice laden with exasperation. The idea that their Queen venturing out alone, without any protection, seemed not only foolhardy but utterly preposterous to him. His disbelief was evident, echoing the concerns of many in the room about the implications of such a decision.
Lord Corlys Velaryon attempted to calm the nerves of his fellow council members with a measured tone, his fingers tapping gently on the head of his cane. “The Queen has her dragon–”
“She is heading into enemy territory!” Lord Gormon Massey interrupted, his voice rising in alarm. “She could be walking into an ambush! The Hightowers have shown no qualms with spilling blood, and House Baratheon has declared for them, have they not?”
Corlys responded with a firmness that matched his calm, “House Baratheon might have declared for the Greens, but they are not likely to strike down a grieving mother and spill the blood of a Queen.” He paused, allowing his words to resonate before adding, “They know that should they harm her, Storm’s End would become a second Harrenhal.”
The room fell into a tense silence as the gravity of the situation settled over the council. Rhaena moved through the tense atmosphere, acting as the intermediary in the strained silence. She approached Lord Simon Staunton first, deftly pouring wine into his cup before turning to her grandfather to offer him wine as well. Corlys, however, gently placed his hand over his cup, signaling his refusal. He offered Rhaena a gentle smile, appreciating her efforts despite his decision to abstain. Acknowledging his gesture with a nod, Rhaena continued her duties, moving down the line to Lord Bar Emmon. He sat quietly, his eyes set on the table, seemingly lost in thought.
In the absence of Rhaenyra’s heir, Jace, and her sister Baela, she took up this responsibility as a cup-bearer.
Completing her service to Lord Bar Emmon, Rhaena crossed to the other side of the room to pour wine into Lord Staunton’s cup. It was then that he turned to Daemon, seeking reassurance. “When will she return?”
Daemon responded to the pressing question with a stern, silent gaze that swept across the faces of the council before he replied curtly, “When she is ready.”
Lord Bartimos Celtigar carefully chose his next words, aware of the tension thickening in the room. “We all mourn the loss of the young prince,” he began, his eyes slowly scanning the council members, who all nodded in agreement. His hand rested on the Painted Table, a gesture indicating the gravity of his next statement. He then lifted his gaze to meet Daemon’s, continuing, “But we cannot hold off–”
“I agree, Lord Bartimos,” Daemon interrupted, his voice firm, cutting through any further elaboration. “Which is why I stand in her place.”
His statement was clear, signaling his temporary assumption of Rhaenyra’s duties and authority.
Lord Bartimos, seeming to recognize the finality in Daemon’s tone, averted his gaze in a gesture of deference. He seemed to sense Daemon’s rising agitation–as did the rest of the council–and chose not to challenge him further. Daemon was not in the mood for prolonged discussions or objections. He was familiar with the tension building within him, a craving for the clear-cut simplicity of the battlefield, rather than the complexities of court politics, and while he’d wage war in Rhaenyra’s name, there was little he could do without her final decision.
Just then, Lord Gunthor Darklyn interjected with a new concern, shifting the focus of the conversation. “Has Prince Jacaerys been informed of his brother’s passing?”
With a swift, almost exasperated gesture, Daemon produced two rolled parchments from his pocket. Each was neatly sealed with red wax, embossed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He set the letters down on the table, clearly intended for dispatch.
“Have these letters sent to both the Eyrie and Winterfell,” he instructed crisply.
“Yes, my prince,” Maester Gerardys responded, his voice a calm contrast to Daemon’s terse command. He rose from his seat, his movements measured as he rounded the table. The maester’s chain clinked softly with each step. And while picking up the two letters, said, “I will send them immediately.”
“No need,” Daemon answered, dismissing the need to make haste of it.
Maester Gerardys returned to his seat, laying aside the letters that would be sent after the conclusion of the council meeting.
Daemon had contemplated how to break the news to Jace, and had finally settled on being direct:
It grieves me to inform you, but your brother, Lucerys, is dead. He was slain by Aemond Targaryen after leaving Storm’s End. Your mother has left Dragonstone in her grief, and her return is uncertain. I will send a raven once she returns, but until then, you must ensure that our alliances are solidified. Your mother will need the support of the North and the Vale in this war. Lay aside your grief and fulfill her duty as her heir.
Daemon recognized that no further words could change the necessity of their situation. The support of the Vale and the North, as a whole, was crucial, and he trusted that Jace would understand the gravity and respond accordingly.
Lord Bartimos Celitgar, showing visible signs of agitation, seemingly couldn’t contain his frustration any longer and let out a heavy huff, shaking his head in disbelief. “The murder of Prince Lucerys will shock the realm,” he asserted, voice tinged with both anger and conviction. “We must inform the great houses of the nature of this treachery. If they have not declared for us, they will now. Kinslaying will not win the usurpers any supporters…” He continued to shake his head, the disgust palpable in his expression. “None are so accursed as the kinslayer, and Aemond Targaryen has doomed himself with this wretched act.”
Corlys Velaryon’s voice carried a mix of concern and urgency as he turned to Maester Gerardys. “Is there any news from King’s Landing?”
“Nothing yet, my lord,” the maester responded with a measured tone, shifting slightly in his seat. “If there is any information to come out of the Red Keep, we should receive it shortly–within a matter of hours, maybe days.”
Daemon addressed the council, stating firmly. “While the Queen is away, we will continue our efforts. How does the Velaryon fleet stand?”
Corlys Velaryon straightened in his seat, his presence commanding as he turned his attention from Daemon to the rest of the council. “The fleet is slowly moving into position, my prince. The shipwrights are tirelessly working day and night to repair the ships that took damage in the Stepstones. Within the fortnight, we expect at least seven of those ships to be seaworthy enough to join the rest of the fleet as they position near the Gullet. Once all of the ships have been repaired and are ready to set sail, we’ll be able to completely seal the Gullet.” He paused, assessing the impact of his words before continuing. “Currently, Rhaenys manages to prevent most ships from entering or exiting Blackwater Bay, though not all. However, King’s Landing will soon start to feel the effects of our blockade, if they haven’t already.”
Corlys then turned his gaze back to Daemon, his expression serious. “If you will permit, I would like to return to Driftmark to personally oversee the repairs. I will keep you well informed of our progress.”
Daemon responded with a measured nod, signaling his approval. He stood, his movements signaling a shift towards the conclusion of the council’s discussion. “When the Queen returns, we shall inform her of our progress. I want to be kept informed about everything happening in King’s Landing as well as the Stormlands.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the council members to ensure he had their full attention. “Send raves–inform the realm of the usurpers and their act of kinslaying.”
Then, pausing for a moment to let the weight of his words sink in, he concluded with a declaration that reverberated off the ancient stone walls, “And prepare for a war fought with steel.”
