Chapter Text
I don't own Game of Thrones or the ASOIAF Series, which both belong to GRRM.
"..." Character P.O.V.
'...' Character Thoughts
"..." High Valyrian, Old Tongue, or any other languages
The rain and thunder outside Blackhaven came down in harsh bursts. More than likely, they were softening the ground and the land outside as he watched the Silent Sisters prepare Ser Lewyn’s body before it was to be transported back to Sunspear to be interred with the rest of his Martell kin. He personally felt the weather and the air outside were an insult to the old knight, who would have preferred to be prepared under the harsh sun and dry air of his southern homeland beyond the Red Mountains, where he himself had been born and where his mother also died, giving birth to him in that same breath. Ser Lewyn had passed in the night, they told him, after they had arrived at Blackhaven, enjoying the guest right and hospitality of Lord Beric Dondarrion. He still couldn’t believe the man was gone after all they had been through over the years.
For moons leading up to last night and this day, he had been wondering about the old knight’s health. He had asked whether the man was well and all right, even begging him to see a maester when they had come to House Fowler’s seat in Skyreach. The maester had said, to his knowledge, nothing was wrong and that it seemed to be a result of his age. He added that it was nothing that rest, along with a hot bath, a warm hearth, and warm food, would fix in time. And yet as of yesterday, one minute the Dornish knight was fine, and then… burned right through him whatever it was.
He had loved the man dearly as a father, and his passing had torn at his heart with a grim fury he wished would not surface, let alone reign, until he had the proper time to mourn alone in silence. Yet still, there was a deeply mournful peace in watching the Silent Sisters prepare Ser Lewyn. The kind too quiet to form words, it pierced his own heart further as he watched them cut Lewyn open and prepare his body for preservation on the journey to Sunspear, where he would lie in state before being interred alongside his sister, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms' mother. He had done his part by carrying the man’s body himself from his chambers toward the hall where the Silent Sisters would do their work. It would have been an issue for him had he been younger, but on account of his size now, Lewyn wasn’t heavy at all.
Another reminder of how much time had passed…
Now he was seventeen years of age, one year past his majority. A still freshly minted knight for five years now, green to most.
Although he was still seen as dangerous by most of the realm, he was younger than Ser Jaime Lannister and similar in age to Daemon Blackfyre, who was the last knighted at that age. So there was much terror around him at the knighting, and all who saw it considered it a bad omen.
His physical appearance did him no favors either; he was accursedly majestic, as most would call him. He looked as if he had been born in the wild lands of Essos in a time long past, when the First Men still dwelled there, and the Valyrians tended sheep on the Valyrian Peninsula before ascending as dragonlords. His skin was a blend of First Men and Valyrian, fair and pale marble without a single line or wrinkle, ageless and godlike, some would say. He stood seven feet and two inches tall, with terrifyingly vibrant purple eyes that many said were as haunting as Ashara Dayne’s and could give her a run for gold dragons.
He had long, thick, fine, wavy, and flowing black locks of hair, with a thick streak of silver-gold hair at the front that ran to the right of his face, opposite his elder sister's, which fell on her left side.
Even some of his right eyebrow and eyelash near the middle, extending toward the temple, was silver-gold.
He had also grown sturdy, stockier, and big-boned compared to most of his maternal and paternal kin, and, as a result of his height, he was large and tall, with broad shoulders and a strong broad chest. His body seemed to define his appearance, and others had often said he was carved from "angry" marble, with all sharp angles. Abnormally strong, durable, and even frighteningly quick for one of his immense size, which seemed to defy him, yet that seemed to fit his body.
All the while, he possessed a dangerously handsome, slender face, the result of being supposedly cursed with perfection and handsomeness at birth, amid the sins he supposedly brought upon the realm, with talon scars from an eagle over his eyes and face. He had a slanted scar running from his left cheekbone, across his eyelid, and up through his eyebrow. He had earned it earlier in the training yard, at his father’s hand, on his thirteenth name-day, when his father’s blade had nearly taken his left eye. It had been a particularly painful one, and he thanked the gods he had not lost the eye.
Then there was the long, thin dagger scar on the left side of his face that ran vertically from temple to jawline, alongside the small, curving scar on the right side of his face from temple to drawing near his cheek.
Ser Lewyn had said he wasn’t finished growing yet and often said he was still filling out and coming into his body. He was kind in that way.
Always knew what to say to him when the time called for it and when Lewyn knew he had truly needed it.
And now he was gone.
The man who had raised him and shown him what was what had seen sixty-three namedays. How many men in a place as violent and bloody as Westeros could say that? Especially a Kingsguard like Ser Lewyn?
Thank the gods that at least Ser Lewyn felt the embracing heat of high summer. The longest summer in living memory was still going strong.
Still…
All that was left of him now was a cold, peaceful-looking body, soon to be interred with the rest of his kin in the far south. It made him wonder for a moment whether his mother was as peaceful in death after she passed while giving birth to him.
The hall smelled of fresh rain, cold and damp because of its position in the castle, despite the bright torch and candlelight. It had all the warmth a castle could offer, yet it was not felt by the person lying before him.
Even to himself.
“I don’t know the words, not the ones that truly mattered, since the Seven never truly appealed to me on account of my Northern blood, despite our time at the Arbor. There really ought to be a septon here in my place, but he isn’t due to governing the nearest sept, which is a day’s ride from Blackhaven, so he won’t be here until the morrow to say the rites,” he said, his voice strong yet calm. “You were better to me than most. You were a true and great knight who took me under your wing. Never beat me when I didn’t deserve it,” he added, a fond, nostalgic smirk on his face as he recalled all the times that had passed.
First, at seven, he got into a brawl with a younger son of a lord, older and bigger than he was, and beat him bloody in the training yard for insults and verbal slights against him, which earned him a smack to the head.
The second was when he was eight, after Lewyn had pulled him away from a mudfight with other children and smacked him over the head while saying he made himself look bad and made Lewyn look bad too.
The third came when he was nine and had hotheadedly threatened a sailing merchant with death in Duskendale for lying to Ser Lewyn about the quality of his products, which turned out to be fine and high quality, not the opposite, earning him the back of Lewyn’s open hand.
The fourth was when he was eleven. After Lady Falyse Stokeworth had tried and failed to make a man of him in an act of vile seduction, he did not see coming on account of his age; he took it at first as kind courtesy, even as she made him nervous until Ser Lewyn found them, with her undressing him. He remembered the knight cursing at her as a sailor would his crew, taking him by the arm away from her, getting him dressed, asking if he was all right, and giving him a hard clout to the ear.
The fifth had been when he was twelve, and after he and Ser Lewyn tracked down and chased a large group of outlaws who had stolen wildfire and planned to sell it for coin. The chase had been disastrous, with the wildfire itself igniting and setting fire to at least two quarters of the farmlands between the Reach and the Crownlands. The sight burned harshly in the night, making him curse under his breath before Ser Lewyn briskly turned him around and punched him in the face.
The sixth had been when he was fourteen, after they had spent a bit of time in Dorne with House Blackmont at their seat of Blackmont. After a time helping them with matters on their lands, he was found one morning by Ser Lewyn abed with both Lady Larra Blackmont and her daughter and heir, the Lady Jynessa Blackmont. A sight in its own right, it became public. It ruined the potential matches between Larra Blackmont and Lord Anders Yronwood and between Jynessa and Ser Gerold Dayne, which earned him another punch to the face despite House Blackmont’s ruling lady and heir making sure they got on their way in good spirits while being well provisioned.
“Except that time in Oldtown,” he admitted now with a small chuckle. “I kind of brought that on myself, thinking it really clever to bed five of Lord Leyton Hightower’s daughters alongside Lady Janna Fossoway. I thought I could fool you until that squire came forth to tell you what he had heard that night.” He went on.
Remembering now, he chuckled, air escaping his nose as he recalled that particular feat from his fifteenth name day. After the squire revealed that he had heard laughter, screams, and moans for more during his night with the ladies, Malora, Denyse, Leyla, Alysanne, and Lynesse Hightower, formerly Mormont, alongside Janna Fossoway née Tyrell, he had pissed off many the next morning, from Lord Leyton to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, and the spouses of each of the women he had involved himself with, including even Lady Olenna Tyrell and Lord Mace Tyrell, but none more so than Ser Lewyn, who looked almost frothing at the mouth in anger and frustration. He was honestly surprised the Dornish knight had waited as long as he had. When it was all settled, he had earned the hardest punch he had ever received from the man, who called him a reckless and unapologetic fool.
They had all been dear in his memory despite the pain following each moment.
Then the fondness turned to quiet mourning as he softly exhaled, turning his head toward the chamber's high-vaulted ceiling. He tried to gather his scattered thoughts, which were all over the place.
“I guess it all doesn’t matter now,” he finally said, not even believing the words he spoke, an attempt to suppress the grief rising steadily to the surface.
He took a few breaths, the first calm, the second even, the third shaky, the fourth quick like the fifth, and by the seventh…
…he was failing to hold back tears.
He had come to look upon Ser Lewyn’s face. He looked so alive, even in death.
And that was the part that had hurt him the most and deeply affected him.
The man grown, whom he still wished to be a boy under his tutelage, but now found himself his own master in a sense.
“I know you wouldn’t want me to shed tears, but…” he began, his voice shaking with grief. “...it’s hard to imagine you won’t be with me anymore.” He sniffled as he inhaled through his nose. “I wish you hadn’t died, ser. Gods know I still need you now more than ever.” He told Lewyn’s body as he wiped his eyes, giving himself a moment to compose himself. “I’ll take care of myself better and go far ahead. I’ll find my way in this world as you asked of me, no matter how long it takes,” he promised.
- Seven Days Later -
The sun's position among the clouds signaled midday, and the howling winds from the surrounding hills blew harshly around him as he rested in the grass beneath an ancient weirwood, a piece of straw in his mouth. The wind's howling, filled with a disturbing quiet, seemed to echo the unrest in his spirit.
He had spent seven days now in these hills overlooking Blackhaven, lying here, trying to decide what to do with himself now that Ser Lewyn was gone. The quiet had done nothing to calm his grief, and he had fared little better in trying to sleep. Not even the clouds of day and the night sky with their stars offered him guidance. Despite his station and what it meant to the rest of the realm, the years had done little to tie him to this land that was supposed to be his home. The last word even felt hollow now, even to think of it.
He was wasting away, others would say, had they seen his state.
And the wine that ran dry four days ago did nothing to dull his pain.
He truly felt lost now.
“Carve out a purpose for myself out there and an income in the lands beyond Westeros if I took a ship from here. Probably eat and live like a king somewhere in time,” he said, still looking at the sky above him, then raising his head to look at the horses and his two longtime companions, whose eyes were closed in rest. “The question is, would it calm this disquiet in my bones?” he asked them, then letting his head fall back into the grass. “I personally doubt it would,” he said, sighing through his nose a moment later.
This all felt useless, even pointless, now.
He had no income of his own due to his father. He received no allowance, even for one of his station. He practically had to claw and scrape after a certain age, until he eventually stopped asking his father for the coin and aid altogether, and he refused to burden his elder sister and brother by asking them.
What was here in Westeros to keep him here? To even build upon?
What was there for him out there in the world beyond these lands? In Essos, for that matter?
“That road, in itself, I’m contemplating walking on ends in much spilled blood and problems of their own here that I can’t escape, no matter the damn distance,” he said, sitting up on his hands. He looked northwest toward the Northern Reach, south of the Blackwater Rush, and near the Goldroad. “It may just be time to return despite my want and wish not to do so. To King’s Landing. The stifling air of it all.” He said aloud to them all, his elbows on his knees.
He received no answers from the three Dornish steeds, his own Rosechaser, Ser Lewyn’s named Sunchaser, and the last, known as Ruby, a gift to him from the beautiful Lady Nymella Toland, who had been kind to him. He turned to the first of his last two companions, particularly his albino-colored companion, who raised his head and tilted it slightly toward him, a sight that amused him somewhat. Much like his other and last companion, his red-colored girl, who made a sound in her throat before dropping her head. All the same, it did nothing to answer his question and made the roads he had in mind even less appealing.
His position and birth afforded him a generous early education that could not be taken away, but his father chose not to use it, have it, or even consider it.
He gradually turned toward his weapons, propped against the weirwood behind him. His battered heavy shield, with what remained of his House’s heraldry, hidden blades, a goldenheart recurve bow, a dragonbone longbow, a finely crafted crossbow, the axe known as Goredrinker, and the warhammer he called the Thunderer. The axe and warhammer next to the last four he also had after them had been crafted from Valyrian steel; both were weapons he had acquired during his time with Ser Lewyn in various battles. He had taken great care to master their use. They were weapons that would have made his family envious—if not for the fact that they had recovered their ancestral blades, including one he himself had retrieved alongside another he found, and that his House had taken possession of for punishment of past actions.
It was a topic of conversation, seemingly accepted by most as one might swallow the sour juice of a lemon that stings the cheeks. However, his eyes still wandered to the last four weapons he mostly used in battle, all crafted from Valyrian steel.
A fine, great curved Valyrian steel blade with a dragonbone hilt, which had been revealed to have once been wielded by Sandoq the Shadow, the former pit fighter and bodyguard of his ancestor, Lady Larra Rogare of Lys. He had named the weapon Red Scar, alongside the other blade he had taken from an Ironborn Reaver, which had been stolen and traded among the Ironborn Reavers through a multitude of conflicts and pasts. He had come to find out that it was the Valyrian steel blade Truth of House Rogare, which had last been wielded by Moredo Rogare. Then, after the two, there was the third, the spell-woven Valyrian steel spear he had named the Spear of the Tarnished. And last came a Valyrian steel halberd that he had named the Deathless Claw.
He had stood now, slowly, his joints popping as he did so, then walked over and grabbed the great curved blade, unsheathing the spell-forged steel from its scabbard. He let the steel drink in the sunlight above while his albino companion watched him silently, as he liked to do at times.
“I could’ve done worse for myself and still been worse off in other regards had the odds not been in my favor when it came to my birth.” He spoke aloud to his albino and red friend, the former merely staring before tilting his head slightly.
That part of himself had always troubled him, yet he had come to accept the skill he believed the Gods had blessed him with.
He guessed, "It just seems like this is now the real test of who I will become. How I will manage on my own, it appears. Once more, I am being tested on the Anvil of Life."
The steel felt right in his hands as he twirled it quickly, then stopped and stretched out his arm to extend the blade.
“No shame in that, I suppose, despite the grief pressing down on the walls of my being.”
If he must perish, let it be with a sword in his hand, fighting for a just cause in his own name, he supposed. He was no true member of his House, had never truly felt he belonged to it, but he could die for himself better than they could. Speed, freedom, pleasure, culture, and pragmatism had always been his way. Let them say that his father had two glorious sons, not one for wrongs not his own making, but those of others.
“And there is a tourney to take place soon on the Field of Fire,” he told his albino and red companions. “Perhaps when the occasion is underway, with women beneath and above me and blood flowing beneath my skin, I will find a measure of clarity for things as they are now.”
He had no expectations or assumptions of that, or about what was to come there once he arrived.
After all the years on the road, riding from city to city, keep to keep, taking service with lords and ladies, settling matters and disputes, fighting in battles, eating in their halls, and tilting in the lists, he had learned that much. Nevertheless, it felt strange because it would soon be the closest he had been to the city where he had been somewhat raised.
Upon securing the fine saddle on his horse, a few hours after his afternoon meal and an hour spent packing and preparing his belongings, he strapped the leathers in place and then threw himself onto his horse. Despite these actions, he still felt the all-pervading quiet that lingered with him. He sighed once he was seated, observing the sun's position and the gradual approach of sunset.
He gently kicked Rosechaser to start her walking stride, leading her along with the other tied horses while his albino and red friends walked beside him. He had come to slow the horse once he reached the precipice of one of the hills ahead on the road, where he had a clear view of Blackhaven down below.
A sight that prompted him to remove a Myrish lens tube from his pack, one he had acquired years before, and extend it to see afar. He wanted a closer look at what was going on below, so he circled in gently toward the castle first to see Lord Beric on the battlements. A sigh seemed to escape the Stormlander’s lips before he turned the far-eye away to the right. He immediately spotted riders of a Dornish House bearing the banner of a black portcullis grill over sand, leaving the castle in a large convoy on the road. It seemed House Yronwood of Yronwood had come to retrieve Ser Lewyn’s body and bring him home to Sunspear.
The indication was clear, as a large horse-drawn wagon carried a box the size of his body, draped over it, bearing the House Martell sigil of a red sun pierced by a golden spear on orange, which seemed to serve as Ser Lewyn’s container until he reached Sunspear for proper interment in House Martell’s tombs.
