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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.

Chapter Text

He awoke with a sudden jump, sitting up quickly. He heard a startled shout as he realized he was back in that room, in… Dorne, yes. Aemon stood at the foot of his bed, hands resting upon the pommel of Dark Sister, the pose reminding Daemon of himself. There was another to his right, some Maester, who seemed to have been the one to shout. The man was thin in the face, bald, and with the telltale robes and chain of a maester.

“Your Grace, you’ve awoken! Prince Aemon had told me you had a fainting spell. Tell me, my king, do you feel better?” The maester asked, a bit too loudly for Daemon.

Daemon could only stare for a moment. Right, he was clearly the king of… wherever or whenever this was. That other knight, Ser Olyvar, stood behind the maester, as well as a couple pimpled assistants fiddling with some sort of collection of herbs.

“Everyone but Aemon, out.” He tried to give his voice as much authority as he could. He sounded young, but it seemed the boy king’s authority was respected as the maester and knight and assistants quickly left.

“ Are you better, Daeron? ” Aemon moved from the foot of the bed, concern plain on his face.

“ You are right, I have Dreamed. ” Daemon replied. “ I have been shown how the Last Dragon died. Who had bonded with it? ”

“ She was Elaena’s cradle dragon. She never was given a name. ” Aemon looked morose, but Daemon had to press on.

“ Who is Elaena? ” Apparently this was the wrong question.

“ Your sister, her eighth nameday is next moon. ” Replied Aemon. “ Are you certain you are well, Daeron? ”

Gods, they really did just throw him headfirst into this. Should he try to convince Aemon that he is this Daeron? Was that even possible, given he has essentially no knowledge of his life? If he must trust Aemon, then…

“ I am afraid you may not believe me. If I have dreamed, then I dreamed an entire life, lived an entire life. I do not remember anything of this life. ” 

Aemon took a moment to respond, and then said “ What was your life? ”

Daemon got out of bed, walking over to a small bookshelf he hadn’t noticed in his rush before. “ I was Daemon Targaryen, son of Baelon Targaryen, King-Consort to Rhaenyra, husband to Laena Velaryon. I was a son, and a brother, and an uncle. I had two daughters with Laena, and a son that killed her. I had two sons with Rhaenyra, and a daughter who never lived. I was the marriage-father of three more boys. I believe they’re all dead. ” He felt tears coming to his eyes. Gods, it truly was all gone. Rhaenyra, and little Joffrey, and that whoreson Aegon probably killed the rest of his family too.

“ Daeron, you saw Grandsire Daemon’s whole life? You rode the Blood Wyrm? ” He could tell there was excitement in the knight’s voice. Wait, what did he mean by grandsire? Daemon stared at the knight for a long moment.

“ Whose son are you? ” Daemon nearly spat, frozen in place with rage. “ Did Aegon touch my daughters? ” He would kill him, a thousand times, destiny be damned to the coldest hell.

“ My father is Viserys, son of Daemon and Rhaenyra, and your Hand. ” Aemon leaned down a little, as if he was unsure of what he saw. “ You really don’t remember who you are? ”

“ I’m telling you, I AM DAEMON! ” He took the few steps it took to get in the insolent boy’s face. Gods be damned, a thousand times, frozen in the deepest fucking hell.

Aemon backed off, and then asked, “ If you are Daemon, where is Daeron? ” 

As if he had an answer for that. Daemon gave out a deep sigh. “ I do not know. With the ancestors, perhaps. They said he was going to throw his life away, fighting in a desert. We’re in Dorne, right? Maybe he was to die here. The ancestors put me here, whether it is punishment or not I don’t know. Where Daeron is, I can’t say either. With them, I assume. ”

Aemon did not respond.

“ Whose son am I, then? ”

“ You are son of Aegon, Third of His Name. The bloodline of Aegon the Elder died with Princess Jaehaera, when she threw herself off of Maegor’s Holdfast like her mother. ” Aemon had become quieter as he went on.

Daemon considered it for a moment. Gods, it truly was-

“ Viserys died. I know he died. ” 

“ He was believed dead for some time, yes, but he had been kept as a guest in Lys. He returned some time in the early reign of your father- or, your son. King Aegon. ”

His boy had lived. They both lived. For the first time since he saw the ancestors Daemon felt the terrible cold melt, just a little.

“ Gods be praised. ” He said, “ Who else survived the war? ”

Aemon explained that by the end it was just Aegon, Viserys, Baela, and Rhaena. Aegon married Jaehaera as a child, and then married Daenaera Velaryon, a distant cousin of Corlys’ line. Viserys had married Larra Rogare, a Lysene woman of a patrician house. Baela married Alyn Velaryon, and Rhaena married first Corwyn Corbray and then a Hightower. 

His blood boiled a bit near the end, but at least they had lived. Except…

“ How did Aegon die? ” He asked quietly.

“ Some would say he had not lived since the day his mother died ,” replied Aemon, with a grimace. “ In the end, consumption. ”

Well, there it was. The only survivors of House Targaryen, his children, and he hadn’t been there for them. He ruffled his hair, thinking.

“ So I am king? ” He asked.

“ Yes, for a little over a year now. ” Aemon replied. “ Daeron has no regent. Father had felt that the last thing the realm needed was another regency after the catastrophes of Aegon’s early reign. ” 

Daemon had taken to sifting through the belongings of the room that had been his grandson’s.

“ Why are we in Dorne? Some sort of diplomatic mission? ” 

Aemon let out a little laugh. “ No, we’re here in conquest. Daeron, Alyn Oakenfist, and Lord Tyrell made short work of it. Here, ” Aemon reached into another chest, pulling out a book, “ In Daeron’s own words. ”

It was a slender codex, without a proper cover. A good start, at least, to understand the time he was in.

“ Who else am I expected to know? ” Asked Daemon.

“ You would do better with those you should not know. ” Replied Aemon, half in jest. “ Perhaps I should simply shadow you, you can ask me who people are in Valyrian. Maester Alford doesn’t know it, and my brother is still in Vaith with his command. ”

He spent the next couple of hours discussing whom he ought to know, and skimming the account of the conquest. Lyonel Tyrell, the Lord Paramount of the Mander, Lord Marshal of the Reach, Warden of the South, etc. who seemed to have supplied a third of the forces in the invasion, and gods knew how much of the actual food supply of the army. Rickon Stark, heir to Winterfell, led a detachment of a few thousand Northerners and had been a part of Daeron’s staff since the beginning of the war. Alyn Velaryon, Lord of Driftmark, Master of Ships, etc. who it seemed had provided a naval invasion force. Maester Alford, the replacement for the old Maester Munkun who it seemed was disfavored by Aegon the Younger. Prince Aegon, Aemon’s older brother, who was in Vaith gathering the Dornish lords who were making their way to Sunspear to swear fealty. His other kingsguard in Dorne, Olyvar Oakheart, a loyal man. I’ve been dead for near thirty years, he thought.

However, there was a problem.

“ What do you mean Prince Mors and the entire Martell family are in the dungeon? ” 

Aemon gave him a sheepish look. “ Daeron decided it, on advice from Lord Tyrell. I told him it was a foolish idea, but he didn’t care to hear differently. ”

Daemon shook his head incredulously. “ No wonder this boy was killed. Did he think the Conqueror kept the Lannisters or the Arryns in a cell after they bent the knee? This is not a peace. How long has it been that they’ve been down there? ”

“ Only yesterday, Lord Tyrell had them put down there. I believe Daeron may have promised that he would control Dorne, somehow .”

