Chapter Text
Daemon closed his eyes as he fell into the Gods Eye. He felt Dark Sister shift in his nephew’s skull, slicing through the bone like butter: the terror he had seen in Aemond’s eye would be worth all the hells he would be sent to. The only thing he could ask was for Caraxes to live. He felt the cuts that Vhagar had savaged on his dragon, and one of his wings was broken in a spot or two, but he surely would survive the-
There was nothing, for a time. Then Daemon found himself opening his eyes again. Bright sunlight illuminated the room he was laying in, and Daemon could feel his head rested upon a feather pillow. He tore himself up, taking stock of the surroundings. A well furnished room, worthy of a prince. It was pleasantly hot. So, the gods of the ancestors have not chosen to punish me. It made sense, of course, what do dragons care about a little kinslaying? Of course, that could mean they would accept his damnable nephew. Still, to see his father, his brother, mother, marriage-sons, Laena, it filled him with an excitement he hadn't felt in years.
He threw on some fine clothes he found in a chest and hopped one foot to another with the first pair of boots he found, finally getting out the door and being faced with an odd sight. This seemed to be some sort of castle, but all in sandstone. The door was on one side of a corridor and an open railing before him that overlooked a small yard, and beyond that a continual set of towers that he could not quite place the style of. Two knights of the Kingsguard stood on either side of his door, one a middle aged man with black hair drowning in sweat, and with a small emblem of green leaves on gold, and the other a young man with long silver hair, with Dark Sister on his swordbelt. He did not recognize either of them, but perhaps they could help him. They looked slightly startled at his sudden appearance, though perhaps less startled than Daemon had been of late.
“ Is Viserys here ?” Daemon asked in High Valyrian.
The two gave him an odd look, the plain haired one looking to the silver.
“ Your Grace, the Lord Hand remains in King’s Landing.” The man replied, a look of some confusion on his face.
Hand? Odd, but perhaps a better post for his brother to serve in the afterlife, given his entire life proved he was unworthy of the kingship.
“ Very well then, what of Baelon?” Surely his father would have been seen worthy in the eyes of the gods.
“ Bael or is in King’s Landing as well, Your Grace. ” The kingsguard looked very confused now.
The other knight coughed politely. “Your Grace, forgive me, what distresses you so? The campaign is over.”
Daemon looked from one to the other. How was an Andal accepted by the gods of the ancestors? Perhaps they simply looked upon courage to allow them into their care?
“No, no, nothing is distressing me. I simply wish to see them. Perhaps you could give word that my dragon is readied. I would fly to King’s Landing at once.” The bushy eyebrows of the old knight drew together, near touching.
“Your dragon, my king? You do not have a dragon, the last one died some years ago. Truly, sire, are you well?”
Daemon stared at him. The last dragon? What does that mean? How can there be a last of anything in the afterlife? Was this a hell after all?
“ Cousin. ” The silver haired knight said, and Daemon’s attention snapped to him. “ Do not speak here. ” He turned to the older knight, switching to the common Andali. “Ser Olyvar, I believe the king must be sleepwalking. I shall help His Grace back abed, if you would be so kind as to keep the door.”
The oak knight kept his concerned look but nodded, and Daemon reluctantly allowed the silver to guide him back inside. The door closed, and the man turned to him.
“ Really, Daeron, what were you thinking, telling Oakheart of a Dream? He’s Kingsguard, yes, but you know how dangerous that is!” The man had taken a breath, and his obvious fury dampened for a moment. “ Well, what did you Dream, Daeron? Is there a way to turn the eggs back from stone? Will we ride again? ”
Daemon looked at him warily. The man had gone from anger to curiosity, a fire in his eyes all the same.
“ Who are you, ser? ” Asked Daemon, “ And by what right do you name me cousin? ”
This perplexed the knight. “ I am Aemon Targaryen, your cousin by blood, by our shared grandsire Daemon. Are you well? Truly? ”
“ Our shared grandsire? My grandsire is Jaehaerys King. And the only Daemon I know is myself. ” Daemon found himself feeling weak, sitting back on a chair against the window.
“ Daeron, King Jaehaerys died near two decades before our sires were even born. ”Aemon moved forward. “ Truly, are you well? ”
Daemon felt ill. None of this made any sense. What was this?
“ Is this one of the Fourteen Hells, or Heavens? Please, I can’t take this. ” Daemon asked.
“ You are in Dorne, Daeron. We just won the war. You are to treat with Prince Mors in a fortnight. ”
Daemon felt lightheaded. He went to stand, but he could feel himself falling as Aemon gave out a “ Gods below! ”
He kept falling, farther than it would have taken to reach the floor. He fell so far that he saw the sun again, and he looked below, and saw the Gods Eye, and he was falling, falling still, and he landed somewhere hard, cold stones under him.
He looked up from the floor. There was Rhaenyra. She stood before usurper Aegon, the wretch broken upon his seat. Was this Dragonstone? It didn’t matter, as the two exchanged some words that Daemon could not catch, and then came Sunfyre, the crippled beast, and Rhaenyra bathed in flames, her skin cracking, and Daemon could see his son Aegon screaming and crying and being held back by some kingsguard, and Sunfyre ate Rhaenyra in two bites. Daemon wept, for it was all he could do.