The sight made him lower his Myrish eye with a sigh and put it away. He watched as the Dornishman rode hard south toward the Boneway.
No tears remained, only stoic silence.
One was now heading south to be laid to rest, his life and duty done, while the other was now heading north, unsure and lost about his future.
All the same, he would do his best to honor the man who gave him all he could.
“Gods keep you always, good ser.” He whispered, hoping the man found peace in death with the gods.
He then slowly turned his head upward, then downward, and forward toward the road ahead. He kicked Rosechaser once more and started her slow walk, with his other horses and companions in tow, toward his destination in the north.
It had seemed that one familiar door had closed and another uncertain door had opened.
Even as he began riding past the wounds of war still visible on the land, even as he began riding beyond the fields that had once been watered by the blood of men in the most major conflict in years, beneath many of the lesser ones.
The ghost of it and everything in between, leading up to last night, loomed over him once more. It seemed as if its scent still clung to him, too, despite all he had done to free himself of it…
…and that conflict did him no favors regarding his birth at its end...
…Robert’s Rebellion proved that much, a lingering curse on him despite the Targaryen victory.
- A Prince, Deathless, and Dragonguard of the Seven Kingdoms -
The year is 298 After Aegon’s Conquest.
For nearly twenty years since the Rebellion, the Targaryens have managed the task of maintaining steady control over much of Westeros, largely thanks to the decisive leadership of former kings, nobles, and the current king on the throne, which has assured and secured their grip on the land. The price of their successful expansion at home and across the water, however, is the resistance that now grows among the southern lords and people they have subjugated over nearly three hundred years, and, more concerning, within their own ranks among the lesser nobles.
Within these years, the Targaryens have profited richly from reestablishing links with the Valyrian people who settled along the western coasts and inland in the far southern areas of Sothoryos after the Doom that struck Old Valyria, and have even come to rule them, thanks in part to the king’s elder younger brothers. They have maintained a tight grip on this and have hidden much from many of the other lords, whom they have come to distrust after winning against Robert Baratheon in the Usurper’s Rebellion, and with whom they have shared the wealth of this place only through their ventures to strengthen the whole of Westeros and its prosperity, and to expand and fortify the capital and Dragonstone alongside their own bannermen.
In King’s Landing, the reigning King, Rhaegar I Targaryen, has ruled with a steady hand and an iron fist, helped foremost by his House and his council and court, the latter two of which were handpicked and carefully selected.
Yet all is not well beyond the capital and the court…
Many Westermen of the Westerlands living under Targaryen rule are becoming increasingly insubordinate, feeling their lord has been snubbed and left unrewarded after the Usurper’s Rebellion, when he declared for Rhaegar after he had won at the Trident. Once, Tywin Lannister was a lord a previous king could depend on, but under Rhaegar, he is not, and he is moreover not even a man welcomed at court like his son, the rest of his House, and his lords. Even more, he was considered by all to be a man great enough to be a king, but for the last seventeen years, while Tywin has ruled from the Rock, Rhaegar has ruled cunningly, wisely, and sternly, and has even waged a war of conquest for holdings across Essos and Sothoryos, making him and House Targaryen ever richer, more powerful, and more popular. Something that rankles House Lannister, feeding the fire that all see to come.
The so-called Great Lion of the Rock, Tywin Lannister, who is also Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, is a man the Targaryens would surely like to deliver a quick death to, in the hopes of quashing his potential preparations for a suspected rebellion and already suspected betrayal years ago, before it gains further momentum.
Across the Sunset Sea, Balon Greyjoy, who inherited the title of Lord of the Iron Islands from his father, Quellon, declared himself King of the Iron Islands nine years ago after sensing weakness in the realm. He proclaimed independence from the Iron Throne, but his rebellion was quelled the same year. Now, he has re-emerged as a potentially serious threat to Targaryen interests at sea, endangering their treasure fleets and trade routes.
To the North and beyond its Neck, House Stark remains a considerable power, one that could have inflicted the most damage on House Targaryen had they abandoned their oaths and broken away from the Iron Throne and Seven Kingdoms. However, this was put down by the equal efforts of King Rhaegar himself, who favored the North heavily in memory of his late second wife, Lyanna Stark, and by the now-known Prince Eddard Stark, who worked diligently as Warden of the North to keep his lords in check and dispel any suspicion that southern lords might use in the future, likely for their own ambition against his region and people. The Northern people have prospered greatly under the favor of House Targaryen, but they also have their hands full dealing with scattered Ironborn threats along their western coasts. These same Ironborn are of little immediate concern to the Targaryens, yet the threat is one they watch for with readiness, unless the Ironborn attempt to retrace their ancestors' journey and fully commit to invading the North and the entire western coasts of Westeros. Should they decide to invade, they will find House Stark and the North, the Targaryens, and the rest of the continent far more organized and powerful than before.
Perhaps the greatest concern for the eighteenth Targaryen King and his House at present is the growing unrest among some of the Dornish lords, who were initially encouraged by House Wyl to mount a disastrous rebellion in 290 AC, resulting in the complete annihilation of the House, the destruction of their castle, and having its earth being salted. Yet have now been recently spurred on by the revivified, bordering on treasonous words and actions of the Prince of Dorne’s younger brother, Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, who has taken up the task where House Wyl failed and has found himself most unwelcome at court.
The Targaryen King and his House must ensure public order remains high in his and their settlements while putting down the untimely rebellions of the Andal and Rhoynish peoples and any other threats that may arise, both at home and across the seas.
Total control of Westeros is within the grasp of the Targaryens; it would be a shame to see them falter now, with their goal within reach without dragons.
- Chapter 1: Fire and Blood -
- Prince Daemon Targaryen the Ghost Prince, the Resented and Tarnished Dragon of No Renown -
- Two Sennights Later -
The ride from the Stormlands, past Summerhall in the distance and Ashford, toward the field in what used to be the Northern Reach, south of the Blackwater Rush and near the Goldroad, was quiet.
Daemon had no one with him now but the road, his thoughts, and the songs he hummed and sang softly as he made his way to the Field of Fire. That suited him both well and with hesitation. He was free to go where he wished, but he was without the constant company of Ser Lewyn. He hated this feeling. Grief was all very new to him, and he liked it not, for it made him understand what his father more than likely felt when his mother passed after birthing him.
A mother whose face Daemon had seen only in paintings, not truly with his own eyes. It made Daemon wonder whether the paintings accurately portrayed the woman's beauty. A mother whom Ser Arthur had said loved him deeply and terribly and couldn’t wait to meet him. A woman of the North, whom Ser Arthur had said, upon his birth, leading to her death, had loved Daemon more than anyone, even more than life, in her final moments. The mother who held Daemon close to her breast, saying she had loved him dearly, before the end took her from the world. That gnawed endlessly at him since he could remember, just as it did with Lewyn presently as he continued to ride down the road.
These two people.
One he could not remember because he had just been born, and the other he remembered vividly, to the point that Daemon howled at the sky some days ago, cursing the gods and everyone who could hear him in his grief, drinking until he puked before weeping.
He found it ironic that the two people who had influenced his life—now deceased—seemed to care for him more than his distant father and uncle in the North. The former because his plans, whatever they were, hadn’t turned out as expected, while the latter, after losing his father and brother to Daemon’s grandfather, had apparently loved a friend more than family.
Added to this all was Daemon’s uncle, who also blamed his younger sister, his mother, for failing to fulfill her duty to Robert Baratheon, his mother’s former betrothed, whom everyone considered a drunken fool who achieved little beyond battle. An opinion that was indisputably demonstrated by Robert's continued survival after the rebellion, his pardon by his father, and the final event at Ashford’s tourney in 296 AC, where Daemon injured him in the melee in a manner similar to how Prince Baelor Breakspear had died. This injury caused the Stag Lord’s death after he succumbed to the blow and wound inflicted by Daemon, leading Stannis Baratheon to take his older brother’s place as the current Lord of Storm’s End.
An event of its own making that further soured Daemon's relationship with his uncle in the North and complicated relations with the Stormlands, despite the now-former Lord of Storm’s End seeking him out on the field during that tourney that day and suffering the consequences for it.
Nevertheless, beyond this, Daemon now had to carry such memories and ghosts with him every time he closed his eyes to sleep.
How he wished for a dreamless rest now more than ever, to drift and truly forget all of it.
Daemon had hoped to get that as he approached the inn of the town he had just entered. The warm yellow light spilling from within its walls looked inviting enough. He had never had an issue eating among the smallfolk or those of lesser birth. Something that always bothered and irritated him greatly when it came to the nobility of Westeros.
They were so proud of themselves that they didn’t even care. So fat and satisfied that they’d rather maintain the status quo than pursue growth, trapped in the endless cycle of bloodshed that renews itself every so often. A cancerous behavior among the nobility, which made Daemon’s thoughts turn to the one who, after his first years of wrath against the lords of the realm in his actions and decrees, had done nothing to change or stamp it down, being embroiled in whatever matters of state and designs that held his attention.
He had heard early in his youth from others that his father had meant to make great changes after taking the Iron Throne, but because it had been unclean in how he had come to the throne, and in the aftermath of Jaime Lannister’s killing of Daemon’s grandfather, he did none of it in the way others expected. Daemon’s father appeared satisfied to govern with an iron grip, while he ruminated and indulged in past failures, all of which traced back to his mother’s death in the Tower of Joy. This tragedy seemed to anchor him in the responsibility of ruling justly and compensating for his previous errors. It was a blessing from the gods that Daemon was mature, humble, and self-conscious, unlike his sire, who had been childish, entitled, and held delusions of grandeur for reasons Daemon knew not before he had become king.
The demands and truths of the world around Daemon had made him more of a man than his father ever was or could be. Not that his father ever bothered to try to raise him. Daemon, as he was in his father's eyes, had made sure of that. So it fell to the others, like his kin, Ser Lewyn, and Maester Aemon, to do so.
Daemon had made sure that he, as the son, was not a shadow of the father whose actions bore bitter fruit. A similar sentiment was shared toward his uncle, whom he was not close to, unlike toward his other uncle, Benjen.
Concerning his sire, Rhaegar, however, it appears that kingship diminished the qualities of the man who once held considerable hope for Westeros, as it did in him, both before and during Robert’s Rebellion.
It was The End and the Death of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the moment his mother, Lyanna Stark, died. Many had claimed so.
From the moment the crown of King Aegon I Targaryen, the Conqueror, made of Valyrian steel and set with large square-cut rubies, was placed on his father’s head, and the realm declared him Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, as he sat upon the Iron Throne…
…the man who had once been was no more.
The apotheosis was complete, and the tense reign of the new king—once confidently supported by the realm when he was still a prince—had not endured. It began amid the lingering wounds of war that still haunted many minds, with distrust and stern leadership in the Dragonking after returning to King’s Landing to see Lord Tywin’s army before the closed gates of the city and Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, sitting on the Iron Throne after slaying the last to sit it, Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King.
All the while, they looked to Daemon, him, the king’s newborn son, with scorn and hatred for what he represented, given the actions of others that led to all the death and destruction.
In that regard, this realm was stifling for him and made him angry toward many. It got Daemon into too many fights as a youth, fights that were beneath him as a prince, as Ser Lewyn was often to say, something the Dornish knight of the Kingsguard tried to lessen as he practically raised and instructed him.
“You might win a fight with violence, but you’ll never win an argument. Remember, Daemon, if you want to convince someone they’re wrong, which they are in this regard, about something you had no part in and where the blame should not have been laid at your feet, try using your mouth rather than your fists, or allow them to think what they want. People tend to be fickle things.”
He rubbed his eyes now, as the words echoed in his head.
It felt as though that was what he was riding toward at this tourney rather than heeding Ser Lewyn’s words.
No matter, though. He would find one way or another to heed the man, win this tourney, and hopefully disappear and fuck off until the next one. Daemon had decided that would be his next course of action until he figured out what he would do with his future and life, for that matter.
As he dismounted there before the inn, an older boy sat next to a younger boy on barrels, both wearing trousers and roughspun tunics.
“Hello there, you both. Are you the stableboys?” Daemon asked the two while holding the reins. “There’s no need to rub down the horses. I’ll see to that when I reach the tourney grounds. Merely give oats to all three of them, tend to them, and prepare them for my departure on the morrow. Leave the other two to their rest near the horses. They won’t harm you if you don’t harm them. Can you both do that much?” he asked, looking upon them both.
The boys looked at him as if he were the biggest man they had ever seen. “We can, m’lord,” the older of the two said with a nod, and the younger beside him silently did the same. It was clear that the younger was the older’s younger brother or some other relation.
Daemon nodded. “Good. Do well, and I’ll see you both sufficiently rewarded before my departure. Until then, the responsibility for my property rests in your hands, what I hope are capable hands.” He had the eldest take the reins of the horses, then slowly walked to the door of the inn.
He swept his hair back as he opened the door and bent down to fit through, still needing to crouch because of the low ceiling on the upper floor. Just like nearly the town at this hour, the inn seemed completely deserted; even the common room was empty, with no patrons visible. This suited him well. However, with no one manning the place, he felt unsure until someone emerged from the kitchen door, carrying a smell that suggested they had come from the kitchen.
She was dressed almost as a septa would be, with a habit worn on her head that covered all her hair. She wore what looked like a well-maintained dress, with an apron tied around her waist, yet her mature, stout, short face was uncovered, with blue eyes and black eyelashes and eyebrows that indicated the color of her hair. The blue dress itself appeared to be made of a light material to provide comfort in the summer heat, and it did nothing to hide the tasteful thickness of the body beneath his gaze. She was full-figured, plump, voluptuous, and curvy in all the right places, just as he liked a woman, especially in her rear. Even through the dress, her prominent, large breasts gave a visible outline, so ample they could bury a man's face between them, and they appeared full, a result of becoming milk-laden from pregnancy.
“Sit where you like! Is it ale you want, or food?” she asked with a kind smile.
“Both. And lots of it.” Daemon answered, taking a chair far within the inn, in a quiet corner that suited him just as well. He took off his shield and laid it near where he would sit, alongside his swordbelt and other restrictive equipment.
“There’s good beef-and-barley stew, lamprey pie, and lamb roasted with a crust of herbs, along with some ducks and chicken my older sons caught. Which will you have?” she asked.
He thought about it for a moment, deciding what he wanted, since it had been a while since he had eaten at an inn. “All of it, I suppose.”
The innkeeper gave a short laugh at his answer. “Well, you're clearly of a size big enough to put it all away,” she said, looking him up and down appreciatively before moving away to grab a mug and a tankard of ale, then bringing them to his table. “Will you be wanting a room for the night as well?” she asked him.
“Aye, milady,” Daemon answered with a nod, though something told him he would barely sleep at all and that the bed would be too soft.
After spending most of his time in Ser Lewyn’s service on the ground, in ditches, in hedges, under trees, even in trees, and using caves and rocks as pillows, he had found no more comfort in a mattress, common or noble. It made Daemon dislike comfort, much as his ancestor Aegon the Conqueror refused to sit on a comfortable throne and instead forged his throne from the swords of his enemies.
It always felt as if he were lying on melted sweet cream, as if he were about to sink right to the floor.
“For the night, and then it’s on my way to the Field of Fire on the morrow,” Daemon told her. “How much farther from here to the Field?” the Tarnished Prince asked, looking to her as she finished pouring ale. He took a large gulp from his mug, gold and nut-brown in color yet thick and soothing on the tongue.
“Two days' ride. Keep to the road, and you’ll find yourself there soon enough… alongside most of the realm,” she told Daemon.
Daemon asked her, "Have all the kingdoms arrived?" showing his curiosity about this development, especially regarding the North, since it would be unusual for his uncle to come south of the Neck, particularly for tourneys he had come to dislike since Harrenhal and had avoided like the plague.
“Aye. Something about a great announcement to be made at the tourney’s conclusion regarding the Dragonstates and the Knightly Orders under the royal House of the Dragonkings. It's got all the lordlings and knights in a stir by the talk of it.” She told him as he listened, studying him and taking in his features. “Are my youngest boys seeing to your horses, or have they run off again?” she asked him now.
“No, they’re both there. The older one is looking out for the younger.” Daemon answered with a chuckle. “I can assume all your usual custom are there at the tourney?” he asked the innkeeper.