Gods, this was a mess. The Dornish nobility would never submit if they saw their prince in chains. The sun had gone from the early to late morning, well past the time to break his fast. He made his way to what must be the Martell solar, where he saw a young man in green with short brown hair and a trimmed beard of the same- presumably Lord Tyrell. Another man, about the same age, stood talking with him at one end of the solar. He had the wild braided beard of a Northerner, and the dark hair of a Stark, though he did not wear the typical furs one expected when meeting a Northern lord. Inclement for heat, must be. 

“Good morrow, my lords.” Daemon addressed them. They sat at the end of an oaken table, carved with the Martell sun and spear. The solar itself was awash in sunlight, with tall windows on every side, and bright tapestries of presumably the ancestors of House Martell. A room built for pleasure, not war. “I hope my delay was not a hinderance, I felt unwell when I woke this morn.”

Daemon moved forward, taking the head seat at one end of the table. A servant quickly rushed forward, though speaking from behind Ser Olyvar, quietly asking what his pleasure was for the morn. Daemon had always wanted to try a Dornish fish, so he sent for that and some bread, and a good Dornish red to wash it down. Gods, he missed their reds. The two lords left their previous post and came to sit with him, Tyrell on the left bench and Stark on the right.

Rickon had a grin on his face. “With how much of Martell’s wine we drank last night, I’ve no doubt you felt unwell, my king.” He let out a chuckle. Clearly he was close with Daeron, or at least friendly, that’s good.

“There was no business quite so urgent, Your Grace.” Tyrell said. “No escapes, no word of any new rebellion. The maester at Vaith has sent word Prince Aegon has begun to travel with the lords and hostages. All has gone as we planned.” He looked rather pleased with himself. After all, he thought he was to be lord of this land.

“Lord Tyrell, remind me, why did we imprison Prince Mors and his family?” Daemon knew the answer but it would do to see if he could justify it.

“Your Grace, Lord Martell must be secured. If he were to escape, rebellion would surely bloom anew.” Tyrell narrowed his eyes, clearly beginning to suspect something was wrong. “I thought we were agreed on this matter, my king.”

The servant returned with food, presenting it to Ser Olyvar, who tasted of both the fish and bread. He made a sound, causing Daemon and Aemon to turn to him in alarm, only for him to wave them away, giving a “Tis spiced” through his half full mouth.

“Lord Tyrell, I have… reconsidered the matter. I think it would look ill upon us to keep a man who’s bent the knee in the dungeon of his own keep. I would at once like for him and his family to be brought back to their apartments, under guard of course.”

Tyrell’s eyes bulged at this. He leaned forward, whispering, “I had thought we agreed, Sunspear would be mine?”

Daemon turned to Stark. “Lord of Stark, see my order carried out, at once.” Rickon stood and bowed, giving an “At once, Your Grace” and leaving to wherever the dungeons were.

At this point, Ser Olyvar leaned forward to tell Daemon that he felt well, and the servant was allowed to place the dish before him. The fish, he was not certain what kind, was drowned in a brown sauce that had an intense fire in it. Oakheart wasn’t lying when he said this hot, but by the gods Daemon loved it. All he’d had to eat of late was the utterly dull porridge and peas that served for Harrenhal feasting.

Daemon turned his attention back to Lord Tyrell. “My Lord,” He said, “I have considered that as well. You have done the crown a great service, and fulfilled your lawful obligations as my vassal. It would not do for you to be stuck down here under the blasted sun and desert and mountain for years, if not more. I would have you come with me, to the capital, and sit upon my council. Believe me, you shall profit much more there than here.”

Daemon could see the sweat on the man’s face, even now. Andals never did well in the high heats of deep summer. The greatest folly of the Reach and the Stormlands was to believe they could defeat Dorne’s heat. They had beaten Dorne’s men, but never Dorne’s heat. 

“I admit, I have found the clime brutal, but I do not understand-“

Prince Mors came through the door on the other side of the solar, with Stark following close behind. Daemon tried to smile reassuringly but then was drawn to a glinting light around the Prince’s wrist.

“Take those irons off of him, immediately!” Daemon stood, pointing directly at Stark. The man seemed surprised, but complied. The Prince was an older man, black hair graying, thin, and boney. He rubbed his wrists as he came forward, a regal look to his weathered face. 

“Your Grace is so kind as to not chain me in my own solar.” The man said, accent dripping in sarcasm.

“You must forgive me, Prince Mors, my vassals were perhaps overzealous in following my instruction that you be guarded.”

He turned to Tyrell. “Lord Tyrell, mayhaps you could find Maester Alford. I would like him to be at service to Prince Martell’s family. Oh, and perhaps an accounting of the army, I would like to know the current situation.”

Lord Tyrell looked at him for a time, before standing, bowing, and taking his leave. Good, at the very least he takes orders.

“Please, Excellency, sit with me.” Daemon gestured to the seat to his right. Mors looked skeptical for a moment but took the place at the bench offered.

“I have had a change of heart as to the nature of our reconciliation. First, I must ask, have you or any of your family been harmed?”

This made Martell raise an eyebrow. “Only that we have been put in our own dungeon. My son still recovers from his battle wounds but our maester believes he will survive.” 

Damn, bad fortune all around. Daemon looked over his shoulder, to Aemon, standing close.

“ Who injured him? ” He asked in High Valyrian.

“ The kingsguard of my older brother, in a battle late in the war. Ser Stephas Waters. ”

Daemon nodded. “My apologies, Excellency, for all of this unpleasantness. I had hoped… well, it matters not now.” Perhaps he could play the part of the young knight, becoming disillusioned from facing war. “I would treat with you, Excellency. There is no need for us to have any more grievance than exists between myself and Lord Lannister.”

“I do not see how that is possible, Your Grace, if you hold my principality with force of arms.” 

Daemon nodded. “That would make it impossible, yes. That is why I wish for you to be treated the same as my ancestor the Conqueror treated those who bent the knee. I would of course require you and your vassals swear yourselves to the Iron Throne, but the particulars of your vassalage are something we could discuss.”

They haggled, briefly. Prince Mors wanted recompense for the keeps that had been razed in the borderlands, Daemon counteroffered to pay the ransoms of any noblemen taken prisoner in battle. Daemon offered Mors retain his princely title, and in exchange pay a tithe to the Throne. Mors accepted upon the condition that one of Daeron’s sisters marry one of his sons.

“Now that, we will have a problem with,” said Daemon, “You know it is not the custom of House Targaryen to marry outside of the House, especially the women. The only house to have that privilege is Velaryon-“

Aemon interrupted from behind him with a cough. “ Aegon wed a Velaryon, but as I said my father married a Lysene noblewoman, from the Rogare family. ”

Gods, these people certainly made interesting choices. “ Your mother? ”

Aemon nodded.

“ And are the Rogares now landed somewhere in the Crownlands? ”

Aemon’s expression was difficult to place. “ They went bankrupt in Lys, before I was born. My uncles left, and Mother left shortly after my sister was born. She’s dead now, the rest of them are likely the same. ”

Ah, perhaps a sore subject. “ Sorry. ” All the regrets and could-have-beens of another life had to be pushed aside.

“Forgive me, Prince Mors, my cousin reminds me of a recent exception. Still, I am afraid that I could not allow that particular sort of marriage.” Daemon, paused for a moment. “ Aemon, I and my siblings are not betrothed, I presume? ”

Aemon nodded.

“Do you have a daughter, Excellency?” Daemon asked.

“Two, Your Grace,” Replied the Prince, “the eldest is twelve, Myriah.”

“Ah, very good. Will her betrothal to my brother be acceptable?” 

The Prince was silent for a long time, but eventually nodded. 

Apparently, the room Daemon had awoken in was in the family apartments of the palace. At the very least what I threw on was Daeron’s and not the Martells’, the boy was courteous enough to not steal their clothes. Daemon had the rest of the Martells returned to their rooms, though under guard, and left Stark in charge. If Rickon was truly Cregan’s son he’d keep a damn oath to not abuse them.