Daemon was falling again. This time, he landed in dirt. The yard of the Red Keep, night under pale moon. As he lay there, he saw Joff sneak by some guards. What was he doing? And then he saw Syrax, and terror struck his heart. “Get off her, boy!” He yelled with all his might, “You can’t ride her!” But the boy could not hear, and took off Syrax’s chains, and flew into the air.
Daemon was falling, forever falling, it was night still. He looked about, and saw it was King’s Landing. Syrax glided above him, and then came Joff, foolish Joff. He fell into Daemon’s arms, and he screamed and cried and clung to Daemon, and they fell, and Daemon wept, and held his stepson.
Daemon landed in the Dragon Pit. The keepers were holding the door back, someone was bashing it in. Suddenly, a crowd came through, smallfolk, breaking the door with axes and breaking the keepers with axes. And they turned to the dragons, and flame and talon and sword and axe came and went, and the dragons were butchered, howling in their chains, and the Dragon Pit was filled with smoke and flame. Daemon wept as he saw one get free, and fly into the roof, and collapse, and die, and they all died, black blood soaked the sand and charred stone was the world.
Daemon lay for a long time weeping, he did not know where. He felt a hand touch him, and he turned to look, and he saw a woman with silver blond hair, and baby dragons at her breast. “We were too late.” She said, “You need to wake them.” Daemon tried to speak but he could not. He saw a man, silver in hair, in black armor covered in rubies. By him were two women, one brown of hair and skin, a Dornish circlet atop her head, the other pale like a Northerner. “We were too late.” He said, “You need to wake them.” He saw another palehaired man, with a crown, holding a dragon egg of brilliant white and green, and beside him a lumbering giant clad in white. “We were too late.” He said, “You need to wake them.” The egg crumbled to ash.
Daemon was alone in the darkness for a time. He tried to walk forward, but he seemed to not go anywhere. He felt a hand at his shoulder. “Daemon.” He knew the voice.
It was his father, plain as day. He looked the same as he had thirty years ago, just before he died. It was a strange feeling, he had lived longer than his own father. Still he embraced him, and Daemon asked him what was happening.
“All men must die, Daemon.” He said. Behind him stepped forward another man, crowned and in full regalia, his grandfather’s exact image.
“All men must serve.” Said the old king. Stepped forward another, sickly and thin. “You have lived a wicked life.” Said he, the crowned spirit.
“You were strong and fierce.” Another king, this one hulking, an angered look on his face.
“You are the one we have to send.” Said the next, a soldierly look to him, but not so fearsome as the previous.
“We have a destiny from the Dawn.” Two came forward, a man and woman, each with the circlets the house used when they were merely ruled Dragonstone. “We have Dreams for a reason.” The woman said, and Daemon could hear the distant thunder and dragons crying.
“You have oaths to keep, Daemon.” He turned again, it was his brother, whole and not rotted away like he was in the end. Daemon would have wept if he were not so shocked.
“Look after my last son.” Rhaenyra! Oh, gods, blissfully unburnt. Daemon embraced her fiercely, in the dress she wore when he crowned her.
“Did you watch over our daughters, Daemon?” Laena, blissfully unbloodied. Daemon tried to explain, he kept them close, he did! But she turned away.
“You have a new destiny to keep, Daemon.” The soldierly king again. “You must war against the dark, and the cold.”
“What is this? Why are you all here?” He heard the terror in his own voice.
The Dreaming woman answered. “Our folly was to allow division.”
The fierce king followed up, “You, your brother, your grandsire, have ruined us.”
Jaehaerys replied, “I could not have known.”
Viserys remained silent.
The soldierly king spoke again, “You have been given a new life, lost by a foolhardy boy.”
He saw it. A young man in a desert, surrounded by enemies, the Conqueror’s crown lost to sand.
“Trust Aemon.” Said Rhaenyra. The kingsguard he had been with?
Another figure appeared before him, crowned in starlight, bearing a flaming sword, flowing platinum hair reaching to the shoulders, face of light and flame and radiance. “See the enemy.” the figure said, ghostly hand reaching and touching Daemon’s forehead.
He saw it all. A dark forest, ancient growth, echoing with the sounds of a laughter like swords crashing. Corpses shuffled out, frozen flesh preserved from rot, and pale shadows followed. It was so terribly cold, horribly and completely cold. He ran, across a field of snow, until stumbled down a ditch, and fell further, and further, until he landed somewhere that smelt of dragon.
He looked around, to get his bearing: he was in the Dragon Pit again, rebuilt but hauntingly empty. A crowd of old men surrounded a pitiful little dragon, barely older than a hatchling. Its scales looked like they had a number missing, flesh revealed amid emerald green, and its wings were malformed. The creature had thick chains around its neck, and the men had chains around their necks as well. They were nursing the dragon with a strange potion. The poor thing let out a weak, terribly small cry. They shoved a funnel down its throat and continued to pour the green toxin down.
He turned away from that sad sight, only to find a worse one. He stood at the bottom of a pyramid that looked to be a solid piece of stone, atop which he could see a figure stabbing another, smearing a black obelisk with the blood, and stars fell from the sky, red and fiery, and began to crash into the city surrounding the pyramid. Daemon felt the heat, glorious and horrifying, and saw above one heading directly for him.