“Aye. Most of the town, like the nearby ones, has gone to the tourney. There hasn’t been a gathering of this many lordlings and knights since the tourney at Harrenhal seventeen years before.” The innkeeper noted, much to Daemon’s slight unease on the topic, as he paused slightly in sipping from his mug, though she never noticed. “My younger three here would have gone as well. They, like my eldest, will one day have this inn when I’m gone, but like their older brothers, they would rather swagger about like soldiers and knights in the Dragonstates, swinging swords. And my little girl turns to sighs and giggles every time a knight rides by.” She continued to say to Daemon. “I couldn’t tell you why… lords, knights, kings, and princes are all built the same as other men, flesh and bone, good or bad in character and reputation, and I’ve never known a joust to change the price of eggs, only the price of how much blood will be spilled or what misfortunes will come next.” Daemon had said nothing as she eyed him curiously, watching him sip slowly from his mug; his weapons and shield, with his House’s sigil somewhat obscured by the light, told her one thing about his possible status, while his fine belt and tunic quite the other…
…alongside the ring he wore and the partial silver-gold of his hair that would have shown in the light of the torches had he not swept it back.
She didn’t have much time to settle on the details at the moment, as another woman emerged from a back room behind the counter and called her name while setting a large wooden tray down.
Her name was Essie, the innkeeper. When her name was called, she moved away. Daemon couldn’t help but glance at her ample rear, which looked large and soft, like dough ready for preparation of being baked into warm bread. He turned his eyes away as quickly as she turned, took the tray into her hands, and moved back toward him.
She quickly returned, setting the food down before him as he finished his first mug of ale and poured another. When she was done, Daemon thanked her and began on the beef-and-barley stew, scooping as much as he could onto the spoon before putting the hot contents into his mouth. She watched him eat and drink, her expression calmly content.
“You’re bound for the tourney yourself?” Essie asked as he drank, striking up more conversation while she once more looked to his battered shield.
“Aye,” Daemon said as he set down his metal mug once more. “I mean to be a champion and then disappear until the next tourney,” he said with a calm smirk.
“Do you, now?” Essie asked as politely as possible. “You look built for it,” she noted, eyeing him more closely than she would any other patron. “Many of you’re like rode back and forth through here on the way to the Field and leaving it some days ago, good soldier,” she told him, explaining before deciding to move away with a kind smile.
Daemon let out a small exhale of breath, all the while thanking all the gods that the innkeeper hadn’t guessed who he truly was.
“Though it is a strange thing,” she began softly, and Daemon had to curse silently. “My father, growing up, always told me that men-at-arms serving the royal family and any great House always rode together on the road, except for the escorts, messengers, and outriders, to his knowledge, if I’m recalling correctly,” Essie added.
“Your father had a good memory and knowledge of things. That is true of all who serve the royal House.” Daemon answered.
“Then you must be a remarkable sword to them, for someone so young," Essie said, sitting opposite him. “You are a man-at-arms to them, correct?" Daemon tried to fake a smile to suggest as much when Essie asked. “A serjeant of sorts? You can't be a captain," she added, finding that hard to believe.
Daemon had considered lying to her further, but then the morning would come, and more questions would be asked about the partial coloring of his hair.
So Daemon did the one thing he thought was right in this presently bare inn, devoid of its usual patrons. He gently swept the silver-gold of his hair forward before speaking.
“I’m quite far above all of those things, even far above a knight of the Kingsguard,” Daemon answered her quietly.
His answer made the innkeeper carefully take in his features, hair, eyes, the shield once more, his weapons, his clothes, and the ring he wore.
For a long moment, she said nothing, and then, still, said nothing as she slowly rose, with quiet surprise and a great realization etching itself on her face.
“You’re the king’s only son by his second wife. The third and final heir of King Rhaegar.” She finally spoke in a whisper, and a deep breath followed. “My prince, forgive me, I-”
“There is no need for that, my lady,” Daemon told her before she could offer him so much as a curtsy and an apology he did not deserve, for she had been kind and courteous since his arrival, something he reckoned was true of all her custom. “Not toward me, anyway. I am of no renown. Please sit if you’d like. I would enjoy the company,” Daemon continued, resuming his eating and drinking. “It’s been some time since I enjoyed the comforts of a quiet meal and peace at an inn. It is nice, warm even… more than I can say about the Red Keep. At times, I prefer this and the land itself to a castle,” he said to her now, thinking.
The Red Keep was always cold to him, except for the few he found among many, and after he left, he managed to find more. The dragon skulls that hung in the throne room, especially that of Balerion in its own special hall of honor, with thousands of candles around his skull, offered him more solace and warmth.
“W-why…?” Essie asked.
Daemon paused at the question while he took a moment to answer.
Allowing the ambiance of the firewood in the hearth and the torches to be the only sound that reigned as he thought about it.
“What does the realm, from the most highborn to the smallfolk, call me?” Daemon asked.
“They call you the Ghost Prince, the Resented and Tarnished Dragon of No Renown, because of your father, the king, the Debauched and Depraved Prince, for a scandal involving you and your grandmother, the Queen mother. Other titles in song include the Whore Prince, the Cursed Dragon Prince, the Accursed One, the Warhammerhand, and the Brawler Prince, as the stories go. The highborn, on the other hand, have called you the Three-Headed Dragon’s Wineskin on more than one occasion, and the Faith named you the Ax-bearing barbarian of Northern blood.” Essie answered, then looked down at the table hesitantly, with some fear of uttering the last. “The Felwinter Prince of House Targaryen. King Rhaegar’s Bane. The Prince Who Caused the Rebellion,” Essie said at last, the words feeling like hot coals as she spoke them.
“Aye,” Daemon answered calmly, finding no offense in the titles.
Though the first of the last was a title Barbrey Dustin had given him in hatred of his Stark kin, he had always loved it, and he repaid such a glorious title by giving her the forceful and rough honor of his cock in such a way that the woman would never dare to openly insult him or his Stark kin again. He couldn’t care less about the second title, and as for the final and last, he owed it to the queen’s brother, Prince Oberyn Martell.
“Most of Westeros attributes the events of the rebellion that befell this land around the time of my conception and birth to the main cause behind it all. They called me an ill omen at its end and still curse me, yet they forget the actions of others years before and the immediate ones that triggered it all. Such as my father’s witless own, my mother’s brother, who rode to King’s Landing in foolish, hot-blooded fury without cunning, and my gods-damned mad grandfather’s own, who triggered it all, and all those with thirsting ambition behind their eyes at its onset, seeking opportunity and elevation. Something my father correctly punished them for.” Daemon explained, finishing the stew with a sigh. “Fools in the lot of this continent, especially among the highborn,” Daemon whispered with a calm contempt.
He said no more as he pulled the lamb toward him and began to slowly feast on it while pouring himself another mug of ale.
“I don’t believe so. I believe it's truly hard to hold anyone responsible for such immense bloodshed and loss they had no part in, especially a baby born at its conclusion,” Essie said, her voice quiet. “Besides, you seem like a chivalrous and gallant man, in my opinion, under all the titles.” Essie divulged further and honestly, making Daemon look at her quietly.
“That is considerate of you to say; it is most appreciated,” Daemon told her, offering his thanks. “The kind of thinking I prefer in people and in lords alike,” Daemon told her.
“You should have met my husband when he was still alive. I have a feeling you might have liked him," Essie said, now with a bittersweet smile of remembrance.
“Is he still around with the living elsewhere in the world?” Daemon asked, wondering whether the man might have sought opportunity in the Dragonstates or in the fledgling Guild of Venturers.
Many Westerosi sought opportunities on the high seas, often under House Velaryon and his uncles, both before and after the Dragonstates became a tangible goal. It was typically this guild or others—if not them, then some of the Knightly Orders of House Targaryen—that many sought to join to gain wealth and opportunity where Westeros, in some places, could not provide it. All the while, they guided the populace toward allegiance with House Targaryen.
“Dead. Three years passed now, by my reckoning," Essie answered quietly, with a sigh. “Though I’m sure of it by the Seven that he has gone to a better place, I know that much,” Essie told Daemon further.
“You had many people around you to help console you at that time?" Daemon asked, never taking his eyes off her, prompting Essie to nod silently in response. “Good. The Old Gods and the Seven always find ways to comfort everyone, even you," Daemon said wisely.
He took the spare mug then and began filling it with ale.
Once it was full enough, he set the tankard down and slid the now-filled mug toward Essie. The innkeeper, in turn, slowly lifted the mug as Daemon did his own. With mugs raised in silent toast, they exchanged brief, acknowledging smiles, then lowered their mugs and drank deeply.
Daemon never looked away from her as he drank.
- One Hour Later -
Essie drew in a hard breath as the table creaked rhythmically where she rolled out the dough for bread, while he drove himself into her wetness. Her feminine cries were unmistakable, a result of Daemon winding her up good some time ago after he had eaten his fill. He was now taking her with a fire and enthusiasm that matched his skill at giving the woman beneath him pleasure. Raw and primal, she sounded, and he found he liked that.
Both of them were naked, as they would have been on their respective name days, floured up and covered in it from head to heel. Properly floured up, the way he would be before he would work at kneading her, was the thought that ran through Daemon’s head.
Daemon had Essie bent over the large table, her generous curves on full display in the flickering candlelight. She was a mature beauty, twenty-six years Daemon’s senior, with her black hair spilling everywhere, some parts covered in flour. The innkeeper’s body rivaled those of some of the noble ladies, smallfolk, and clean whores he had had in the past, in her own voluptuous softness. Large, heavy, milk-laden breasts that leaked as they swayed and bounced with each impact of his thrusts. Wide hips with meat and something a man could hold on to, perfect for gripping. And most of all, a great, fat, plump, and ample ass that rippled as Daemon’s hips slammed against it with a ferocity that made her sweaty body quake beneath.
“Oh, gods, Daemon!” Essie cried, her voice breaking into a desperate mewl. “Yess… ahh… harder, please, give it to me harder!” The feminine innkeeper’s hands gripped the creaking wood, knocking a bread rolling pin to the ground.
Daemon chose to oblige her with a hard, exhaled growl that came from the depths of his lungs and chest. His hands tightened on her soft, bountiful hips until his fingers first dimpled and then disappeared into the flesh. He wasn’t a picky man when it came to women, but he couldn’t deny he always loved a woman where you could grab on to something in the act of coitus. Daemon had no doubt his cock was impressive in size to her, as the rest of him was; her arousal glistening and coating his well-endowed, thick, and long sword between his legs was proof of that. Driving in and out of her with youth and vigor, and surprising strength and skill.
“Mmm, fuck, my prince.” Essie moaned, propriety of language leaving her in the wake of her pleasure. “Your cock… so endowed…”
Daemon stopped in that moment as he withdrew completely from her, a groan escaping his lips and a whine from Essie at the loss of him. In quick succession, the prince of no renown spun her around to face him, lifting her by the waist with ease, then dropped her thick, fleshy body onto the table. A sight that spoke of the ease with which he wielded his strength. The Targaryen prince’s mouth immediately latched onto one of her large breasts that still leaked milk, sucking on the dark, dusky nipple like a vigorous babe toward its wet nurse, with such force and want that Essie threw her head back and keened as she gripped his hair. All the while, he plunged back into his willing partner.
Using his arms, Daemon spread Essie’s legs wider to fuck her good and proper.
He stopped for a moment in his thrusts to breathe in deeply, as she did. Then he picked up where he left off with slow, hard thrusts. Then an intermediate pace with the same weight of impact that made Essie’s moans come with gasped breaths of air.
Followed by his speed reaching its maximum as he delved deeper into this changed position.
The more intimate position made the innkeeper scream outright. Her cries echoed in the backroom of the inn as her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs around his waist.
“Oh, oh, oh, fuck, fuck, yes! Right there! Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”
The wet, slick, and obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room, and the air as Essie’s back hit the table with him atop her, doing anything but stopping. The slick back-and-forth slide of his cock into her soaked and sopping quim encouraged him to work beyond the maximum pace he was giving her. The table groaned even louder under their combined weight. Daemon’s face, upon releasing Essie’s nipple from his mouth, was a mask of gritted concentration and pleasure, a sheen of sweat making his pale skin glow in the candlelight as it did Essie’s. All the while, it mixed with the flour on his skin, as it did Essie’s; they were going to need a bath after this.
Both of Daemon’s hands now gripped both of Essie’s large breasts. He squeezed hard and twirled the nipples with his thumbs, sensually, as he leaned back and fell into the rhythm of truly fucking her hard and proper.
“Gods above and below!” Essie yelled, her body shaking as her hands pressed against his chest, feeling the muscles tense beneath and the harsh beating of his heart. “I’m… I’m going to quake… Daemon!”
“Good! You fucking cum for me!” Daemon commanded, his voice harsher than it had been before this happened.
The innkeeper’s response to Daemon’s uncontrolled thrusts, driven by his haste to make it so, found purchase in the wordless, high keening wail as her body convulsed in the throes of her climax. A sensation around Daemon’s cock made him fuck her even harder and through her finish until she was sobbing from being assaulted with too much pleasure, and Daemon himself roaring out loudly as he came after her, not long after. He breathed deeply after doing so and exhaled loudly upon completion.
This was what it meant to be an unhonored prince. A knight, in some cases.
Living at his own pace and on his terms. Taking pleasure wherever he could. Valuing the speed of life and his own independence.
Let the realm think of him as they wanted and misunderstand him as they wanted.
They did not know him beneath the titles, and he would not try to dispel the reputation they had heaped upon him.
- The Next Morning -
As his earlier estimate had shown, after bathing and then taking Essie, the Innkeeper, once more over eight times through the night in the bed he was meant to sleep in, sleep had not come. So he ate and drank some more, and bedded Essie two more times in between his appetite.
What little sleep he did get came and went after hearing the rooster crow at the hour of morning. The sound made him slowly rise to get ready for the day, but not before Essie rolled on top of him in the slow, crawling light of the morning to ride him to completion as she chased after her own. Afterwards, he got her off him to wash first, then eat and drink. He paid Essie before they left the room with four pouches filled with golden dragons, a price she felt was too much, but that he said was right for all he had eaten, both in food and in the other manner. Those words earned him a playful shove to the arm.
And now, he was strapping all of what he owned that he carried with him onto himself before turning toward Essie.
“Thank you for the hospitality of your inn, my lady. It was pleasant,” Daemon said.
“You are welcome to its hospitality anytime you find your way back here, my prince,” Essie answered with a smile, her hand gliding over his chest.
“I shall keep that in mind…” he said, trailing off, his voice low, husky, and harsh.
Before his hand found her arse in a hard smack, making her gasp, and then hit Daemon’s chest lightly, causing a chuckle to escape his lips, before he turned.
Walking to the door and opening it to head out, he felt the oppressive heat, even at this early hour, hit him like a war hammer to the chest. The sun, at the angle it rose, was hot, hard, and implacable. Too hot for a man, a lion, a mount, or a wolf. A good thing he had plenty of clean water for the rest of the journey to the Field of Fire, for himself, his mounts, and his companions. The sooner he got to the field, the better.
Daemon made his way to the stables and found outside its doors his horses and the two boys already there. The two boys of Essie, it seemed, awaited him with his horses prepared and alongside his other two companions. It would seem they had followed his instructions, and everything was in its place, untouched. Prepared even to ride at a moment’s notice.
Daemon had taken the reins of Rosechaser from the eldest boy and mounted, seating himself right within, with his feet in the stirrups. He turned and tossed each of them a gold dragon.
“Good work, lads, and farewell,” Daemon said to the two, then lightly kicked Rosechaser to get his horse moving.
It would not be long before the town and the inn behind him were far off in the distance, and he was humming Valyrian songs as his mind turned elsewhere on the way to the Field of Fire. Essie had told him further that the princely castle, the great citadel known as King’s Fall, which his father had been building for his younger brother for years, was finished. Highlighting the main reason for organizing a great tournament on the fields beforehand, as well as the significance of a notable announcement at its conclusion.
Yet the words that Essie had said about the lords and knights being in a stir about the great announcement to come at the end of this tourney had haunted a great deal of his thoughts.
‘When had it not given them a stir…’ Daemon had thought, irritation brimming.
That had been the case since his birth and youth. Ever since his father, Rhaegar, took the throne, the entire realm had been in a stir that they had liked not.
They had not liked the decency and reason he had brought to a realm that wished it not and stood in the way of the power they wanted.
At the moment he took his seat on the Iron Throne, Daemon’s father, Rhaegar, had made radical changes beyond the release and pardons granted to the rebels.
First, Rhaegar issued his first official decree, signed rather than merely announced, which took effect in 286 AC. That year also saw its formal announcement. The decree aimed to create a standing army loyal solely to the royal House, acting in its name and under the crown's authority. Over the years, much of King’s Landing and the Crownlands, along with a moderate population of both younger and older individuals, were gradually drawn and recruited from other kingdoms. These recruits were not only enlisted to serve in the royal army but were also compensated for their service.