The rest of the day was spent familiarizing himself with the effects of the boy king as he had them moved to the king’s tent outside the walls of Sunspear. Daeron had a set of truly gaudy armor, gold and black steel, with a golden three-headed dragon on the chest, and dragon heads on each shoulder: Daemon loved it. Though, perhaps he would have preferred red gold than pure, it was too close to the Usurper’s golden dragons.

Lord Tyrell represented that the army was around 50,000 men, and seeing the war camp Daemon believed him. The tents of the army stretched as far as Daemon could see from the walls of Sunspear, and that was with several thousand within the castle itself. He eventually left the keep, some time after sunset, and made his way to the tent which his grandson had lived in throughout the war. It was comfortable, but modest for a king. The canvas was a bright white, while the inside was covered in black and gold. Besides a bed and some chests, there was a table and map of Dorne, a collection of knives, several cushioned chairs, a mirror that looked of Myrrish make, and a small devotional shrine to the Seven.

There was no proper way to honor the dead there. Daemon knew, at the very least, he would not honor them before the foreign gods, those gods that witch Alicent had poured into his brother’s head. So he took what he could, taking a strip of black cloth and a candle, and made his way out of the camp. He eventually found a spot by a cliff near the water that no-one had dared set their tent near. Aemon insisted on going along, and so he was the sole witness of Daemon’s crude funerary rite. He covered his head, lit the candle, and quietly gave the honors due to the dead. Joffrey. Rhaenyra. Caraxes. Aegon. All dead, and it was his fault. Daemon watched with wet eyes while the candle burned to its base, and the Moon and stars shifted, and the flame died.

Chapter Text

Daemon never felt more at home than when he was at the head of an army, with perhaps the exception of Dragonstone. While an encampment was not quite the same, it helped to have a distraction from dark dreams and omens which seemed to haunt him. Daemon had spent the past two days with some Northerners whose greatest joy, it seemed, was to sing about the Bear and the Maiden Fair from dusk til dawn, and often the rest of the day as well. They were a jolly bunch, and needed little convincing to drop the formalities with their king before returning to their revelry. It was a trait Daemon had always admired about Northerners, they were a very direct people. 

And so, Daemon had drank and sung and become a great amusement to the soldiers, even drunkenly stumbling through an ad hoc translation of a Valyrian ballad he remembered. It didn’t rhyme, but nobody cared. Aemon, conversely, had been a terrible stick in the mud, and steadfastly refused to inebriate himself. Daemon was grateful for it when he had to stumble back to his tent in the dark, leaning to and fro. Aemon kept him from falling once or twice, until he fell into his own cot, having somehow gotten back to his pavilion.

Daemon fell asleep, but he did not rest. He spent the night repeating over and over the horrible visions he’d seen. Rhaenyra in a shroud of flames, Joffrey falling under pale moon, that little dragon drowning in poison. And then began a new vision: Caraxes, broken and bloody, dragging himself up onto the shores of the Gods Eye, black blood boiling the lake. 

Daemon tried to take Caraxes’ head in his arms though he could really only take the side; he tried to soothe the dragon, his brother-by-soul. He could feel in his soul the torn wing, shattered ribs, the bloody punctures slowly saturating the shore, boiling the waters. His hand shook as he brushed his palm against the ridge above his poor brother’s eye, willing him to stay even as he crossed the threshold. Eventually the fire faded from Caraxes' eyes, and the breath left him, and he was gone. Daemon stayed there for as long as he could bear it, holding his face against Caraxes, his palm still brushing the side of the dragon’s face, feeling the warm flesh cool.

Eventually, a voice called him away. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Reluctantly, he relinquished his hold on Caraxes, and followed the call. He went along a path that eventually fell into the earth, becoming a valley, twisting leftwards as he went. Eventually the path rose again, and Daemon stood out on a mountaintop. He was on a large island, but not so large that he could not see the waters on all sides. There was a tall castle a few leagues away, and open meadows with grazing sheep and goats. What struck him most was the water itself, a deep blue bolder than the Blackwater. Daemon began to suspect where he was, but it was confirmed when he saw who had called him: his own Uncle Aemon. The island he’d died on… Tarth. Daemon remembered flying past, once or twice.

“Is it really you, Uncle?” Daemon called. He looked how Daemon remembered him, hair paler than bleached bone, almost translucent, a strong frame, a sharp face. He looked the very picture of Targaryen knighthood, and yet he had a mournful expression the more Daemon looked at him.

“Why did you do it, Daemon?” He asked, quietly.

“Did what, Uncle?” Daemon replied.

“You killed my Rhaenys, my only daughter. You left her on Dragonstone, alone, to guard your wife and your children. She faced Vhagar alone. She died alone.” Aemon was almost whispering as he spoke.

“How could I have known she would do a fool thing like facing the Kinslayer?” Daemon denied.

“You killed my Laena. I never held her, but she was mine own blood, in the womb when I died;  my only granddaughter, who the gods gave my brother’s dragon. You put a son in her, and he killed her, just like your brother’s son killed his poor wife. You didn’t even give the boy a name. Did my daughter’s grandson mean so little to you?” Aemon was turned away from him.

“How was I to know that…” Daemon tried to answer.

“You killed my Laenor. My blood, my only grandson, who should have been king. First you stole his crown, then you stole his life, and then you stole his wife.” Uncle Aemon paused. “What did I do to earn your enmity, Daemon? Did I not love your father? Did I not love you and Viserys as if you were mine own sons? Did I not leave you my Caraxes, my brother-by-soul, who never once failed you?”

His uncle began to walk away. “I can’t forgive you this time, Daemon.”

Daemon tried to follow, but found the faster he walked the farther his uncle was away, until he was full on running and Aemon was a mile off, getting onto Caraxes, younger, perhaps half the size he was on the shores of the Gods Eye. His uncle flew off, down to a meadow where there were armored mercenaries where there had once been sheep. Aemon was on foot again, all the way down at the bottom of the mountain. Daemon was running, desperately, as he saw one of the men raise a crossbow, and fire right into his uncle’s neck.

Daemon stood in shock, as his uncle fell all so far away, and now so near, blood flowing as wide as a river into the waters. The seawind became replaced with smoke, and the bright ocean with dark canvas, and gradually Daemon could hear shouting.

“-ron! Daeron, get up!” It was the other Aemon, the new Aemon, his… cousin, now.

Daemon stumbled out of his cot, falling into the dirt before scrambling up. Aemon and Ser Olyvar were standing by the open flap of the pavilion, illuminated by an orange glow.

Daemon was, by the grace of the gods, fully clothed, and so he nearly ran to the opening, only to be stopped suddenly by Aemon’s hand.

“Stay by us . Please.” He said.

The night was still dark, but there was enough moonlight to see well across the camp, and to the silhouette of Sunspear. Daemon could hear loud sept bells ringing, and the roaring of a crowd of men, and distantly, screaming. In the windows of Sunspear, he saw the cause of the commotion. Roaring fire, bright as a beacon in the low light, seemingly inside half the castle. The smell of smoke began to drift over, stronger now, and the smell of burning flesh.

Daemon did not sleep again that night.

When the sun finally broke, the fire had died. Sunspear stood unbowed, unbent, unbroken, but not unburnt. The dawn’s light revealed hideously charred stone, a scar covering half the castle’s towers. Smoke still rose from the shadow city, but it seemed that the fire had already burned through what it was able. It reminded him of Harrenhal, though fortunately it seemed the fire was not intense enough to actually damage the stone. Daemon had taken a seat on a hill that gave a commanding view of the ruined castle, which became an impromptu assembly of most of the important lords and knights of the army. Daemon had refrained from speaking much, allowing the lords to panic among themselves. Perhaps an hour after the dawn, a Stark man finally came with the news.