The reason for the decree remaining hidden for the first five years was that his father distrusted the realm, particularly the other lords and noble Houses, who would go to great lengths to preserve their power.
Thus, even more hidden decrees and public ones alike were made in court before the Iron Throne.
Those royal decrees and laws, publicly revealed, began with the second, the Royal Inheritance Law, designed to be unambiguous and codified, without varying interpretation, and not contradictory, so that should a lord or kingdom bridle at the decision and enter open rebellion, they would be marked immediately as not only an enemy of the crown but an enemy of Westeros. Daemon had a feeling his father, at the time, was referring to the Reach, Stormlands, and Westerlands, whose ancestors once rose in open rebellion against their House when it concerned Viserys I Targaryen naming his daughter Rhaenyra I Targaryen as his heir and never changing the decision despite having a son by his second wife. Thus came the following in the steps of the Rhoynar, where it concerned Rhaegar, who declared the royal succession would follow equal primogeniture, granting inheritance to the eldest child regardless of gender, and that should the king come to have a second wife or so on, their children would fall next in line behind all those of the first. That aunts and uncles would fall behind them, and even further when the king’s heirs had children of their own. Yet despite this, Rhaegar also included succession clauses that allowed a king to choose his heir and for the heir to step down in favor of another sibling, should he or she wish, under varying circumstances.
He also wrote into law that a Great Council would not be called when the succession was firmly in place, and that the small council could not change it and would follow it accordingly. If they did not, they would be traitors to the royal decree and succession and enemies to House Targaryen and the entire realm.
The reasoning behind this decision was more than likely based on the fact that so many Targaryens had died off before his reign and on the fact that Rhaegar was the only king who was not only tired of the fact that other prospects who could sit the Iron Throne were passed over because they were women but also that it limited the potential of other great members of their House from sitting the throne and ruling better than those who had come before and had the crown. Rhaegar did not care if this rankled the lords, and he ensured it was signed into permanent law, unalterable and unrepealable. The promised threat of death against anyone and their House who would challenge the new, formalized succession underscored Rhaegar's determination in this regard.
Next came Rhaegar, who chose to enact new laws similar to those of Daemon’s great-great-grandfather, Aegon V, that aimed to improve the lives of the smallfolk. In this instance, Rhaegar not only made new laws but also reinstated Aegon V’s reforms and the granting of rights and protections to the smallfolk, by making them permanent law. Daemon had always felt this was aimed not only at Tywin Lannister, who had done away with them, but also at the high lords of the realm, who had felt their powers over the peasantry were diminished and were curtailed by these then-new reforms during Aegon V’s reign, to keep them occupied in trying to adjust to the new reality of Westeros, where those beneath the lords were to be treated as people and how it was going to be ruled moving forward.
Then came the formation of two new governing bodies: the Inner Circle of the Dragon and the High Council of the Great Twelve.
The Inner Circle of the Dragon was a body composed entirely of members of House Targaryen who were below the king and his heirs but, in politics, wielded power both above and below the Hand at times to curtail the power should it be abused, acting as elders of a sort, as seen in the Valyrian peninsula before the time of the Freehold.
The latter was intended to be part of the small council and to expand it by adding new positions, such as Master of Administration and Master of the Royal Inquisition. This council would hold authority that surpassed and even bypassed their liege lord, giving its members, if they were vassals, greater command over their liege to some degree. Consequently, individuals from Houses Blackwood, Celtigar, Darry, Dayne, Fowler, Grafton, Lonmouth, Stark, Stokeworth, Targaryen, Tarth, Tarly, Velaryon, and Whent were appointed to it, and it would be these Houses that kept permanent seats unless Houses Targaryen ousted them in favor of another House.
Chosen not only to help Rhaegar lead but also to push past what stood in House Targaryen's way.
Soon after this came the orders of the arbiters and harbingers, and the formation of the elite soldiery of the Inner Circle and the High Fourteen. Orders and organizations were formed to put a tighter leash on the lords and Houses of the Realm, and even to dispose of them should the need arise to go to great lengths to break the most severe of laws. Daemon’s father even resurrected and reformed the Knights Inquisitors, their ancestor Queen Rhaenyra I Targaryen, under the Order of the Knights Inquisition.
Then came Rhaegar’s next decision, removing Ser Gerold Hightower from his position as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for reasons unknown to all and making Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning, the new Lord Commander. Daemon personally didn’t know why his father removed the man from his position, but if he had to make a guess, it more than likely had to do with his grandfather and his grandfather’s abuse and treatment of Daemon’s grandmother, Rhaella. Alongside that, probably Gerold’s fanatic loyalty to Aerys, the skewed view of his Kingsguard oaths, and how the man had failed his predecessor Ser Duncan the Tall, and most of all, how apparently Gerold conducted himself at the Tower of Joy, preparing to die instead of doing as Daemon’s father told him.
After that came the official decree written into law, which began the heavy taxation of the Faith for bridling at the matter of his marriage to Daemon’s mother, his second wife. The simple reason his father did so was clear to everyone: Rhaegar would not suffer the Faith rearming itself or rising in open rebellion against the royal House, as had happened once before. As such, their coffers, amassed over thousands of years since the Coming of the Andals, were to be emptied tremendously, and thereafter, they were to be taxed to keep a leash on them and whatever little power they would have. From what Daemon had heard of it, the Faith barely had enough to buy a score of ships, let alone gain steel, armor, and weaponry to properly rearm themselves. They were so destitute that they had to ask the crown for the coin to maintain their septs, and that was right where his father had wanted them.
The following decrees, among many others that came, were for Rhaegar to issue decrees of punishment, harsher than what many had come to expect of him, yet many could not help but find a similarity with his ancestor Daeron II Targaryen in how he dealt with the rebels of the First Blackfyre Rebellion.
First, in punishing the Riverlands for their role in the rebellion, they were forced to surrender the lands stretching from and across Maidenpool, Saltpans, Harroway, Harrenhal, and Stoney Sept, which were seized and incorporated into the Crownlands, with their lords now answering directly to the crown as their supreme regional overlords. Then there was the imposing of a tax increase, tripled beyond the normal rate, for the next twenty years, in coin, grain, and livestock, on what remained of them not absorbed into the Crownlands. Additionally, House Tully was to be stripped of its status as Lord Paramount of the Trident, replaced by House Darry for its loyalty, and its lands expanded. In addition, new castles and all manner of fortresses were built in strategic regions to maintain order and to garrison portions of the standing royal army.
The official explanation was that House Tully had no reason to choose a side, despite Daemon’s hot-tempered uncle, Brandon Stark, having been killed by his grandfather, Aerys, and Hoster’s daughter, Catelyn Tully, Daemon’s aunt by marriage for some time now, having lost her previous betrothal before she was hastily married off to his uncle Eddard not long after. Many believed Hoster Tully’s decision was a calculated move to seize an opportunity and elevate his status, as Hoster had arranged marriages between his daughters and both his uncle, Eddard Stark, and Lord Jon Arryn, to buy his House’s loyalty. These actions demonstrated to Rhaegar, House Targaryen, and the realm that Hoster and his House were opportunistic. Other reasons that were rumored, whispered, and even theorized, included the desire to avenge an earlier slight to his House, after Daemon’s great-grandfather, Jaehaerys II Targaryen, broke his betrothal to Lady Celia Tully and married his sister, Shaera Targaryen, Daemon’s great-grandmother.
Nonetheless, this same kind of punishment fell upon House Arryn and the Vale, but only in the form of heightened taxes, the removal of the Bloody Gate, which was torn down, and the widening of the entrance into the Vale, along with the mining out and leveling of other entrances into the Vale. Next to the region's royal castles and garrisons that were established in the region, a new port city was also built to serve as their command center. The message was clear to Jon Arryn and the rest of the Vale that isolation was no longer an option, and that the next time they found themselves on the wrong side of a conflict, a scouring by House Targaryen would befall them and their lands.
After them came the Stormlands, who, despite being granted pardons, suffered immensely. First House Baratheon, not only for this but also for centuries of past actions, beginning most recently with Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, and his rebellion, and extending back to Borros Baratheon and Rogar Baratheon, would now no longer be recognized by the realm as Lord Paramounts of the Stormlands. That title and position would now be awarded to House Tarth. Next to that, the Baratheon wealth would be mostly seized, and their lands heavily reduced and given to their neighbors. Beyond that, similar to the Riverlands, the kingdom's territory from Bronzegate to Summerhall would be handed over to the crown and merged into the Crownlands.
Their taxes would also be tripled for the next twenty years, but unlike the Riverlands, the Stormlands would be subjected to a tithe in which the crown would take able-bodied young men and women every five years during those twenty years.
The aim was not only to punish the Stormlands but also to punish House Baratheon for this latest affront to House Targaryen, which would be the last, since it was the House of the Dragon that had raised them to their position. Beyond that, Rhaegar knew that Robert would’ve shown no mercy to those who supported him or to his family if he had won at the Trident, so he was not going to show any mercy in turn. Even so, this course of action displeased many Houses and lords of the Stormlands, but they could do nothing, having been so badly broken at the Battle of the Trident and left in a position where they could do nothing. After all, Robert had been released from captivity once this was all put into effect, and he was informed of everything before being shipped back to Storm’s End after swearing his oaths before the Iron Throne.
Afterward, Rhaegar focused entirely on the Reach and House Tyrell for their part in almost causing House Targaryen to lose the rebellion. If it weren’t for lords like Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan, who led their bannermen along with Houses Caswell, Merryweather, and the green-apple Fossoways following behind to join Rhaegar’s forces at King’s Landing and fought alongside them at the Battle of the Trident—defying their overlord Mace Tyrell—Daemon’s father might have been defeated that day.
Hence, when the matter of the Stormlands was concluded and settled, and both Houses Tarly and Rowan and all those that stood with them were properly honored by Daemon’s father, Rhaegar, did he call forth Mace Tyrell to stand before the Iron Throne and explain himself. Explain himself not only to Daemon’s father but also to all in the throne room of the Red Keep, to answer the question of why Mace and his remaining bannermen did not march north to fight with them at the Trident, and why Mace instead chose to feast beneath the walls of Storm’s End as he besieged it, and by the gods, was the answer truly shocking as it was damning.
At first, Mace Tyrell tried to speak around it, but after considerable pressure and threats to his person, he finally revealed that, under the advisement and command of his mother, Lady Olenna Tyrell, he was to stay out of the more direct parts of Robert’s Rebellion by laying siege to Storm’s End. With this truth laid bare before all the lords and Houses in the throne room, and with the true cause for why the majority of the Reach’s strength did not come to fight with his father at the Trident now clear, everyone knew why: Olenna Tyrell had been playing her clever schemes from the shadows for reasons unknown to all, including Daemon’s father. What did she seek to gain, or what was her intent? No one knew. But Daemon, like many others, guessed that Olenna’s true goal was to gain access to the Iron Throne under a different king or dynasty—specifically one in which Daemon’s father was defeated by Robert Baratheon. If Rhaegar had won, the siege would be considered an act of loyalty, enough to prevent any doubts from arising.
However, Daemon’s father won, while Robert lost and was defeated. As a result, for failing in their schemes, the Reach and House Tyrell paid a heavy price and punishment in full force.
Rhaegar’s first action was to strip House Tyrell of three-fourths of its wealth, revoke their titles as Lord Paramounts of the Mander, Defenders of the Marches, High Marshals of the Reach, and Wardens of the South, and hand them over to the more loyal House Tarly. Next came the territorial changes: all land in the Northern Reach, including Ashford, Bitterbridge, Grassy Vale, Goldengrove, Longtable, and Tumbleton, was to be surrendered and absorbed into the Crownlands, and new castles were to be built later to garrison the royal army stationed in the southern region. Even the Hightowers themselves were forced to cede all the wealth they had from their personal coffers, not only as part of the punishment but also as an act of some form of revenge that many came to whisper was vengeance on Rhaegar’s part, given that the Hightowers had made themselves even richer from the gold they had taken from the royal treasury at the start of the Dance of the Dragons. Not even the coffers of House Hightowers, bank in Oldtown, founded by Samantha Tarly, was spared. They were emptied to the last coin as well.
In addition, the lords who followed Mace Tyrell's lead saw many of their spare castles surrendered either to neighboring lords or to the crown.
Moreover, the Reach, on account of its wealth and status as the breadbasket of the realm, was to pay fourfold the taxes it usually paid. Alongside these heavy taxes, they were required to pay the tithe imposed upon them, which required providing the crown not only men and women for the royal army, but directly with four million bushels of wheat, two million bushels each of barley, oats, and rye, forty thousand head of cattle, and a hundred thousand sheep every seven years for the next thirty-five years, and after that, by royal decree, to provide a permanent amount that would shift and adjust to keep the Reach remaining effective. Furthermore, House Redwyne was required to transfer two quarters of their ships to the crown.
In Daemon’s mind, while it seemed harsh, he had to remind himself that House Tyrell had brought this madness upon themselves, and that their reputation was being dragged through the dirt, much like the West’s.
For House Lannister and the Westerlands, there was a special kind of punishment awaiting them. Since Tywin Lannister rode to King’s Landing with a force of twelve thousand men at his back, armed for war, a war already won by the loyalists.
The sight in Rhaegar’s eyes showed him nothing but a force frothing at the mouth prepared for slaughter. It didn’t help that their situation was made worse by reports that smallfolk had seen them weeks, if not moons, earlier, camped upon the Goldroad within the Westerlands as if they were waiting. To make matters much worse, upon Daemon’s father’s entry into the city and the Red Keep, Rhaegar found his father’s last Hand, the former pyromancer Rossart, dead in the halls of the Red Keep. He then went to the throne room to find Jaime Lannister seated atop the Iron Throne, his golden sword across his legs, with Rhaegar’s mad father bleeding out from a slash across his neck below.
Apparently, it was a sight that was not only shocking but also revealed that Jaime himself did not follow Rhaegar's command before heading to the Trident — to protect his wife and children. Not to mention that Jaime had surrendered himself and the throne to Daemon’s uncle, Ned, believing the rebels had won. Jaime told Daemon’s uncle not to fear, saying he was only keeping it warm for their friend, Robert Baratheon, and that the Iron Throne was an uncomfortable seat. Yet when Rhaegar announced himself by telling Jaime that he was sorry to disappoint him but that the loyalist had actually won at the Trident, Jaime’s earlier smugness and arrogance had left him completely. From then on, Rhaegar had him arrested and kept him imprisoned until a later time when the truth would be known, despite Tywin’s strong urging not to do so.
It had seemed that Daemon’s father keeping Jaime under lock and key gave him enough time to uncover the truth of events leading up to his coronation, so when the time came after punishing the other kingdoms, Tywin, his House, and the Westerlands had his full and undivided attention.
First, Jaime Lannister was brought up from the Black Cells to tell Rhaegar and all those present in the throne room, on his knees and in chains, why he killed Aerys and the reasons for it. Apparently, Jaime answered that beyond the constant rape of Daemon’s grandmother, which had been going on longer than Jaime had been a Kingsguard and which the Kingsguard had allowed, was Aerys’ plan to use wildfire to destroy the city. Jaime described how Aerys ordered the Wisdoms Rossart, Garigus, and Belis, along with the Alchemists' Guild, to concoct thousands of jars of wildfire, then gather and place them in key positions beneath King's Landing to prepare for its destruction should the rebel forces prove victorious. Jaime also described how hundreds were placed beneath the Dragonpit and the Great Sept of Baelor, beneath each of the city's gates, and even beneath the Red Keep itself. Jaime added that the pyromancers did their work in secret and did not trust their apprentices with that knowledge.
Jaime also said that Aerys, for his part, made sure none of his own House, council, or the court knew of the plot, and that this was why Qarlton Chelsted was dipped in wildfire and burned alive: he had discovered the plot after growing suspicious of the pyromancers' comings and goings from the Red Keep.
Therefore, when Aerys ordered Rossart to ignite the jars and then instructed Jaime to go outside the city gates to bring him his father’s head, Jaime first killed Rossart, then entered the throne room and killed Aerys. Throughout the telling, Jaime maintained that his actions weren’t motivated by Aerys’s command to bring him his father’s head, but rather by Aerys’s order to prepare the Wildfire to be ignited.
Upon hearing this, no one could find words. Daemon’s father ordered the arrests of Garigus and Belis, then the careful removal of the jars so they could be safely destroyed in Blackwater Bay. Only then did Daemon’s father redirect his focus to Ser Jaime, acknowledging that despite the nickname Kingslayer given by people like Eddard Stark, he performed a noble act that saved the city and thousands of lives. He added that other knights wouldn't have been able to do what Jaime did, but stressed that this didn’t justify the act itself or the fact that his House and father appeared at the gates of the capital with designs of their own. To the confusion of the throne room, Rhaegar turned all of his gaze to Tywin, asking whether Tywin thought Rhaegar was a fool, whether he truly believed Tywin had come to support House Targaryen after all the slights his father, Aerys, had thrown his way, and whether Rhaegar didn’t see the beast beneath his lordly visage. After questioning Tywin, Rhaegar chose to be straightforward, revealing that, through his spies and Varys, he now knew Tywin’s forces had waited on the Goldroad for weeks, watching to see who would emerge victorious after the Trident.
Daemon’s father expressed to Tywin that he had no doubts: if Rhaegar’s father had opened the city gates under that false truce before Rhaegar’s arrival, Tywin would have sacked the city brutally, causing death and destruction, with bannermen pillaging and raping women and children as a form of sick revenge for past slights when Tywin was Hand of the King.
Moreover, Rhaegar told Tywin that after thoroughly questioning Pycelle, the man had admitted to failing to make Daemon’s grandmother, Rhaella, miscarry multiple times. How Pycelle also confessed in explaining that he was ever Tywin’s servant, that Tywin himself was aware, and beyond that, Pycelle had urged Aerys to open the gates to his army because, as Pycelle told it, he believed that once Aerys had opened the gates to his former Hand, Tywin, the Warden of the West would take the throne for himself. In addition, Pycelle had revealed that, despite his oath to serve the realm, he had generally promoted the interests of House Lannister on the council for years.
Because of the undeniable severity of this information, even with some circumstantial evidence, it was unquestionably true. Consequently, the entire realm now saw House Lannister differently. As a result, Rhaegar chose to respond not by honoring House Lannister and the Westerlands but by punishing them, excluding them from court and his presence.
First, Rhaegar removed Jaime Lannister from the Kingsguard without any punishment or harm. Then, he imposed a punishment: he decreed that the lands bordering southeastern Westerlands and extending to Silverhill would be seized and incorporated into the Crownlands. New castles would be built there to house the royal army. This was in addition to various other penalties that affected House Lannister and the Westerlands overall.
There was also the fact that all those whom Rhaegar punished were forced to surrender hostages, beyond a measure of their wealth.
So yes, it would not be wrong to assume that the realm was in a stir, as it always had been and always would be as long as the present lords and ladies who ruled it remained.
Though on the bright side of things, it was not Daemon’s concern or his problem to solve.
His primary concern at present was reuniting with family members who cared for him, especially his brother, sister, grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins. He also knew that his uncles would likely be at the tourney and in the lists. These younger sons of his grandfather, Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King, had contributed to stabilizing his father’s rule over the realm in the years to come, just as cousin Maegor and Vaella had after returning with their children from years of distance from House Targaryen and the Iron Throne in the Free City of Lys following the Tragedy at Summerhall in seeking a life of quiet and peace.
They were all quite popular, his cousin Maegor and especially his uncles, who were even more popular than his father, Rhaegar.
Maelys the Tall, Maekar the Minstrel, Daeron the Fair, Matarys the Dark, Aegon the Elder, more widely known as Aegon the Crafty, and Jaehaerys the Excellent.
They had been shunned early on by his mad grandfather in their youth, kept out of the court and the realm’s view, and kept out of King’s Landing. After Aerys’ death, they were brought back into the light by Daemon’s father and grandmother and had become feared and respected in equal measure for their political acumen and intellect.
They bore the responsibility of reaffirming the strength, prestige, and authority of House Targaryen by articulating with the requisite authority. Yet in battle, they had a shared, darker moniker, known as The Dragons Who Slobber Liquid Fire At The Mouth With Glee.
Most of them had taught Daemon much as a youth before he departed from the Red Keep and were not above defending him as much as they could, where their elder brother Rhaegar had failed. They even moved against him when Daemon’s father was too harsh with him, and they were not above criticizing their elder brother.
So there was that to be looked forward to, all while congratulating his uncle Maelys on his new seat before Daemon entered the tourney, won some events, got the coin, and then fucked off to who knows where...
...in direct violation of what he had promised to one…
- The Arbor, 296 AC -
Of all the places expected in the Reach or along its coast, it was a rare thing for him to find rainfall upon the Arbor. However, the present company hadn’t been bad.
For such a place that was so beautiful, that held the realm’s fifth-largest fleet now and grew the realm’s finest grapes for the Arbor Gold it so loved, it seemed not to be a proper sight to befall such a splendid place. The sight was a first for him.
Seldom had Daemon loved the heat of summer; even in the summer heat, the nights were cold enough that lighting a fire was more than required. The castle on the Arbor had been built over a place where the wind touched a man or woman’s skin without issue. Naturally temperate weather, cool, salty waters all around the shores, cold enough to chill the skin and cool the body, filled those who enjoyed this silent pleasure with bodily comfort, keeping the fertile island itself from becoming bone dry. Primitive but sufficient drip irrigation for this island’s winegrowing had kept the vineyards properly watered and their delectable grapes from withering. That was a substantial thing for this island; a place like this needed to be properly maintained, or there would be no Arbor gold for the realm to enjoy.
Daemon, while not a big fan of unmixed wine on account of his Valyrian upbringing, was not opposed to a good dry or sweet strongwine, and he was not opposed to the dark purple strongwines of the Redwyne private stock on the Arbor that were nice on the tongue. They reminded him of a special woman’s taste under his tongue, of the days in the Red Keep hidden behind closed doors, with only the light of the morning or evening sun as their audience. As a Targaryen, he had loved the heat of a woman, especially Targaryen women, especially her, and the way they would laugh in one another’s embrace.
So when they had finished, Daemon rolled off and lay next to Desmera in her childhood bed, as he had done near on dozens of times before since arriving at the Arbor and taking up service with the Redwynes alongside Ser Lewyn. He made sure the chambers' doors were locked tightly, the keyhole blocked to prevent anyone, such as Desmera’s servants, from seeing what was going on in this bed chamber, and her screams were muffled as he fucked her, with him using her hand, her using her hand, and he kissing her at times to swallow the vocal responses to the pleasure Daemon gave Desmera so they wouldn’t echo off the chamber walls.
The wind swirled in from the open balcony and windows as the rain came down hard, lightning dancing in the sky and out on the sea, thunder rumbling at times as they lay naked on the bed. Desmera breathed in harshly for a few moments as her body was covered in sweat, like his, as she came down from her pleasure while looking at him. He had no doubts that he looked somehow more at peace, more like just a man beneath all that the realm deemed him, different from the youth she had met at the Red Keep as a small child, some years ago now gone. His cock still ached from the urgency of their coupling, and he had no doubt her loins ached in turn. It was a good and welcome sensation.
It was always a glorious sight for Desmera to tell him she could feel his seed inside her and to see it drip out after fucking her good and proper.
If not for the moon tea, Desmera would have no doubt prayed to the Seven that it would quicken there. It had been some years since she had said she wanted more from him. Desmera was good to him in that sense, unlike her cousin Margaery Tyrell. And how for that Daemon wished he could give Desmera a daughter or son.
Yet circumstances and consequences…
“Is it dangerous? Daemon?” Desmera asked, turning onto her side to face him in all her freckled nakedness, her dark red wine-colored hair glowing in the firelight from her chamber’s fireplace.
“Hmm?” Daemon asked in turn.
“Traveling around the realm like a hedge knight? Is it dangerous?” Desmera asked him again. The question brought a brief smirk to his face before it faded.
“Wouldn’t make the blood rush as it does if it weren’t,” Daemon answered her, then released a breath. “Wouldn’t be so freeing either if it weren’t as well,” he added.
The answer had brought a brief silence as her eyes fell worriedly to the scars painting across the skin of his body.
Her concern for him was evident once again, just as it had been before she spoke again.
“Why not fight or sail under your father’s banner, the king’s? Earn all the gold I’m told comes from the work great men are needed for out there in the territories beyond?”
“To the seven hells with my father’s banner and navy,” Daemon calmly cursed his father. “If I serve under my father’s banner, I have to deal with his scorn, the complaints from Oberyn and his brother in the Water Gardens, and beyond that alone, that’s no way to gain a fortune or land to settle on, especially when my father’s gone as far as he has,” Daemon told her, his head turning toward her momentarily before turning toward the canopy of her large four-poster bed.
“You don’t need a fortune. Not when you’re a prince of the realm who can force the matter, as is your right,” Desmera told him.
Daemon sighed at the utterance of that before he chose to sit up from his prone position on the bed and sit forward on the edge, his feet on the cool stone floor.
His hair fell untamed in long, flowing locks, like the waves of the ocean, and like a northern savage, Desmera’s uncle, Mace Tyrell, no doubt spoke of to her when she was little.
“It's not about need or pushing the matter, Desmera.” Daemon began, his back to her. “I want to be free of this land. I want not to be tied to it any longer as a prince. I want to disappear somewhere away from all of this and not be tied to the land of my birth that I don’t want to allow to even have my bones when I’m dead.” Daemon told her. “I want many things, even those things I know I can’t have that you want for me here, Desmera. I’m not the Targaryen prince I should be. I want more. And I know I shouldn’t. Because I know I can’t have it, those doors are not open to me.” Daemon told her, his head turning slightly behind him.
Desmera glanced at him briefly before turning her head toward the sheets and bed below. She was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts before eventually asking the difficult question she likely wanted to avoid.
“Then what will you do?” Desmera inquired.
The question caused Daemon to turn and sit cross-legged on the bed, directly meeting her gaze to answer.
“I’m not sure,” Daemon answered honestly, thinking it over. “You may have to just forget about me and find yourself a match that’s worthy of you,” Daemon added, with a long-suffering sigh at the prospect of the loss.
Desmera stared at him for a few moments in shock after hearing Daemon speak with such hopelessness.
The silence was all-encompassing as thunder roared in the distance and rain kept falling. Desmera quietly sat up from her side position, blinking as the thunder boomed again. The bed's wood creaked beneath her as she shifted.
Daemon watched as she gracefully came to sit on her knees, bringing her to the level of his eyes.
“No,” Desmera told him, firmly and decisively. “You find a path for yourself and us. No matter what it takes. Promise me!” she said to Daemon, leaning forward to press her demand.
He couldn’t help but silently watch her before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.
The memory had stirred too many others he had experienced in his time leading up to now—too many promises and not enough paths or opportunities to see them fulfilled.
With Ser Lewyn gone and his mind filled with grief and confusion, he began to wonder if it was worth it.
Was pursuing the sensation of a woman beneath his touch truly worth it, considering he couldn’t provide her with the security that a father would want for his daughter?
In the aftermath of Robert Baratheon’s failed rebellion and the truth of certain events being laid bare, tensions arose between King’s Landing and the Westerlands over why Lord Tywin Lannister appeared before the gates of King’s Landing to pledge and prove their fealty, even though the victor had not yet been named for a few days to almost a moon after the Battle of the Trident, a situation made worse by the fact that the Westerlands forces had been gathered and camped upon the Goldroad in some manner of preparation.
As a result, King Rhaegar I Targaryen was not so convinced. Upon learning of their long encampment on the Goldroad within the Westerlands, among many other reasons, the Targaryen king chose instead not to honor the man, welcome his lords, or admit the Houses of the Westerlands into his court, effectively leaving the West without eyes, ears, or influence at court or in the realm in general.
For the correctly perceived cunning and the preparation of betrayal by House Lannister, the Westerlands were punished by King Rhaegar with taxes sevenfold above their normal rate for the next twenty years following the rebellion. The West’s gold and silver mines were to be put to work producing and sending the crown forty million silver stags and twenty million gold dragons yearly, along with twenty thousand gold and silver bullion, and supplying double the Westerlands’ normal share of furs, pelts, meat, grain, and precious stones. Alongside the conscription of a yearly shifting number of individuals for the standing royal army.
Among the Westerland lords, those who were deeply loyal to Tywin rebelled, and a short, bitter, but contained war ensued. The Westerland lords were defeated at Pinkmaiden, and those among the defeated who had surrendered found their power and influence further diminished.
With all resistance crushed, the Westerland Houses and their lords, including the openly neutral Tywin Lannister, reaffirm their vows of loyalty to complete their surrender to Rhaegar after his absorption of the Sarwyck lands into the Crownlands. He now lays siege to Riverspring, the very seat of House Sarwyck and the last castle that refused to surrender quickly, unlike all the others.
- Prince Bran Stark -
- Riverspring, The Westerlands -
- Seat of House Sarwyck of Riverspring -
The morning was damp from the night's rainfall, and the ground beneath quickly turned from firm dirt into wet, loose mud that one had to slog through. They had been camped here among the other lords for over a sennight, after three moons of travel from Winterfell to reach the south. All of their family had traveled to be here, while their great uncle Artos stayed back in the North as the Stark in Winterfell. It was the ninth year of summer, and the tenth year of Bran’s life.
The glow of the candles was warm as they stood in the king's large command tent, amidst the great host outside Riverspring. Robb had said it was to once more gain oaths of loyalty from the lords and ladies of the Westerlands, after some of the Houses had risen up in rebellion against the Targaryens. It made Bran’s skin prickle to think that many of these lords, and many more Houses, had hated the House his cousin Daemon was part of. He remembered the tales Old Nan told them around the hearth fire about how King Rhaegar ruled the realm. Apparently, the former prince was a different man before the crown, trying to navigate the instability of his mad father’s reign as best he could, even defending his aunt Lyanna from the crown’s agents when the Mad King found out she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree.
Yet after his aunt died in childbirth, giving birth to Bran’s cousin Daemon, the king changed. Once the crown was placed on Rhaegar’s head, that change was evident in how harshly he punished those who rebelled or stood against his House, including his mother’s House, which had formerly ruled the Riverlands but no longer did.
Even the manner in which the king had raised Daemon, according to Robb and the tales he heard, was proof of the change, mostly absent, rarely involved, and even dueling his son with steel on one occasion, in which Daemon could have lost his eye.
The Valyrian man seated on what served as a wooden throne was proof of his ability to do so. Bran found the king to be strongly built, unlike how he was described as lean in his youth, as Daemon was some years ago when Bran last saw him. He had silver-blond hair tied into a long braid that fell past his shoulder, deep purple or indigo eyes—though Bran couldn't tell from where he was standing—and long, elegant fingers. He was taller than some of his younger brothers, especially his youngest, Prince Viserys.
The light of the candles reflected with a tense tastefulness, as those of his House, the bannermen of Bran’s father, the Kingsguard, knights, soldiers, men-at-arms, lords, ladies, maesters, septas, and septons, and servants stood in silence as the king sat on what served as his wooden throne, receiving renewed oaths of fealty from the last of the lords and ladies from the Westerlands, Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.
There was a tense air in the tent as those loyal to the royal House had their hands on the pommels of their blades or tightened their grips on the shafts of their spears. Even the Kingsguard looked ready for the possibility, as if waiting to see who would be the first to act unruly. Robb and Sansa stood tall and still, like everyone else, including Bran himself, trying to be a good representation of their House before the crown and the court. A faint wind blew in the morning air, shaking the fabric and flaps of the command tent, the northern wind, and its embrace bearing down on the wooden posts of banners, making the fabric with its sigils upon them flap.
Bran’s father stood solemnly in nearness to the king and those of the other Houses closest to the royal House, in a place of honor. His long brown hair, with a few stray gray strands, and his beard had been shot through with white from age and duty. Grim-looking, his gray eyes saw everything and missed little, a different sight from how he had interacted with them and with Daemon. His father’s direwolf, Ivory, stood at his feet, quietly watching all as his lord did.
Many of the lords of the Westerlands had already reaffirmed their vows, but after so many, Bran could not recall every name and remembered only the oath they had sworn. Finally, the last of them came, and House Lannister was made to be the last to swear their oaths of reaffirmed loyalty. So many came forward from their golden-haired brood, from the main family to all the many branches. Finally, Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, came forward and knelt before the king, swearing the many vows. It must have been a humbling sight for all the realm, especially the West, to see the son of their overlord on his knees before the king, just as his father had been made to do before him in the renewing of oaths to House Targaryen after all the trouble they had caused.
“I promise to be faithful and loyal to King Rhaegar Targaryen, the First of His Name, and to never bear arms against him or his heirs and House, so help me by the Old Gods and the New.” Jaime Lannister finished, his hands clasped, and his head bowed as he knelt before Rhaegar, who held them as he accepted the renewed fealty.