“The Dornish King’s dead, yer Grace, m’lords.” A gruff graybeard announced.

Martell’s son had been found dead before dawn, caught in the fire, presumably immobile from his wounds. They’d dragged a few dozen people from the fires in the meantime, perhaps a half dozen would live. The maesters were unhelpfully vague, but Daemon had seen enough men burned living to know when one was done for.

Daemon’s council was a grim lot. Half were Reachmen, most of the other half from the Crownlands, and a few houses sat here and there that seemed to have taken a special interest in the war. Lord Tyrell sat at Daemon’s right, looking trimmed as ever despite the lack of sleep apparent on his face. After him sat, amusingly enough, a Beesbury and a Tarly. Beesbury looked middle aged, and Tarly a bit older, with the former being thin and the latter fat. Ironic, given what he recalled of his brother’s plump Lord Beesbury, of the famous defenestration. Daemon had remembered the pair of them the second they were introduced: the Two Alans. They fought against the Hightowers, at some point: captured, but still, loyal men. 

After the Two Alans was a truly ancient looking man, tunic emblazoned with orange and three black castles. Apparently the traitor bastard Lord Peake who had marched with the Hightowers still drew breath. Daemon was already predisposed to disliking him, an instinct which became intensified after hearing that, though nobody could quite remember what he’d done, he was once Hand to Aegon the Younger, and had tried to seize power… somehow. The men he’d heard it from disagreed on the details, but each story held the same theme. Seeing the man in the flesh, grayed hair near white and flicking, plotting eyes, Daemon felt secure in imagining how he would style the man’s death warrant.

After Peake was a rather young lordling, who could not have been older than twenty. A Florent, it seemed, though Daemon could not find it in himself to recall the name. Standing behind the seated lords were various landed knights, though none so important that anyone bothered Daemon with their names. One wore a checkered lion, one with silver balls on a red chevron, another with a black cross, and one with a field of white hands on green. It went on and on. Peacocks, the lot of them, each wearing ridiculous plumage and hats that looked much too rich for mere knights. 

To Daemon’s left, thankfully, sat the austere Lord Stark. He seemed to have made it his mission to reinforce the reputation of the Starks being as cold as the winter they always warned of. He’d been sat at Daemon’s side for probably the longest out of all of them, and hadn’t spoken more than ten words. He just kept staring at the smoldering castle, occasionally leaning back to speak to one of his bannermen, to send them this way and that. Still, Daemon would rather a stoic oathkeeper than a jolly traitor.

After Stark was Alyn Oakenfist, who would have garnered greater interest from Daemon if they weren’t watching the prize of the war burn in front of them. The bastard boy Rhaenyra had legitimized who thought he was worthy of Baela. Daemon had never met him… before… but he had to admit he could see the resemblance. He had a way of sitting, perhaps, that reminded him of Corlys, and the war in the Stepstones, two lifetimes away now. Perhaps every sailor learns to sit that way. Maybe it was something in the jaw, vaguely reminiscent of Corlys. And of course there was no mistaking the purple eyes of a Valyrian.

After was a row of Crownlanders, to Daemon’s dismay. Rosby and Stokeworth led the pack, as usual, Lord Darklyn and his vassal Ser Hollard, gods, even the Brunes and the Bar Emmons were here. Truly a who’s who of all the fools and traitors who handed his wife over to the Usurper. Behind them stood a small army of landed knights, poorer in dress though not in spirit. Half of them couldn’t even afford to have anything emblazoned with a coat of arms, some in unadorned armor and others in unadorned tunics. Given the number who actually did have coats of arms that he didn’t recognize, there must have been some turnover after the Dance. Good, serves the bastards right, Daemon thought.

The long silence was finally broken by Lord Tyrell.

“My king,” he said, “I must admit, I am shocked beyond words. This fire must be the work of the rebel Dornish, Your Grace. The very chamber that had been designated as the King’s Residence in Sunspear has been completely destroyed. If Your Grace had not been favored by the Seven in his intuition to take leave of the castle, by the guiding hand of the Father Above, it would be you who would have burned to death in the place of Mors Martell and his son.” Tyrell paused for a moment, and then continued, “I would propose that instruction be sent to King’s Landing for a day of pious fasting, in thanks for the providential favor that has been bestowed upon you, my king.”

“Perhaps you are right, my lord.” Daemon paused for effect, before turning to where one of Alford’s assistants stood. “Be a good lad and fetch your Maester.” 

“Ah, yes, the rebel Dornish, surely, Your Grace.” Unwin Peake added after the boy ran off, his hands worrying over a flap of his laced over jacket. “We should have the lot beheaded, of course. For treason, and murder.”

“Yes, of course, my lord. Perhaps you would tell me which rebel Dornishmen you have so boldly intuited are to lose their heads?” Daemon replied.

Peake took a moment, and replied, “We would have to uncover the rebel conspiracy first, Your Grace.” He paused again. “I would of course never offer counsel without-”

“You will stand when addressing your king.” Daemon interrupted him.

Peake’s face was better illuminated when he stood, and a redness soon developed. “As I said, Your Grace, I would never offer counsel without good reason.”

Daemon turned to Rickon next to him. “My Lord of Stark, do you recall who was the liege lord of the men guarding the wing of Sunspear which held the apartments of House Martell last night?”

Lord Stark began to stand but Daemon waved him back down. He briefly looked confused, and then answered in a cautious tone, “Men belonging to Lord Peake, Your Grace.”

Daemon nodded dramatically, allowing the moment to spread to the assembled lords. “Men belonging to Lord Peake, you say? How curious, the very lord who has just now made such outlandish proposals without even the identities of the perpetrators of this act.”

“Your Grace I must protest, the fire started-”

“Your Grace,” Alyn stood, cutting Peake off, “surely you do not mean to implicate Lord Peake in such a horrific act.”

Daemon looked at him, before shrugging. “I do not imply anything, I am simply making conversation with my most good and loyal vassals.”

“I beg you, my king, do not-”

“If you are begging before your king, you should do so on your knees.”

The silence was thrilling. Peake looked a combination of outraged, embarrassed, and terrified. After a moment, he dropped to his knees, and repeated his protestations and begging. Daemon rose from his seat, extremely pleased when the lords jumped out of their chairs in turn, as if they were aflame. He took the few steps to where Lord Peake kneeled in the dirt, Aemon and Ser Olyvar close behind, and let the bastard squirm for a moment. 

He put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and said, “My lord, surely, you do not take me for a king who would punish a leal vassal of my good friend, the High Marshal of the Reach? And over a baseless suspicion no less?”

The man’s shoulders crumpled, just a little, to Daemon’s immense satisfaction.

“In fact, my lord, I share your suspicions. That is why I shall charge Lord Stark with bringing me the rebel who set this fire.” Daemon looked over to the Stark in question, who bowed at the neck in acknowledgement.

Just then, Alford finally arrived, seemingly out of breath. 

“Ah, my good maester, at last. Lord Tyrell has given me a wonderful idea, if you have a raven that could be sent to my uncle the Lord Hand at-”

Alford coughed, loudly. “Your Grace, if I may?” He indicated he would approach. Daemon waved his consent, the maester cupping his mouth to whisper into his ear, quiet as death.

“We have identified the Princess Myriah. She is breathing.”

Chapter Text

Chased by dark dreams and shadows of the dead, Daemon spent most of his time aboard the Queen Daenaera on deck, staring at the horizon at the fleeting images of his failures. The Stepstones, the Dornish Marches, Tarth, Storm’s End, a parade of regrets and damnations. The smoldering ruins of Sunspear, however, were even more depressing, and better left in the hands of his now-cousin, Aegon, and Stark, and Tyrell. 