The Lannister heir tried to free his hands from the king’s grasp, but Rhaegar’s grip tightened in an instant.
“Stay there,” Rhaegar ordered, his tone cold, forcing Jaime to remain in place, still on his knees. “Ser Jaime, your father was once an old and valued friend of a previous king who did not deserve the slights he was forced to endure, but instead of seeing past them, he chose to be defiant and unruly, as shown in his bannermen.” He said, allowing this to sit in the air for a moment. “You’ve fought well as an already proven servant of the realm, and there was no doubt of that until now, when you were on the wrong side of this matter of defiance.” He said, squeezing Jaime’s hands so hard that the golden-haired man jerked forward a bit before he released the Lannister knight from his grasp. “I welcome your renewed fealty and accept your submission, like those of your countrymen of the West,” Rhaegar said, then turned his head to his brother, Prince Daeron Targaryen the Fair. “Is that all?” he asked, sounding as if he were tired of this.
“Yes, Sire,” Daeron replied.
"Good," Rhaegar said, his voice still firm and seemingly unforgiving, as Jaime rose to his feet, adjusted his clothing, and moved back to stand with the other Houses of the Westerlands. “My lords of the Westerlands, today you have each pledged fealty to me, my heirs, and House as the one who stands above your overlord. Any lands confiscated during this brief conflict will now be returned to you.” Rhaegar told the Houses of the West, much to their looks of dissatisfaction, irritation, and anger, and to their feeling slighted.
Bran’s sister, Arya, leaned closer to him. “You’d think they had their favorite toy taken from them,” she whispered. “Though I suppose pride is a toy they’ve come to enjoy,” she jested, much to his quiet amusement at her words.
“Quiet.” Their mother, Catelyn, hissed to them in a whisper.
“I hope you see the long futility of your years of silent opposition and accept responsibility for the brief bloodshed and disunity of your fresh opposition, and accept responsibility for the bloodshed that could have been avoided.” Rhaegar continued without interruption. “Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord Andros Brax, Lord Roland Crakehall…” the Targaryen king trailed off.
“Step forward," Daeron said, finishing for his brother.
All the lords, every knight, and man-at-arms watched as the Warden of the West and the two lords of the most powerful Houses after his own House stepped forward with him.
“I understand that not only has the Warden of the West taken offense at how the crown has passed down my decrees regarding the Westerlands and the stewardship over the lands sworn to them and held by the crown through your fealty, but that this is also mirrored in both of your Houses next to your Lord Paramount. However, despite such strong disapproval, I will not relent. Therefore, the crown will continue to personally watch, govern, and steward your province of the West with a more direct hand and receive its due in taxes, as I decreed at the end of the Usurper’s Rebellion.” Rhaegar said this to the three who stood quietly. “Our prince of the realm, the eldest of my younger brothers and a knight of the realm, Maelys Targaryen…”
“Sire,” Prince Maelys said, stepping forward and announcing himself as he stood tall, befitting his title.
“...will lead with a greater directness concerning the Westerlands and will lead a new council of Westerland administration.” Rhaegar chose to finish speaking this sentence. “You will all like the rest of the Houses of your lands, be proud to serve under him, and you will take that opportunity, if you are wise, to heal the differences between yourselves and the crown,” Rhaegar warned them, rising with a groan, standing to his feet, and stepping toward them, with three of his Kingsguard following close behind.
“Offer your hands forward,” Daeron instructed, his tone more like a command than a suggestion.
Tywin had stretched out his right hand, and then, behind him, Lords Andros and Roland did the same, placing theirs over Tywin’s as Rhaegar, with a quickness reminiscent of lightning, slapped his own over their joined hands. It seemed a tight grip was holding them there, similar to how the king had held Jaime Lannister, but tighter and harsher.
“Now let us be what we once were…” Rhaegar declared, raising his voice to ensure everyone before him could hear. “...friends! Loyal servants! And a realm united and poised in single purpose!” Rhaegar finished, shouting these words aloud.
Then the cheers came. Slowly at first, they started, then built up, and before long, clapping came as Rhaegar released his grip, freed his hand, and turned away. All the while, Tywin fixed the cuff of his sleeve with tense muscles, as if he could not bear the indignity of it all, as he looked to both Lords Andros and Roland.
“Music! Drink! Feast!” Rhaegar roared in command as he turned his back to the gathered lords, prompting the musicians among them to begin playing their instruments while servants moved slowly to set the tables, and others moved forward to offer ale, hippocras, mead, and wine.
Many of the lords and ladies loyal to House Targaryen, like his House, along with the knights, men-at-arms, captains, and others of various ranks in the standing royal army, whispered among themselves as they clapped. Some even laughed at what was said between one another, more than likely at Tywin Lannister and his lords' submission and renewed oaths, and at finally making Tywin and the countrymen of his kingdom bow. The slighted lords of the west slowly made their way out of the royal command tent, like the others. Still, among them, they looked particularly slighted and offended, as if they had swallowed the most sour lemon ever grown, which, in this case, they had, given all the trouble Tywin Lannister had caused the royal House.
He waited with his siblings to leave the tent as he heard the king call out his father’s name and Lord Rowan’s. They both stepped forward, speaking to the king in a more polite and cordial manner than had been seen moments before.
The way out of the tent cleared a moment later, and soon Bran found himself slowly following Robb and Sansa out of the tent, with Arya and Rickon beside him, so they could gain a measure of fresh air while their mother stayed behind with their father.
Things had been quiet for the most part as they stepped out into the morning air, which was quickly growing hotter. No doubt the weather was much hotter further south than here, where some wind and clouds brought a measure of respite.
“Robb!” came his voice, drawing his brother’s attention and making them all turn to find Prince Aegon Targaryen, Rhaegar’s heir, son, and second child by his first wife, Queen Elia Martell.
He was the current Hand of the King after Rhaegar had dismissed the former Hand, Prince Doran Martell, and sent him back to Dorne. As such, Aegon would remain in that role for the foreseeable future until he took the crown upon his father’s death.
The Prince of Dragonstone and the Hand of the King, all in one, was a sight to behold. He was nearly as tall as his older sister, Princess Rhaenys, who stood six feet and nine inches, and his younger brother, Bran’s cousin Daemon, who stood even taller. Aegon himself stood at an imposing six feet and seven inches, and he cut an impressive figure, being well-muscled and sturdy. He had bright purple eyes and prominent silver-gold hair that fell in wavy locks like the ocean's. He had an extremely beautiful, otherworldly handsome face and a strong, clean-shaven jaw, and his olive skin showed the proud quality of his mother’s people.
The prince seemed to take the best of both his father and mother. However, he had a physical strength that was almost equal to, and as frightening as, his cousin Daemon’s, which is why the Targaryen Dynasty was safe in his hands, as the armies followed him into battle without question.
“Aegon!” Robb said with equal enthusiasm as he walked forward, and the two embraced in a harsh yet warm hug, laughter in it.
With him was the Kingsguard, their mother’s uncle, Ser Oswell Whent, whom they greeted, hugged, and asked about his health, since it had been some time since they had seen him. Aegon busied himself greeting a red-faced Sansa, ruffling Arya’s hair, asking Bran if he had put on some muscle, then turned to Rickon, lifting him up to his laughter before putting him down and turning back to Robb.
“Always a pleasure to see you, my prince. It’s a shame that this mess coincided so closely with the completion of your uncle’s castle and the tourney celebrating it.” Robb commented on what was around them.
“Well, what can you do amidst it all? I just thank the gods it’s over, and we can finally enjoy ourselves at the tourney,” Aegon responded to Bran’s brother. “You bring your own armor for it?” he asked Robb as they slowly walked further from the command tent.
The wet mud underneath them squished underfoot like a thick soup, spilling over like a chamber pot filled to the brim.
“Aye for both the melee and joust,” Robb replied, placing a hand on the prince’s shoulder. “It’ll be a refreshing change from the midyear months we spent as boys at the Red Keep." Robb jested.
“You mean our little reign of terror as children, pillaging the Keep’s kitchens, and our foot races around the castle, which drove our mothers to near insanity.” Aegon corrected, prompting them to share a laugh. “Those were always an event to be looked forward to. Then we got bolder,” he said with a chuckle of remembrance.
“Aye, we did. Especially with that chariot race, Daemon suggested we take across King’s Landing and how we accidentally ruined the progress of one of those temples.” Robb said, clearly reminiscing about that fond memory, which, according to the stories, got them all yelled at later. “By the way, that reminds me to ask. Where is Daemon now? Is there any word?” Robb asked, prompting Aegon to sigh.
“I’m afraid not. Presently, we don’t know where he is.” Aegon answered honestly, and Robb’s head turned toward him, making them all listen more intently. “A raven arrived two nights ago from Blackhaven after I arrived. My mother’s uncle, Ser Lewyn Martell, died in his sleep the night after they arrived at Blackhaven.” Aegon informed them, bringing on a new, shocking silence. “Apparently, Daemon stood vigil over his body while the Silent Sisters prepared it for the journey back to Sunspear. After that, Daemon left Blackhaven, and all Lord Beric could learn was that the smallfolk of his land came to him with complaints of someone shouting, roaring, and cursing all the gods in the night.” He continued, sighing. “It doesn’t come as a shock that Daemon would be in such a state; he loved that man like he was his father. We all did. Practically speaking, he was our second father, given our actual father’s circumstances.” Aegon said, with a bit of resentment toward the king.
From what Bran had heard, Daemon was very close to his older brother and sister because the king kept the Martells at a distance, both at court and in their upbringing. Apparently, Ser Lewyn was the most vocal about this after a conversation with his nephew, Prince Oberyn Martell, at the end of Robert Baratheon’s rebellion, as the stories go. Maester Aemon, the son of Maekar I Targaryen and grandson of Daeron II Targaryen the Good, who had been released from his vows at the Wall and ferried to King’s Landing to serve Rhaegar, was also involved and agreed with Ser Lewyn despite the blood ties between him and his House and the Martells. Bran had no doubt this helped make matters easier for Robb and their House to maintain a good relationship despite what the Mad King had done. However, it was clear Aegon resented how their father, the king, treated Daemon.
As the second child, the older brother by a year and heir, Aegon did his best to always defend Daemon and shield him from their father’s adverse feelings toward the last gift Bran’s aunt Lyanna had left him. This was a validation that added weight to the fact that those around him and their opinions would not easily sway Aegon. Hence, when Aegon took up the position of Hand of the King, many lesser courtiers were forced to leave the court and return to their homes, while those who remained were watched with even greater scrutiny.
The Targaryens had learned that lesson harshly once, when Viserys I Targaryen allowed Ser Otto Hightower to wield such sway over him. It seemed they had had enough of that and did not wish to repeat history in such a manner. Therefore, House Martell was kept apart from the royal family despite their sharing blood ties and was excluded from the High Fourteen, with Houses Dayne and Fowler selected instead for their more rational thinking.
“Do you think cousin Daemon will be all right?” Sansa asked Aegon quietly.
“Of course he will, idiot! Daemon’s strong, and he has faced far worse than this, always emerging victorious," Arya told their older sister, prompting a twitch of Sansa’s eyebrow at being called an idiot.
“Even so, I’ve sent riders out to find him and bring him to us at the tourney, but I’m not gonna rely on hope alone that they’ll find him. After my father wraps up this nonsense here, I, alongside my uncles Maelys, Maekar, and Daeron, will be riding out to the first’s new castle to oversee its settlement, preparations for the grand feast, the tourney grounds, and the search for Daemon before everyone here arrives there,” Aegon informed Robb, who nodded, some of his worry seeming to ease.
“He hasn’t been missing for long, my princes, and with luck, we’ll find him in a town’s inn or a brothel a day or two’s ride away, trying to stamp down and drown his grief,” Oswell said, supporting the prince while clearly trying to calm the trepidation they were all feeling.
Robb expressed his concern, saying, “I just pray that he’s alright,” before sighing. “He tends to disappear, both to others and within himself.”
"Aye, that and we need to find the others who have also run off on their own," Aegon told Robb.
“Others, my prince?" inquired Sansa, a look of question on her features.
“Daemon’s not the only one who’s gone missing or run off. My grandmother and my aunts, Shaena and Jaehaera, have too, and they’ve likely heard the news before we have. Then there’s the matter of my uncle Maelys’ eldest and youngest, Aemond and Haegon, who disappeared on their way to Field of Fire instead of coming here.” Aegon informed them with an even greater sigh. “It’s all a mess. One, I would see settled before I start tearing my hair out.” Aegon said, shaking his head, then looked over his shoulder and winced. “Alongside others of present company, I would see out of my sight permanently, and quickly approaching as of this moment…” Aegon sighed, rubbing his eyes and then his nose.
Bran, like the others, had looked toward what he meant to find and also winced as well at the sight of King Rhaegar’s youngest brother, Prince Viserys Targaryen, making his way over to them.
The second-to-last child of Aerys and the last of King Rhaegar’s brothers was slim and of average height. He had pale skin, silver-blond hair, pale lilac eyes, and an unblemished complexion; his face was sculpted and imperious, with a high brow, sharp cheekbones, and a straight nose. He had been a small, robust, and healthy child, as the tales spoke of him, but in his early twenties now, Viserys had filled out. He was not as tall as his older brother Rhaegar. A prince who preferred to dress in silks and wool, in clothing as bright as fire in red, orange, yellow, and gold, and in wildfire green that Bran’s father disliked, in a black cloak bordered in scarlet satin, and in doublets of red velvet with long, dagged sleeves.
Viserys carried a sachet in his tunic sleeve to sniff and wore a sword to appear more regal, like his eldest brother.
He was all smiles and courtesy around Rhaegar, but Viserys’ vain and cruel nature showed in front of others. Many of Daemon’s cousins thought of their uncle as "quite the monster" in comparison to their grandfather, Aerys. Some at court even considered Viserys a fright, which is why he was not popular. It was also a reason Aegon tried to contain him more as Hand, as his behavior not only annoyed Aegon but was also deemed detrimental to their House’s image.
No wonder Robb had said Aegon, Daemon, and Rhaenys had found Prince Viserys’ face punchable on more than one occasion and had done so when Viserys annoyed them. Just looking at him, Bran thought Viserys looked every inch the prick he was, to the point that even Viserys’ second-eldest brother, Maelys, could not tolerate him, giving Viserys foot-whippings like a father.
“Nephew! Robb!” Viserys greeted the two, his smile never reaching the prince’s eyes as he slogged through the mud, then clapped Robb on the shoulder. “This must all be painful for you and your family, your mother in particular. After all, being in the hot south, compared to your summer snows you Starks so prefer, and the latter in your mother’s own House being in such disgrace.” Viserys added, digging at House Tully’s position. His face was calm, but a light of arrogance and a desire to stir things burned behind his eyes.
Robb still chuckled diplomatically before speaking.
“I’m sure we’ve had worse, and so have I, my prince,” Robb told Viserys, who looked him up and down, while Aegon watched him with quiet anger. His fist clenched as he fought the urge to punch his uncle. Even their granduncle, Oswell, seemed exasperated with Viserys.
“Do you remember the midyear months when you and your kin came to visit the Red Keep, when we were younger? The events you all attended with us, our duels in the yard, within view of the court.” Viserys reminded Robb, his eyes a bit wider as some prospect formed in his head. “You may have lost most of the time against me, but you're always so good at everything else, especially your form,” Viserys noted, a finger pointing toward Robb as he looked away and stepped around him, like a large cat closing in on its dinner.
“That’s because I just grew a bit bigger than you for my size at the time,” Robb said with a meager, humble smile.
The words caused Viserys to halt in the mud and quickly glance at Robb, appearing outwardly calm but likely displeased with his brother’s response, as shown by the tenseness in the royal prince’s shoulder.
“What would you say to a duel right now, then? Like old times?” Viserys asked, a catlike smile creeping across his closed lips and eyes as he posed the challenge, both hands on his blade still in its sheath.
Robb asked, maintaining his calm despite the challenge, “And break my oath of loyalty to House Targaryen already? One that even my father has strived so hard to uphold?”
An amused huff had escaped Viserys' lips at hearing Robb ask that, and Oswell, seemingly having enough of hearing this, stepped forward to stop this nonsense.
“The order was to come in peace and unarmed for those opposed to the crown, my prince. And the Starks are close allies who are not of-”
"Quiet," Viserys calmly snapped, telling the Kingsguard knight to be silent, revealing a glimpse of his true nature beneath for a second.
“Ser Oswell raises a valid point. The Starks are allies, loyal servants to the crown, and kin.” Aegon said, inserting himself now as he towered over his uncle. “You would do well to remember that… and to cease this nonsense. On account of yourself. My father. Our House. And my position and office.” Aegon told Viserys briskly, a soft reminder to his uncle of those things and of the difference in station between them, despite Viserys being older.
The once amiable, jovial, and warm look in Aegon’s eyes was gone, and now the dragon who was the king’s Hand and leader of the Targaryen armies had revealed itself.
The sight and harsh words reminding him of his place must have deeply wounded Viserys; the youngest brother of Rhaegar didn’t even muster the courage to speak or challenge Aegon as he had previously with Robb or Oswell.
Viserys looked like a harmless wyrm by comparison to Aegon, who clearly had the worser wroth but was the one who was not as cracked in the head as his uncle.
“It’s quite all right, Egg," Robb said to help diffuse some tension. “I believe your uncle was probably just trying to recall older, more peaceful days," he added gently and kindly.
“Yes… I was.” Viserys spoke slowly, the tenseness in his jaw clear as his head turned slowly toward Robb. “Let’s say five gold dragons to whomever wins leverage.” Viserys wagered as he stepped away from Aegon, a measure, and stopped a measure away from Robb, who smiled slowly, a huff of air leaving his nose.
“Let’s make it fifteen,” Robb said quietly, offering a counter wager that brought about a wildly amused expression to Viserys, who nodded.
“I had heard you’d developed a taste for wagering,” Viserys said to Robb, clearly amused, as he stepped away and Robb did the same. “Thorne, fetch him a sword,” Viserys ordered.
Robb undid the straps of his furlined cloak and handed it to Sansa as he waited for the knight to return.
Aegon and Ser Oswell had stepped away a respectable distance to stand near Bran and his sisters and Rickon. The former silently signaled one of the female servants, a sigh of rising irritation, to come to him. Upon reaching him, Aegon took one empty silver tankard and handed it to Ser Oswell, then took the other along with the entire wine jug, thanked her, and dismissed her kindly.
“Try not to drink too much of this, my prince,” Ser Oswell advised Aegon quietly.
“You have nothing to fear from me, good ser.” Aegon began, seeking to allay the Kingsguard’s worries as he poured. “I ordered all unmixed wine to be diluted. All the wine served here has been watered down with three parts water to prevent anyone from getting so drunk they can’t maintain a conversation or cause issues.” The Prince of Dragonstone told Oswell further.
“Hmph, what an ancient mark of civilized behavior. How Ancient Valyrian it is,” Oswell said calmly, not at all surprised, yet he waved his free hand to underscore his amusement.
“And yet you wonder why my symposia on Dragonstone with the Valyrian lords never have issues and end so orderly.” Aegon quipped in turn to the Whent Kingsguard, who chuckled low.
“So it's practically grape juice, almost?” Arya asked, finding her own brand of fun in what was being said.
“Yes,” Aegon answered with a brief smile. “We’ll be doing the same when we reach King’s Fall… though the wine there will have five parts water.” Aegon finished telling them.
“Why is that?” Bran chose to ask now, noting the quiet in Aegon’s voice at the end.
“My uncles, Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn, are traveling up the Kingsroad for the tourney as well,” Aegon answered Bran, the stress of the prospect already giving him and everyone else their answer. “It goes without saying that the guard will be tripled, especially around the kitchens. Servants will be watched, and a surplus of food tasters will be present,” Aegon added before drinking from his cup.
Bran would have opened his mouth further to ask why, if it hadn’t been for that moment, Ser Alliser Thorne had finally returned with the sword for Robb to use.
“It's unfortunate you had some… sentimental notion of fighting for the people during the previous rebellion,” Viserys said aloud, drawing Bran’s attention as Robb unsheathed the blade. “It’s understandable,” Viserys added, his tone laced with mockery.
In that moment, Viserys suddenly lunged forward with surprising speed to land a cheap shot with his blade. Robb saw it coming and blocked, but his grip was not tight enough to hold the blade. The blade dropped to the side near some Westerland lords, who watched the scene and quickly stepped back to avoid being hit by the flying sword, some exclaiming in surprise. There were some laughs all around, even from both Robb and Viserys, as a Westerland lord picked up the blade and handed it back to Robb.
“Not a good start, Stark!” one of the gathered lords in the forming crowd said.
“Endearing, even,” Viserys said after a pause in his speech, then moved forward again.
This time, Robb was ready. Viserys came at Robb with three strikes aimed at his torso, and on the fourth, aimed at his head, Robb blocked with the sword. The blades of both Bran’s brother and Viserys locked under their respective grips as Robb planted his feet just enough to stop Viserys’s effort to press Robb into the Northern lords at his back, who watched their future lord. There was some light breathing from both Robb and Viserys before the former spoke.
“It was the truth, and besides… I just wanted to win against the Blackfyres.” Robb said before grunting in pushing Viserys back and breaking the lock between them.
Viserys chose to step back in that moment, moving further into the center of the forming circle, as Robb did the same. Then the two began circling one another as they breathed.
“So…” Viserys began again, slowly, as they circled each other for a few seconds more. “Aerys Blackfyre… one of the last rebels and headaches to House Targaryen standing.” Viserys persisted as the two came together in the center.
They connected their swords so the blades touched, sliding forward slightly, almost as if a cook were about to sharpen a blade. Robb and Viserys each held the grip of their blades with one hand, keeping their free hands away from the hilt. With a one-handed grip, neither moved for a moment until Robb moved his blade forward by almost an inch. There was a slight smile of adrenaline on Viserys' face, at the danger he knew would never come, yet almost seemed to welcome the sight. That was until Viserys used his blade to push Robb’s aside and strike, attempting to get past and through his defenses.
Once more, as Robb’s blade came up, Viserys struck it out of his way and moved forward as Robb used his feet to move and reposition himself out of Viserys’ path. As quickly as the Heir to Winterfell did so, Viserys turned back with a long arc swing aimed toward Robb’s throat, who quickly stepped back.
There was a shared laugh between Robb and Viserys as the latter stepped away, and the former did the same, turning to them as he walked toward Aegon.
“Prick,” Robb said under his breath as he reached them, especially Aegon, who handed him the metal tankard.
“How much have you had to drink?” Aegon asked Bran’s brother.
“Trust me, cousin, not nearly enough,” Robb answered Aegon as he took the cup. “Not nearly enough,” he added, irritation brimming, as he quickly downed the mixed wine.
“Keep the head, Robb,” Arya warned their brother as Robb finished, handed the cup back to Aegon, and stepped back into the circle.
Robb cleared his throat as he and Viserys began circling one another for a few seconds.
“They say he languishes in the Black Cells of the Red Keep,” Viserys said, continuing his topic of conversation as he twirled his blade in his hand. “Some who dared and deigned to fight for him consider him a martyr…” Viserys continued, then rushed forward with a low, thrusting strike to Robb’s gut, followed by a downward slice to his chest, which Robb blocked. “...others, a madman for continuing such resistance to the point that there are barely any who support them.” Viserys persisted, spinning the blade in his hand before making a swift thrust once more toward Robb’s abdomen, which Robb, in turn, blocked and deflected. “What do you think?” Viserys asked, then struck at Robb’s left shoulder, which Robb blocked, then at his sword arm at the bicep, which Robb too blocked, and then with quickness toward his leading right leg.
It was this last block by Robb that locked both his and Viserys' blades in a downward position, as it was now a matter of muscle and strength to see who would gain leverage.
“I think he is a man who loves his House and the country he feels he and his ancestors were cheated out of having… forced to fight for it with every breath of air… more than his life!” Robb answered, his tone rising toward the end as he broke the sword lock with a quick twirl under it while spinning.
Viserys tried to gain leverage at the sight to strike, but only Robb was quicker, gaining a grip on Viserys’ wrist that held his sword and spinning the rest of his body to face him, sword and arm cocked back, elbow at the front, ready to bring it back in a slice that would surely relieve the prince of his head had Viserys’ free hand not had a grip on the arm. There was no movement as they were locked once more, unable to strike one another. A sight that drew laughs from them both and some in the crowd as Viserys nodded at the answer.
“Diplomatically put,” Viserys told Robb before pushing him back to release him, and Robb did the same. “All right, fortunately, you Northern highborns don’t share that passion,” Viserys said, his sword extended and aimed at those he addressed as he walked in a circle, while he and Robb caught their breath. “Or we’d have to kill you all,” Viserys finished, as he moved to strike Robb once more.
Aegon groaned with irritation next to them at Viserys’ unchecked tongue. Robb saw it coming and, at the last minute, stepped out of the way of Viserys' blade as it glided upward, catching only air. Seeing the opportunity, Robb struck toward Viserys’ abdomen in a horizontal slash, but Viserys quickly brought the blade down to block it. The force of Robb’s strike sent Viserys’ blade to his right, and Viserys, along with it, a few great steps back. Outwardly, Viserys seemed amused, letting out a small, low chuckle, but this was clearly becoming frustrating to him as the prince was gaining no purchase or leverage over Robb.
Quickly, Viserys turned back as Robb raised his blade with both hands above his head in a high guard. Seeing this, Viserys chose to strike low enough to find purchase. As Viserys came forward, Robb stepped to the side and struck downward at Viserys’ blade. Still using one hand to wield his, Viserys brought it up to stop Robb’s advance as the Northern heir used one hand once more.
There was some form of commotion by the entrance of the king’s command tent, but Bran ignored it while Aegon did not, turning his head to look just as his grand-uncle Oswell did. Robb pressed Viserys, forcing him onto the defensive with such force that Viserys finally used both hands on the blade to defend himself, as Robb’s more muscular build proved effective against Viserys’s slimmer physique.
Robb’s strike in turn became even heavier, powerful, but momentary as a man-at-arms came running toward them, particularly Viserys.
“My prince! My prince! My prince!” said the man multiple times as both Viserys and Robb’s blades locked once more, the latter of them bearing gritted teeth.
It was in that moment that the building frustration now broke the dam on Viserys’s mask.
“My prince! My prince! My prince!” Viserys shouted, repeating the words as he grabbed Robb’s wrist, breaking the sword lock and walking toward the man-at-arms. “What is it?!” Viserys roared at the man as he grabbed his tunic, forcing the man-at-arms to backpedal.
“Your brother, the king, he wishes to see you at once,” the man told him, holding his ground against this prince, which drew an audible growl from the youngest son of Aerys.
“Shut up, you sniveling fool!” Viserys barked at the man, pushing him aside with his tunic and striding toward the command tent, breathing heavily.
The sight caused Aegon to place a hand on his temple, rubbing it as he took deep breaths.
“And this is what I have to deal with every day while trying to contain him,” Aegon told them all, a frown on his face, as Robb walked back to them. “Come on, let’s go back to the command tent so I can hear what Viserys has to say, in the off chance he twists his words before my father.” He said after a long exhale.
They started walking back to the tent, not far behind Viserys, who was already inside and breathing deeply. As they entered, they saw a septon speaking with a man wearing a tunic bearing the House sigil of three black castles on orange, and a woman, clearly his wife, bearing her maiden House sigil, the Lannisters.
They found King Rhaegar and his brothers, Bran’s parents, Mathis Rowan, and Randyll Tarly, along with others, laughing at whatever was being discussed as they stepped inside near the entrance, where the septon was speaking to the man. The king himself turned in his seat, finally toward Viserys, his laughter slowly dying as his face turned stern upon seeing Viserys.
“What in the seven hells are you doing?” Rhaegar demanded his youngest brother, voice tinged with clear displeasure as the other brothers turned toward Viserys. “You have responsibilities. We’ve had petitioners," he continued, gesturing toward the entrance and glancing between the door and Viserys before focusing solely on him, clearly expecting more. “SIT DOWN!” Rhaegar commanded loudly, causing a brief jump from everyone present.
Quickly, as it came, the king began to calm with a heavy exhale as he watched Viserys do as he was told.
"When are you gonna grow up?” Rhaegar asked, frustration still evident as he watched Viserys walk to his seat to sit down, clearly reaching the limits of his patience with his youngest brother.
“Robb insisted we wager on swords,” Viserys told Rhaegar, still catching his breath. “And I have grown up. You just don’t like me very much.” Viserys told the king, calmly resentful of that point of discussion, as he sat down.
“Actually, it was you who wanted to bet on swords, not Robb, even after Ser Oswell warned you against it. When you told him to be quiet, I had to intervene and tell you to stop. Still, you continued to talk around, avoid, and bypass that, pretending it was just a friendly wager, after Robb tried to calm an already tense situation that you initially provoked," said Aegon, his frustration finally surfacing. "Next time someone tells you to shut your mouth, take that advice, shut your mouth, and sit down," Aegon instructed, his tone no longer bearing patience or bothering to entertain this farce with his uncle, as his intense purple eyes never left Viserys.
The silence was so intense it seemed to envelop everyone as Viserys remained silent. This moment seemed to offer someone the opportunity to approach, and that person was the septon from earlier, the one Bran had seen speaking to a lord with his Lannister wife.
“Pardon me, Sire,” the septon said, bowing his head to Rhaegar. “There is one last petitioner: Lord Titus Peake and his wife, Lady Margot Lannister,” he announced before stepping back.
The announcement of the Lord’s name and his wife seemed to make the air of the tent grow colder, if that were even possible.
“Peake?” Rhaegar asked, irritation evident and surprise flickering across his face, whether directed at the lord or his connection to House Lannister through marriage.
Every eye turned toward Lord Titus Peake, who stepped forward, making the Kingsguard and knights around Rhaegar slowly place their hands on the hilts of their blades as he bowed.
“Your Grace, I am the current Lord of Starpike.” Titus began as Rhaegar leaned forward.
“And a well-known descendant in a long line of traitors and oathbreakers who managed to kill my great-great-grandfather, Maekar I, during your House’s uprising against the crown.” Rhaegar voiced, his tone cold and unwelcoming toward the lord of the Dornish Marches.
“I come to plead the case regarding the castles Dunstonbury and Whitegrove, which were seized and handed over as garrisons to the royal army after Robert’s Rebellion.” Titus continued to speak.
“Castles that are better served in the hands of the crown than in those of traitors, schemers, and oathbreakers. Moreover, when it concerns your other affiliations and blood ties,” Rhaegar said, speaking over the lord from the Dornish Marches and, at the end, referring to his Lannister wife, who said nothing, flinching at the words.
“Those castles, Sire, belong to my House,” Titus told Rhaegar, his tone becoming harsher and patience thinning.
“You heard my brother. Get out.” Viserys told the lord, his earlier irritation now finding a new target.
“You have balls. I’ll give you that,” Rhaegar said, speaking calmly over Viserys to Titus Peake. “Get out of here, before I have them removed myself with my own hand,” Rhaegar told Titus, his voice calm but the threat clear as he sat back in his chair. “Royal decree: I never want to hear the name Peake again in my presence,” Rhaegar said aloud, jesting.
This caused some to laugh while others watched Titus, who slowly got to his feet as Rhaegar turned away from him. The sight of Lord Titus Peake clearly offended Rhaegar as he turned back to speak to Mathis Rowan.
Maelys, the king’s brother, however, didn’t look convinced and stepped quickly toward Lord Peake, slowly half-drawing his shortsword as the septon moved quickly to gently place a hand on Prince Maelys’ chest in peace, speaking toward the king, while Maelys never took his eyes off Peake.
“I know this young lord. I initiated him in the eyes of the Seven after his birth,” the septon told the king, who was still speaking with Lord Rowan, using the fact to ease the tension. “Pardon me, Sire, for his insolence and for insulting your presence,” the septon said, then showing Lord Titus and his wife out.
The Lord of the Dornish March turned to face the septon, who kept telling him firmly not to push his luck, while Lord Peake argued as he left about his name and his wife's being slandered.
Bran and some of the others watched him go before Arya turned and looked up to Aegon and asked in a whisper.
“What did His Grace mean by the Peakes killed his great-great-grandfather?” Arya asked quietly toward Aegon.
“I’m sure you're all familiar with the Targaryen kings before my mad grandfather?” Aegon answered with a question.
“Only those we were able to familiarize ourselves with,” Sansa answered gently, responding to the question.