Daemon had coveted Blackfyre for most of his life, but it was perhaps not the opportunity he would have liked to first be holding it, that day he had received the Dornish nobility. Given the situation in Sunspear proper, he had held court on an open field outside of the walls of the shadow city, where his men made an earthen platform for his throne to be put upon. It wasn’t a throne, technically, as it was a foldable curule seat, but it was close enough. There, they bent the knee, and saw Princess Myriah, veiled in black though she was, silently weeping.

Prince Aegon, as much as the name summoned a black hatred deep in Daemon’s heart, was a charismatic enough fellow. He was but a year elder to Aemon, who in turn was seven years Daeron (and now Daemon)’s elder. Still, he was clearly in the wild years of youth, the madness that had led to Old Valyria to forbid any man under twenty five from holding any office of import. On three different nights Daemon noticed Aegon leaving from three different tents, obviously disheveled. He would reprimand the insolence of the boy to so brazenly and disloyally pursue the affections of the noble ladies, but he really couldn’t force himself to do it. Daemon remembered when he was twenty three, wild and violent, sewing bastards one night and beheading murders the next: Aegon’s behavior was hardly worse.

Regardless, the state of the Dornish nobles come to pay him homage was decent enough. They retained their dignity, with even the lesser lords of Dorne bringing along a standard bearer, bright silk banners marking each proud family as they bent the knee.  Prince Aegon had seemingly endeared himself to them, enough that he spent the better part of the nights in the camp partying with them, and they didn’t complain about his other nights spent there either. After receiving them on their arrival, Daemon merely watched them from his little shrine, a ways away, praying to the dead and for the dead.

Now, that unhappy place was behind him. Daemon handed the unenviable post of regent for Princess Myriah to Lord Tyrell, while taking the Princess herself out of the country. He left Stark to search for some lords to hang, and set out by ship to see what remained of the Targaryens. Prince Aegon graciously volunteered to remain in Dorne for a time, to support Tyrell, and to that Daemon had no objection: the longer he and Aemon were the only ones who could understand High Valyrian, the longer he could rely on Aemon’s knowledge of all those he was to know. 

Dragonstone was smelt before it was seen. As Daemon remembered, the isle stank of sulfur and smoke and salt, even miles out, but something was missing. 

“ I never thought that I would miss the smell of rotting whale. ” He said to Aemon.

“ Whale? ” Aemon asked.

“ How do you think the dozen dragons that roosted here fed themselves?” Daemon replied, “ Do you see any pastures? ” He gestured to the barren volcanic landscape that dominated the southern face of the isle. 

“There are pastures on the other side of the Dragonmont, ” Aemon rebutted, “ enough to see the whole household fed with mutton, when we spent time here. ”

“ It’s one thing to feed men, and another entirely to feed dragons. Near every lord in Crackclaw Point maintained himself raising sheep and goats to send to Dragonstone.” Daemon paused for a moment, now set to wondering what exactly those lords would have done during this dearth of dragons. “ Of course, that was just to feed the exceptionally young, old, or sloth of the dragons. The rest feasted on the open seas. You’d be surprised what beasts they managed to drag from the depths. ”

While Aemon seemed to ponder that, Daemon went below decks to finish packing the few belongings he deemed of importance enough to take onto Dragonstone for the brief stop before continuing on towards King’s Landing. He would have ordered Alyn Velaryon to bring them to Driftmark first, to see his Baela, but she was away visiting her sister in Oldtown. So, the closest Daemon had was Viserys, the one child of his body he had truly thought dead. He felt nervous in a way he hadn’t since returning from the Stepstones, years past, unsure of his welcome, or his station. To have to call his own son kepa alone was bizarre.

The only things of importance to Daemon were Blackfyre, Aegon’s Crown, and the little devotional shrine he had put together after subtly abandoning Daeron’s old personal shrine to the Seven. Daemon’s shrine had none of the glittering glass figures of the Seven, rather, his was a simple low board, for want of a proper altar, that comprised of fourteen candles, the cloth he would wear over his head to pray, and some crude devotionals, little wooden tablets he had carved the traditional prayers into in Valyrian glyphs. 

He had spent every night of the past few weeks at sea praying at the shrine, but nothing would come. All he could muster were the same nightmares of the visions granted by the ancestors, a cruel gift to see his wife die screaming every night. There was no further advice, no chastisements, merely death and horror. So, Daemon had decided he would exclusively pursue his own desires, chief among them being to see his children safe, and let the Great Other take all else.

Approaching Dragonstone on boat was a strange feeling. Even before he had Caraxes, whenever Daemon was brought to and from the island it had been with his father upon Vhagar, or in his most distant memory, upon Meleys with his mother. He had never seen the island’s main port from the water. It looked a bit pathetic, really, the low huts camping between the edge of the Blackwater and the outer curtain wall of the castle, that Daemon was determinedly not looking up towards. The only buildings that looked like they even could have a second floor were the public house right by the docks, and the sept further away. The light of the setting sun gave them an orange look, almost bloody, and silhouetted the gargoyles and dragons and demons that stared down from atop the walls of Dragonstone. 

Daemon was surprised when he had managed to walk from the boat to the first gate of the castle, and not a single one of the smallfolk had come forward to ask for a blessing. They had bowed respectfully enough, but he had never in his life walked through a crowd of smallfolk without someone calling out for health to a sick babe, or safepassage for a journey, or a blessing upon their farm or workshop or wherever else. 

“ Why did none of them ask to be blessed? ” He asked Aemon, “ Were they instructed not to? ”

“ Why would they ask to be blessed? ” Aemon returned.

“ The smallfolk always want for something, that’s what makes them small.”

Aemon seemed utterly baffled, and so Daemon gave up and continued up through the gates of the castle, up the steps of the Stone Drum, to the royal apartments just below the chamber of the Painted Table. Each door held the threat of a memory that would tear his soul apart, and he pointedly refused to look at a single one of them until he reached the door. As he slowly let the door open, he saw that his and Rhaenyra’s marriagebed was where it had been when he had left. His heart clutched, in grief or joy he could not say, to see the room more or less how he remembered it, that night he had left for Harrenhal. It was not the last time he had seen Rhaenyra, but it was the end of their years of fantasy spent on the isle, when it had felt like nothing mattered but each other and the children. 

And what stupid, foolish joy it had been. While the wolves circled, Daemon willed himself to be blind, forcing himself to believe his brother knew what he was doing. Foolishly believing that even if the worst came, they could go to live in Pentos as he had with Laena. But his brother was weak, his nephews were traitors, his niece was headstrong, and even Daemon himself was too prideful to bow out when the gauntlet was thrown. His brother made a corpse living… he could feel the dark hate, even now, even after putting Dark Sister through the Kinslayer’s eye. 

Aemon had told him that there was very little changed on the isle in the near thirty years since he had left atop Caraxes, but to his eyes nothing was quite right. On account of his mother’s death on the isle, Aegon III had never returned to Dragonstone, and Daeron had not been old enough to take up his place as ruling Prince of Dragonstone before his father died. Aemon mentioned that Viserys had taken them to the island a few times, but none had slept in the chamber reserved for the reigning King or Prince of Dragonstone. Daemon would be the first king to sleep in the keep for more than twenty years. He had sent Aemon away to find a suitable room for himself, while Ser Olyvar took the first watch of the night at the king’s door.

For his part, Daemon had done just as he had near every night since died and lived again, setting up a small shrine and offering what he could to the dead. He had sent one of his servants to find the proper instruments, the intricately woven prayer-cowl and the family devotionals, things of rare beauty carved into rock and obsidian from the depths of the Fourteen Flames, but none had returned. Finding himself too tired to wait for them to be delivered, he gave a silent prayer for dreamless sleep and collapsed onto his own old bed.