“Before my father’s great-grandfather, Aegon V, ascended the throne, Maekar I Targaryen, the son of Daeron II Targaryen the Good, was the reigning king. His reign was regarded as peaceful, yet he was not averse to personally suppressing rebellions. Notably, during the downfall of House Lothston, initiated by Mad Danelle Lothston, the lordship of Harrenhal was awarded to your grandmother’s kin of House Whent in recognition of their service in dismantling the Lothstons. He also responded to the Peake Uprising, which was triggered by disputes over the castles Dunstonbury and Whitegrove following the First Blackfyre Rebellion in 196 AC, and to the Second Blackfyre Rebellion in 212 AC, during which Lord Bloodraven executed Lord Gormon Peake.” Aegon proceeded to elucidate in answering. "Accordingly, when the Peakes rebelled against the Iron Throne, Maekar chose to lead the army in suppressing the rebel lord on the Dornish Marches. During the final confrontation, known as the Storming of Starpike, Maekar spearheaded the assault on Starpike’s main gates but was killed when a rock dropped from the battlements crushed his crown helmet.” Aegon explained further to the Starks. “So while it may seem like ancient history…”
“It was not very long ago and relatively close in time, as His Grace Maekar might still have been the reigning king until roughly the time when some of our lord fathers and mothers were born," Robb reckoned, a light of realization in his eyes.
“Precisely,” Aegon confirmed. “King Maekar, though he had seen fifty-four name days at the time of his death, was still in good form and health, and was still fighting, near the age when Jaehaerys the Conciliator’s own strength and health were leaving him and fading,” Aegon told them, recognizing the strength and vigor of his ancestor. “And considering the Peakes have repeatedly been on the wrong side of history — from their role in removing House Manderly from the Reach, to their involvement in the Dance of the Dragons supporting Rhaenyra Targaryen's younger half-brother on the side of the Greens — their actions during King Aegon the Dragonbane's regency, the Blackfyre conflicts, and their neutrality in Robert’s Rebellion, only to later petition the king about their old castles amid concerns by the crown over their recent blood ties with House Lannister despite what they may have attempted near the end of the rebellion nearly twenty years ago — they are not a trustworthy House," Aegon explained, outlining the reasons why his father was so brisk and cold toward Lord Titus Peake.
Points that Bran believed were not incorrect when all considerations were taken into account; he was unaware that the Peakes had a role in the circumstances that led to the Manderlys being situated in the North. Consequently, this did not strengthen the case of the House of Dornish Marches. On the contrary, it further substantiated Aegon’s reasoning. Furthermore, the fact that one was married to a Lannister did not favor Lord Peake’s earlier petition, as the Targaryens have maintained a tense distance from the Lannisters and the Westerlands in general since the full truth was revealed seventeen years prior, much of which Bran was still unaware of and continuing to learn.
The sole conclusion that Bran could genuinely ascertain was that the Lannisters were untrustworthy and that all endeavors undertaken by the lord leading the House of Lions consistently resulted in bloodshed, ruin, desecration, death, and destruction, ostensibly aimed at advancing their own interests and those of his House.
The king's presence to suppress rebellion and reaffirm the oaths of the Westerlands' Houses indicated that the ruling House in this region was intentionally acting unruly. Based on how everyone spoke about Tywin Lannister, it seemed this was part of a strategic plan, just as much as it was on King Rhaegar’s side.
Bran’s mind would have thought on it further if it weren’t for a man-at-arms in Targaryen livery walking into the tent and up to Prince Maelys to whisper something in the tall prince’s ear that made him nod before the man-at-arms walked away.
“Brother, ready,” Maelys said with an eager expression, informing Rhaegar, who turned in his seat fully towards his brother in silence.
The king remained silent, merely slapping his chainmail-covered knees with eagerness before reaching for his legendary Valyrian steel sword, known as Blackyre, which was sheathed and leaning against his seat.
“Good,” Rhaegar said calmly, his body also expressing this confidence, before he struck his sword onto the raised platform and rose from his seat, taking the hand of his first wife, Queen Elia Martell. “Come, my queen, lords, Eddard, Mathis, Randyll, I have something to show you,” Rhaegar announced as he walked with Elia in hand, while Targaryen knights opened another flap of the tent leading to the other side.
The king from there let go of Queen Elia’s hand and quickly turned back toward the tent.
“Friends and lords and ladies of the realm, join us! We have a spectacle!” Rhaegar roared, then turned back to his queen’s hand as a form of fanfare began, with musicians starting to play trumpets, and drummers followed, setting the mood and beating to the rhythm of preparation.
On this side of the tent were all the lands between the siege encampment and the encirclement surrounding Riverspring. There were all manner of smaller trebuchets surrounding the castle for as far as Bran’s eyes could see. However, as he and his family came onto this side of the camp, on the left, there was a raised platform for some singers, and on the right, something else that caught Bran’s attention more.
A gigantic trebuchet that to most would have looked ridiculous if it weren’t such a hulking monster. It was massive, looking to be able to hurl boulders that were three hundred pounds in weight, so it went without saying that if his math was correct, this monstrosity of war had to be fifteen tons in weight altogether.
This wasn’t just a siege; it was a spectacle, as the king had said. This was a play of power.
“Has there not been enough humiliation of the Westerlands?” Catelyn asked, his mother looking in surprise at the trebuchet's size as she walked with his father.
“Lord Sarwyck tried to surrender two days ago. Rhaegar refused to accept. He ordered them back into the castle, finding their surrender unacceptable.” Prince Matarys told Bran’s father, mother, and their family.
“He wants to be certain the Houses of the West get the message,” Benjen said, understanding the king’s aim.
“More like my brother wants to use his new toy. You can’t imagine how long this damn monstrosity took to build,” Daeron said with exasperation, shaking his head as he voiced his frustration at why they had been here for so long.
“Tywin!” Rhaegar shouted.
The Warden of the West approached the king as he uttered his name, with his queen and Prince Maelys nearby. As Tywin advanced slowly, Targaryen men-at-arms worked on hammering blocks into holes on large circular projectiles, which were unloaded and not yet placed in the trebuchet.
“Everyone of your lords, including yourself, needs to understand that this surrender is final,” Rhaegar told Lord Tywin. The king’s face was without emotion as Tywin stood before him. Then Rhaegar turned quickly and walked toward the trebuchet. “Light the Valyrian Fire!” Rhaegar shouted to the men attending the trebuchet, then turned back to Tywin. “Also, it took three moons to build, so I don’t want to waste it,” Rhaegar told the Westerman. Maelys looked to Tywin and chuckled, then turned on his heel to watch his brother, as Elia did the same.
One of the Targaryen men by now had lit the red and large circular boulder-sized projectile, and upon doing so, the fire went from a normal orange to turning blue with swirls of vibrant purple and seeming to burn hotter.
“My lords… and ladies…” Rhaegar roared to the gathered nobility as he drew Blackfyre. At the same time, the other holes in the circular red vessel came to life with blue-purple flame, igniting beneath the trebuchet. “I give you… THE WAR WOLF!” Rhaegar roared, then turned quickly and sliced the rope in an instant.
The trebuchet's mechanism instantly engaged, causing the counterweight to fall and swing the long arm swiftly, propelling the fiery projectile from the sling. When it reached the correct angle, the War Wolf trebuchet released its fiery load.
They all watched silently as the projectile soared high into the air and then descended toward Riverspring. As it neared the castle, they could hear the roar of the fiery projectile. A moment later, it struck the castle wall directly, causing its fiery contents to explode and spill out around the impact area. The sight caused the besiegers to roar in approval, and Prince Maelys raised a closed fist, roaring in triumph alongside the others for a moment.
The sight of Riverspring’s wall was truly striking. The Valyrian Fire effortlessly destroyed a large part of the outer wall, resembling wet paper and demonstrating its superior strength over wildfire. Moments later, the section of the wall started melting down the hill like lava, as one lord murmured. While some continued to watch the scene unfold, the king’s singers began to sing in harmony. Some lords whispered about the sight resembling the liquid used by Rhaegar’s predecessor, likely recalling the Mad King and the wildfire that haunted a generation.
Even still, Rhaegar sheathed Blackfyre into the scabbard on his hip as he walked away from the trebuchet.
“Now you can accept the surrender, brother,” Rhaegar told Maelys, walking away.
“Yes, Sire," Maelys replied, then turned to walk away, calling for his horse while one of the Kingsguard and some knights followed.
Rhaegar continued his stride uninterrupted toward the Houses of the Westerland, watching the sight silently.
“Congratulations, my lords. Today, you’re on the winning side,” the king said as he strode toward Tywin. “I’m proud of you, Tywin. You had the courage to stand up to my House and me through your lords, and the wisdom to stand down and bow.” Rhaegar told the Warden, then turned his head toward the man’s three children. “Well done for bringing your father around, Jaime, Tyrion,” Rhaegar said calmly and, somehow, kindly.
The king walked away after that, back toward the command tent with Elia at his side, completely ignoring Tywin’s daughter, Lady Cersei, and not even acknowledging her to begin with, it seemed to Bran’s eyes.
In his wake, as others followed and the king's singing choir continued a lament, Tywin had his back turned toward them, and Bran could not see his face. But it seemed his expression was not to be dismissed, since Tywin’s children, including his brother Kevan, all looked to their father and brother, respectively, with worry and something of concern.
All the while, the choir’s song continued to ring in the Warden of the West’s ear as he looked upon the sight of Riverspring’s melting castle wall in silence.
- Prince Aegon Targaryen -
The midday feast had come quickly, with a lot of laughter, howling, whoops, and merriment. A lot of drinking had gone on amid the clamor and laughter in the candlelight, as Aegon expected, and he watched the lords quietly. At the same time, he drank sparingly, since he still had to make the journey soon toward King’s Fall and the Field of Fire, where his elder sister, Rhaenys, and his father’s grandmother and grandaunt Queen Dowager Shaera and Princess Rhaelle Targaryen were. His sister had opted not to come here and preferred to keep her distance from both their father and mother, not that he was opposed; it was just that, as Hand, Aegon had to be near his father and mother most of the time to attend to matters of state when not in council. That led to his present position of sitting at the high table in the great dining tent with his family, the Starks, and the other Houses of the Great Fourteen. He watched as lords like Wyman Manderly and Greatjon Umber ate and drank deeply, if not as much as his uncle Viserys, who was overly enjoying himself on the watered-down wine.
There was much enjoyment to be had all around, except in the Houses of the Westerland. This gave Aegon reason to order the Kingsguard, knights, and guards to maintain their vigilance around them and double the number of men they had around them. He had ordered the number of men-at-arms and knights he was taking with him and his uncles on the road to be tripled when they chose to leave from here. For he had no intention of being caught unawares on the road as he left here.
“Lord Franklyn Fowler, fierce Warden of the Prince’s Pass, vanquisher of the Blackfyre army at Mistwood! Our thanks!” His father, Rhaegar, shouted as the cheers swelled. “Lord Eddard Stark, valiant Warden of the North, who broke the Blackfyre center in the last battle at Blueburn, while his heir, the Young Wolf, cut a bloody swath through knights to reach the pretender’s brother and earn his knighthood!” Rhaegar roared, to the cheers of the Northmen, who pounded their hands on the tables. "To my cousin Prince Maegor Targaryen, who routed the Blackfyre hosts at Tarth and Bronzegate!" Rhaegar persisted to the cheers of their family and the court. “Finally, Lord Randyll Tarly, Valiant High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South, loyal servant to the Crown!” Rhaegar finished, to cheers from the lords of the Reach, all except the Tyrells and those loyal to them.
“Your Grace," Randyll said, standing from his seat and bowing his head to the king.
Rhaegar announced to everyone in the command tent, "We give the hand of Maegor's daughter, Princess Viserra Targaryen, Ned Stark’s daughter, Lady Sansa Stark, and that of your daughter, Lady Talla Tarly, to my son and heir, Prince Aegon Targaryen, as his first, second, and third wives respectively." His words drew cheers, especially from the Greatjon, who made a loud, bawdy joke directed at him.
Aegon stood and offered a grateful smile before all present as he lifted his glass.
His eyes met Robb’s, who smirked and gave an acknowledging nod, raising a wine glass. Though his gaze briefly fell on the Lannisters as he looked around the tent, he found displeasure in Tywin’s eyes despite the courtly behavior. He would note it to his father later, before he left, as he sat down between two of his uncles, who slapped him on the back in familial support.
“And may these pairings to my son symbolize the harmonious union of not our bloodlines, but also that of the two Houses and two kingdoms, which have demonstrated unwavering loyalty and deserve appropriate recognition for their dedication and contributions, and that enduring relationship in the years to come," Rhaegar articulated as he rose to his feet, holding his wine glass and raising it before drinking as the assembly followed suit before cheering, laughing, and continuing conversation. “The fathers may kiss if they wish.” Rhaegar quietly jested.
Much of the hour had gone by like that, with food and drink being consumed generously.
Aegon dedicated a significant portion of that hour, along with an additional period, to conversing with the three ladies. These women were to become his three wives in due course and, following his ascension to the Iron Throne after his father’s eventual death, his queens. He had hoped that would not occur for many years, with the blessings of both the Old Gods and the New, as well as Mother Rhoyne herself. Each of the ladies was a beauty in their own right, and they exhibited kindness and courtesy towards one another, just as he reciprocated toward them. He was not opposed to the impending marriage and welcomed its prospect, aside from the reasons his father had explicitly chosen it, which remained unknown to him. Aegon suspected that he would never discover these reasons beyond his own speculation. The Prince of Dragonstone had anticipated that the marriage would take place soon after the tourney, with appropriate preparations and planning for the royal wedding upon their return to King’s Landing.
Furthermore, it was a relief to have finally resolved the matter of finding him a suitable wife, even if it was three. Although there was no immediate necessity for him to have children, considering his having aunts, uncles, a sister, a younger brother, and cousins, Aegon was not at ease with the notion of these three women, who were to become his wives, bearing children at this juncture, given their ages, despite Viserra being the same age as him. Not to mention he had no intention of treating them as if they were nothing but broodmares, and potentially risking their lives in the process, as some of his ancestors—such as Queens Alyssa Velaryon, Aemma Arryn, and Naerys Targaryen—had. He wished to ensure their continued well-being and harmony in both health and spirit. So waiting was no issue for him, and neither was finding a proper flow with them in this life.
Aegon would make sure they were heard, recognized, seen, and loved. His Valyrian and Dornish blood demanded that of him in the respect and honor to wives and to a woman’s ability.
The blood of the dragon runs thick, and as far as Aegon was concerned, despite it not yet being, Sansa and Talla were now blood of the dragon with this very announcement of impending marriage.
Aegon had gone on to walk and talk among lords and ladies, speaking with them as both a prince and one of them, and as a Hand. He even found time to speak with Maegor and Vaella, Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, with Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, and then with Randyll Tarly and his wife, Melessa Florent, before making his way back to the high table to speak with his father and mother. He spoke with his father, more privately, about what he had seen in Tywin and his lords, and Rhaegar took it quite seriously, saying he would keep a close eye on it and keep things well in hand here. After that, he ordered Egg to make his way to King’s Fall and make the preparations for all their arrival in the coming days.
With that order given, Aegon left to first write a letter to his sister at King’s Fall, to be sent by raven, before he made for the horses, accompanied by his uncles, Maelys, Maekar, and Daeron, along with their sizable group of Targaryen Household guards, mounted knights, and men-at-arms. Oswell Whent, as part of the Kingsguard, joined them at his father’s command.
They got into the saddle of their mounts quickly and were now slowly riding out of the great camp of tents and pavilions as their horses trotted through the wet and soupy mud beneath.
“I will say this, nephew. My brother, despite some of his decisions, chose your matches wisely,” Maelys told him as he rode beside him, speaking in a diplomatic and neutral tone. “Your father’s intentions were well-meant, and so were his toward our cousins, House Stark, and House Tarly,” his uncle said. Aegon turned his head to look at him, then looked forward in silence. “The important thing is that this nonsense with the Westerlands is on a leash, House Targaryen is strong once more, and we are favored by the people and lords once more,” Maelys persisted. “This matter of overseeing the Westerlands, which I am responsible for, will be kept well in hand by me. Tywin will bow. Or be made to break,” he said.
“You’d see it done personally,” Aegon stated composedly, not inquiring but presuming accurately.
"Yes..." Maelys said slowly, with some emotion in his voice. “...if it meant protecting my brother’s family and the rest of ours. Seeing you someday take the throne as king. And after you, a daughter or son. A king or a queen," Maelys told Aegon as their horses finally made it past the open wooden gates of the encampment.
Aegon nodded slowly, acknowledging the familial love, before commanding everyone to ride hard now.
They had a castle to reach, a tourney to oversee, and Aegon needed to find a brother among other kin.
The time of allowing a prince to be pushed to the far margins by his father was over, and Aegon had need of his little brother.
Now more than ever, for what the tourney's prize entailed at its end.
Aegon needed his Cold Anvil.