Daemon awoke with a fire in his chest, the vague pains and sorrows that had acted as crushing weight upon his resolve burnt away in brilliant light. He practically jumped out of bed, without even a thought, while in his heart away pounded blood that drove the drums of the ancient and holy songs of the dragonbond. Caraxes was alive, and Caraxes was near!

He burst out the door in his nightclothes, having barely had the patience to strap on his boots. Ser Olyvar called after him, and then gave chase, as Daemon ran like a madman through the Stone Drum, past the Great Hall, and out the gate at the Windwyrm, running along the treacherous stone path up the Dragonmont. And all the while, he sang a jubilant and idiotic song he hadn’t sung since he was a fool boy chasing his older brother across the Red Keep.

I knew that man, Gaerimon his name,

Of widest girth and wisdom famed,

He fell from the sky on that bright day,

His dragon flew above and said:

“The Archon gave ten sheep to me,

From each of mine five you’ve eaten three

Fat Gaer’mon, if ‘twere up to me

I’d see you fall far into the sea”

The dragon caught her Gaerimon still,

‘Tis not in dragon just to kill,

From that day rider and dragon ‘greed

On the same flock they never shall feed.

Guided by moonlight along the stones and dirt path, the Valyrian tune was Daemon’s only companion, beside the distant clamor of whoever Ser Olyvar had roused to follow him. His heart hammered with a thrill he hadn’t felt since the day he’d claimed Caraxes, all those years ago. Entering the Dragonmont, the moonlit path became even darker, and so Daemon was left to rely on his decades spent walking the paths of the mont, and the instinctual sense that told him what direction Caraxes was.

He ventured further and further into the Dragonmont, dimly lit upper chambers giving way to the darkness of the middle nests, until even deeper gave the glow of magma to the furthest cavern of the mountain. And there, among the sputtering magma, sitting on a slab of natural obsidian that almost looked too purpose-built to truly be natural, was an egg of bloody crimson.

Chapter Text

It was a rainy night on Dragonstone. Maester Gregor watched the rain from his little window in the rookery, falling so fast it may as well have been hail. He continued every so often wiping sweat from his brow, as even despite the weather it remained positively tropical within the walls of Dragonstone. The ravens were quiet, huddling down as animals do in storms, especially when lightning briefly illuminated the room, and thunder shook the hooks of their cages. It was no weather for ravenry, at all, yet Gregor remained waiting regardless. 

He had sent word to the archmaesters about the discovery of a living dragon egg in the deepest pit of the Dragonmont. The boy-king seemingly knew how to keep it alive too, setting it in the fireplace of whichever room he happened to be in. The lad had even found some old fuddy-duddy dragon keepers to keep watch, so Gregor couldn’t even get close to examine the problem. When he had taken this post, Archmaester Munkun had assured him that he wouldn’t have to deal with any more of the demons.

And yet, somehow, the boy-king was re-enacting the ancient practices of House Targaryen, including, most disturbingly, human sacrifice. The boy had sent for the dungeons of King’s Landing to be emptied of murthers and rapers and arranged for them to be brought to Dragonstone. Gregor had read the order himself, before sending it by raven. The boy hadn’t said specifically that he was to sacrifice them, but why else would he ask for what must be dozens of men? 

He had attempted to get something out of the Kingsguard who had went with the King to Dorne, but they were unhelpful. Ser Olyvar, after a few days of subtle prodding, had revealed he knew practically nothing of the King’s plans. Somewhere down in Dorne, the lad had taken a deeper interest in his Valyrian heritage, and apparently spoke in it more than he did Andali. And the other, Aemon, was even less helpful, saying he was bound by the Father to be silent on the matters of the King. Gregor found that piety was, as with all virtues, best practiced in moderation.

And so he sat, waiting for a raven from Oldtown, dreading its arrival nearly as much as he dreaded its absence. 

The rookery was bathed again in light, the dark silhouette of a raven mid-flight was thrown on the floor. A moment later, a massive raven came through the window, as rolling thunder rattled the cages and harsh squawking filled the air. The beast flew to the perch on Gregor’s desk, a thick capsule tied around its leg, claws big enough to wrap around the whole post. The Maester carefully extracted the message, offering a bit of flesh for the bird in one hand and pulling the tie with the other. 

The raven ruffled its feathers, spattering water across the half-sorted papers and notes assembled on the desk. As Gregor carefully coaxed it to his hand, and then into the largest cage he had, he quickly retreated from the room, locking the door behind him. The maester cell in Dragonstone was but ten steps down from the rookery, both being held in the same small tower. Entering the cell, a dim room an even smaller widow than the rookery, he locked that door as well, settling at his desk and cracking the capsule that carried his orders. 

Inside was the method of encoding messages between maesters that was only available to those in the highest confidence: a small cylinder of soft limestone, only three inches long, and an inch in diameter, marked with over a hundred little bumps and divets. He felt along the two faces of the cylinder, one side being in a universal code to communicate which code the receiver ought to use, and the other being the inscription of the sender, in this case Conclave of Archmaesters. It was dated to only two days ago: clearly this had been carried by a series of express ravens, the swiftest and the strongest at the lonely castles nobody pays much mind to.

Gregor sorted through the papers on his desk, finally finding a relatively unimportant scrap, and flipped it back, and began to transcribe the message by the dim candlelight.

greetings and salutations etc. STOP Munkun heading team to King’s Landing STOP continue to monitor dragon STOP our helpers will arrive at Dragonstone in half a moon STOP poison for egg to arrive three days hence STOP if dragon hatches poison immediately STOP if dragon cannot be accessed prepare Lysene tears for King-

Gregor’s hand froze in fear. The storm raged incessantly, only adding to his panic as he realized what he was being ordered to do. He held the paper up to the candle, watching the treasonous words burn away. He tried to return to reading the message, but his clammy and shaking hands were practically useless. The maester got on the floor and reached under his bed, pulling out a small jar of hard rum, taking a nervous swig, and another, before returning to the cylinder.

Lysene tears for King hold until ordered STOP expect new orders in one week STOP send raven on to Sharp Point castletown rookery after cleaned STOP end of message

Gregor fumbled quickly for a chisel and gently scraped the treasonous stone markings until the cylinder was practically unadorned. He hurriedly threw it back into its cylinder, bursting out of his cell and running up the stairs. Gregor could hardly hold the key correctly as he stabbed the door to the rookery with it. Finally getting it turned and the door opened, he went over to the Sharp Point cages, picked the strongest looking bird, tied the capsule to it, and practically threw it out of the window.

“What word, good maester?”

Gregor let out a cry of fright, turning around to see the face of one of his worst fears: The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Aemon Targaryen. The young man had those unnerving pale lilac eyes that so many Valyrians had, and that Gregor had always found unsettling and beastly, doing nothing to lessen his panic.

“Why, uh, nothing ser, simply a message that needed to be switched from one raven to another.”

“I was not aware Dragonstone had become a way station for ravens. What, pray tell, was so urgent that a lord felt compelled to correspond in the midst of this?” He gestured out the window, to the storm that had been battering the Blackwater for the better part of two days.

“Eh, My Prince, ‘tis not a matter to, eh, bother you with. Small words of small lords.”

“During the hour of the wolf?”

“What I mean to say, um, is that-”

“Such that you had to bring the message to your cell and only a while later send it on? Do you have a habit of reading all messages sent through here?”

The maester gulped nervously. The knight had stalked progressively closer with each accusation, his skepticism openly painted on his face.

Just then, the thudding of another set of boots upon the threshold of the rookery was heard, up the creaky old steps. A man entered, short, with plain leathers and a wild beard soaked through.

“Just as you said, m’lord,” the man who must have been of the castle garrison said, “ash on the maester’s desk, plenty of it.”

The man-at-arms held up Gregor’s death warrant in his gloved hand, a pile of black ash. Ser Aemon turned back to Gregor, skepticism turned to accusation.

Gregor reached into his robe, for half a second getting caught up in his chain, until he reached the small glass vial in his pocket. He pulled it out, foggy glass holding a clear liquid, his escape.

Maester Gregor popped the cork and drank down his death.

Symont was woken up by a banging that seemed even louder than the thunder he was trying to sleep through.

“Coming!” He yelled at the door, trying to keep from voicing his desire for whoever was knocking to be strung up and flayed living for waking him the second he’d drifted off. Old Gregor had been a terrible fucking sore today, refusing to leave the rookery for anything. So, Symont was stuck being the one who had to answer when idiot guardsmen needed something for managing to accidentally cut off one’s own finger, or burn himself gods knew how, or to tell the one who was too friendly with sailors’ wives that his cock would fall off. One man in the village just outside the walls had managed to trip and fall onto his own fishing spear, stuck it straight through a lung: he had to tell the man’s wife she’d be a widow by sunset. A bloody awful day.

Symont stewed in his grievances as he dressed himself in the pitch black darkness of his cell, just below Maester Gregor’s, without the privilege of a window. He’d made himself decent enough, and grasped for the latch of the door, finally getting a grip and revealing the comparatively blinding candlelight of the staircase outside.

There stood, to his great surprise, Ser Aemon, who looked to be in quite a panic. Dread immediately filled Symont’s stomach.

“You the Maester’s assistant?” The knight whispered urgently.

Symont knew his manners, so he bowed at the neck and gave a “Yes, my lord.” 

“Your master’s swallowed something poisonous on accident, follow me.”

After snatching up his satchel, he followed Ser Aemon up the steps. Up to the rookery, blasted place, with the squawking creatures and their infernal racket. There upon the floor, turned on one side, was an unconscious Maester Gregor, with two swordsmen standing around him.

“He drank this.” Ser Aemon handed him a small glass vial. 

“The cork?” Symont asked. He gave it a quick sniff, can never be too careful with poisons, but the smell was unmistakable.

“Sweetsleep, my lord.” Symont turned to Ser Aemon, as one of the swordsmen spat on the floor and vocalized something close to “coward”. Symont chose to ignore it, mind already spinning enough.

“Can you save him?” Aemon asked.

Symont then went through a few rapid questions, how long ago he took the dose, how much, has he been moved, and so on. “He may be saved by purging, my lord.”

He had the two grunts sit the maester against his bench, searching through his satchel until he got to his dosages of charcoal. He slipped one into the maester’s mouth, practically shoving it down his throat. Symont had them lower the maester back to the ground, head to the side.

“Is that all?” Asked Aemon. Symont startled at the sudden voice behind him, having completely focused on the patient, but he quickly regained his wits.

“Now the gods have him, pray for their mercy Ser.” Symont answered. He wasn’t particularly faithful, but it helped to have bystanders bother the Mother, or the Stranger, rather than him.

A few moments later, Symont heard what he was listening for. The maester vomited onto the floor, splattering on one of the swordsman’s boots, as Symont made an effort to keep the man’s head angled so he’d not drown himself.

“He’ll most like live, my lord.” Symont said, looking up to Ser Aemon, “But we will not know until he wakes.”

After two hours, it seemed that patience was not in the common soldier, as one of the men had gone and went for a bucket of water. The maester woke when it was thrown in his face, and as the man groggily asked what was happening, the men picked him up and carried him out of the rookery.

“Here’s his key.” Ser Aemon said, “Lock up the rookery and the maester’s cell, and then come with me.”

Symont did as he was bid, and Aemon brought him out of the maester’s tower, across the yard of Dragonstone, and into the keep proper. The rain had not let up, and so he was more than happy to sit in front of one of the castle’s many fireplaces. Ser Aemon left him in the “company” of a giant of a man, who was supposedly the knight’s squire. Borros Brask, the young man’s name was, with a mean-looking face marked with a scar across his left eyebrow that left practically nothing there. Borros had at least a foot on Symont, and seven stone or so by his eye’s estimate. 

Despite appearances, the man was not unpleasant, and they fell very quickly into talking about the Dornish campaign. Symont considered himself rather superior to the fool boys who dreamt of glory on a battlefield: his own father’s war stories had turned him on that years ago. Still, the tales of endless desert drowned in sun, rich wine, fruits in the depth of winter, and, supposedly, some of the most mysterious and beautiful women in Westeros did interest him, to his chagrin. Maybe when he went back to the Citadel to make his chain, he could ask to be sent to Dorne…

The conversation continued for some time, on and off, not at all unfriendly, but eventually Symont protested his tiredness and leaned himself aside the fire.

Some time later, Symont was shaken awake, a hand on his shoulder. He nearly jumped, but found his awkward position intractable and gave up before his mind caught up and he realized it was just Borros.

“Ser Aemon says you’re to come now.” He said, unhelpfully vague. 

Symont got up and dusted himself off, following Borros out one of the hall’s side doors, meeting Ser Aemon in the hallway there. It was definitely a few hours later, with the very beginnings of dawn visible through the windows as the storm had relented, at least at the start of the walk. They made their way down darker corridors, until they went down windowless ones, only lit by candle. The air stank from the tallow, but he’d been through worse that evening, in the company of the maester’s supper spilled on the floor just hours ago.

They finally seemed to reach whatever level they were meant to walk down towards, as Symont realized that it was no longer doors he walked by, but dungeon cell bars. He swallowed nervously, suddenly made very nervous by Borros’ presence walking behind him, but he did his best not to show it.

They finally made it to a cell that seemed occupied, comparatively bright with torchlight. The sight, however, nearly turned Symont’s stomach out. Maester Gregor sat, shackled, in a wooden chair before a group of men silhouetted by the light. Blood was across the floor, his hands and feet bloodied, and most horrific of all, his eyes gouged out. What finally did it was when he realized the gargled, labored breathing was coming from the man, as the maester opened his mouth and spat blood.

Symont quickly stepped out and threw up whatever was in his stomach. Some vile stew Maester Gregor had always favored and kept for weeks on end. Vile going down and vile coming back out.

He spat the taste out of his mouth onto the stone floor, and righted himself with the help of the wall. It was a few moments before Borros was asking if he’d come into the cell again, or rather ordering. Symont felt cold with fear, as he reluctantly agreed, turning back into the room.

This time, Ser Aemon was conversing with another Valyrian who looked a little younger in High Valyrian. He understood nothing of the spoken word, but then it struck him like lightning: who was the other Valyrian in the castle, especially one who spoke to Ser Aemon with such ease?

Symont threw himself to his knees before King Daeron, taking the complaints of his knees striking the stone without a sound, and bowed himself as deeply as he could.

“Your Grace, please, I did nothing-”

“Peace, Symont, I know your innocence.” The boy king replied, almost sounding like he was laughing. Symont was, to his immense surprise, righted by the King himself, gripped on the forearm and lifted off his knees. “No guilty man has ever seen his co-conspirator dragged away and then taken a nap.”

Symont had worked up the courage to look the man in the face, and he was smiling. Like he found it funny. Symont was dumbfounded that something could be funny in a room that stank this strongly of blood and piss, but the King managed it all the same. 

He soon found himself standing in front of Gregor, King Daeron’s arm on his shoulder like they were old friends, as he was told the details of  the maester’s torture.

“Yes, so, after the fingernails, he gave up his codes. You really did us a favor, Symont. Now, tell me, can you read this?” The King produced a parchment from somewhere, and held it up for Symont to read. 

“I recognize it as Valyrian glyphs, Your Grace, but I didn’t study the language when I was at the Citadel.” Symont explained, focusing on the  glyphs, comparing them to the little he knew. “That one means king,” he pointed to one glyph, “and that one means death, I believe. And that one might mean stone?”

The King was nonplussed. “And can you run the rookery yourself?” 

Symont thought. He knew how to care for the birds, of course. And the record of which bird could travel where was kept in a book that more often was in Symont’s care than the maester’s.

“I can’t train the birds, but I can keep them, and send messages, Your Grace.” He finally replied.

“Very good. Now, then, Corro if you wouldn’t mind?” The King had a frankly malevolent smile on his face as one of the huge men near Gregor, who must have been Corro, stepped back.

“Symont, you’ve entered the king’s service. Congratulations.” King Daeron kept smiling as Corro handed him an evil-looking blade. With the flick of his wrist, Maester Gregor’s throat gushed with blood, as the man thrashed about in a panic.

“Now, I have some letters to send to King’s Landing.”

Chapter Text

Viserys stared at the paper one of the Grand Maester’s assistants had brought to him as he broke his fast, puzzling over the frankly bizarre letter. He would not have believed it if Oscar, who had proved himself the most able assistant in Grand Maester Alford’s absence, had not brought him the separate letter from his son Aemon vouching for it. Between Aemon’s neat script, Viserys could read excitement and terror making their union in his heart. But what Aemon’s letter merely hinted at, the other letter wrote in broad strokes and bright colors.

Honored Uncle of the Dearest Trust of the King, Hail and Good Health

It is our decree and command that no man nor ship shall be permitted to land upon the most sacred isle of Dragonstone, except by our written order and invitation. It is further our command that this be immediately promulgated to our lords vassal and knights of the Black Water. We trust that you, as our well-beloved Uncle and Hand, shall not delay in this matter.

The cause for our communication to you in this most venerable script of Ancestral Valyria is a command that must be kept in the tightest ring of confidence in the Small Council. We shall leave the matter of confidence to your discretion, entrusting with surety your judgement in this matter, except that you shall not entrust anything to the Lord Confessor Maester Rowley. Dear Uncle, there shall be a delegation from the Citadel arriving in King’s Landing in the coming moons: accommodate them in the Black Cells until such a time that we order their release.

By your leave, with haste, immediately transport all murders and rapers in King’s Landing to Dragonstone. We hesitate to repeat this command, knowing your loyalty and trusting totally in your judgement, but the relay of our previous command has come into question.

May the knowledge of our illustrious ancestors and favor of the gods bring joy and serenity to your soul in these dark days. We pray that you send word to the Princesses Baela and Rhaena that their presence in the capital would be a great service to their nephew. 

In filial loyalty and reverence,

Your Nephew Daeron, Son of Aegon, Scion of Old Valyria, King etc.

Viserys rested his head in his hand as he picked at his meal, watching the sun scatter blinding shards of glass over the Blackwater, turning the letter over in his head. It had been years since he had read a letter in actual High Valyrian, in the classical glyphs: when Rhaena had written her elegiac poem for the death of her dragon, Morning. It had broken her heart, and she never wrote correspondence to Viserys in the classical glyphs ever again. Rhaena and Baela had always been better at classical glyphs than Viserys, and he had never felt confident in their use in his own writing, so when they stopped, nothing more was to be done.

Viserys himself had become more accustomed to the contemporary script for Valyrian, at least what passed for it in Volantis and Lys. It was simpler, to an extent, with symbols representing sounds instead of whole words and concepts. It certainly was easier to use for everyday purposes like trade and teaching, using a truncated alphabet instead of the archaic hundreds of symbols that must be memorized to write in glyphs. Viserys had taught his own children in the contemporary script, and he had thought his brother Aegon taught in a contemporary script as well.

Still, reading the glyphs did bring a certain nostalgia to Viserys. It reminded him of happier times, when his brothers were alive, and they sat in the solar of Dragonstone at the feet of their father as he taught them ancient hymns and songs, always in the classic glyphs. In fact, Daeron’s handwriting eerily resembled that of Viserys’ father, at least how he remembered it. Perhaps, with Aegon having been a bit older, he had known enough to teach his children in the subject.

Rising from his seat with purpose, Viserys walked deliberately to where his final adornment for the day rested, on a beheaded bust by the door. His manservant, Theomar, silently moved forward, recognizing his cue, lifting the heavy golden Chain of the Hand onto Viserys’ waiting shoulders. Theomar was a reserved man, a fine match to Viserys’ own foul mood this past decade, and was not at all a man lacking other talents.

“Have you any whispers for me today?” Viserys asked.

“But a few, my lord,” Theomar answered in his low, thin voice, “You will be pleased to learn Princess Baela arrived in Oldtown without incident.”

Viserys scoffed. “Any incident should be pleased not to have been arrived upon by my sister. What else?”

“Lord Tyrell is enjoying the hospitality of Lord Dayne. It seems our new Lord Regent of Dorne has even turned Lord Dayne out of his own bed.”

Viserys sighed. He hadn’t believed Theomar’s initial reports that Sunspear was burning. That was perhaps his greatest blunder yet, in managing this whole war: not anticipating the stupidity of a victorious conquering army. Whether his fool nephew had burned the castle, or one of his fool lords, or one of their fool knights, it didn’t matter. Dorne’s rebellion was now a when, and no longer an if.

“What else?”

“The glut of unsold Dornish wines have made them so cheap a half-decent tradesman can toast the King with them in the public houses with regularity.”

“A happy smallfolk, a happy kingdom.” Viserys observed.

“Ariphos of Myr has died, and his sons are in a fight for his seat on the Conclave.”

This stopped Viserys for a moment. Ariphos of Myr was a friend of the Iron Throne, as much as an Essosi could befriend Westeros. That is to say, the man didn’t want Myr to be dragged into another decades long conflict as part of some triarchy again.

“Do we have one we like?” Viserys finally asked.

Theomar nodded. “The youngest, Vyroquo, shares his father’s affinity for us.”

“Very well. Tomorrow go to Lady Fossoway, I’ll tell her to give you whatever is necessary.”

“My lord.” Theomar bowed, as Viserys finally began the long trek down the steps of the Tower of the Hand.

Viserys chose to take the long way to the council chambers, passing through some of the lesser traversed hallways on the side of the Keep facing the Blackwater Bay. He wanted more time to consider his options, and crossing the Great Hall, while the most direct route, would inevitably lead to him having to answer some petition that should have gone before Tarly rather than him.

Finally making it to the side-door of the outer chamber of the Small Council, he approached the doorway at which stood the remnants of the Kingsguard who didn’t follow Daeron to Dorne. Edmund Warrick, one of the senior knights of the Kingsguard, stood on the left of the door. His sworn brother, Dennis Whitfield, stood at the right. The other remaining Kingsguard in the city was Agramore Cobb, who had been personally assigned to defend Prince Baelor as the heir. Cobb’s presence was unusual, as he stood to Whitfield’s side, as he was meant to simply guard Baelor. That could only mean today’s meeting would cause even more headaches than usual.

As he passed the knights, they each gave their respectful bows at the neck, and Viserys returned it with a polite nod, as he strode into the room and towards his seat at the head of the table. He lowered himself into the chair, as he shuffled through a small stack of papers to give him a bit of time before he had to address the lot of them. Nothing terribly important, just the standard confirmations of titles for inheritances, funding for a new sept in Flea Bottom, and so on.

At his right hand, in the seat that, if his fool nephew were actually interested in ruling, Viserys himself would have sat, was the Queen Dowager, Viserys’ good-sister. Even now, over a year after Aegon’s death, Queen Daenaera wore a thin veil of black silk, although she had begun to wear other colors of dress in the past few months. Today she had chosen a dress of pale blue, trimmed in Myrrish lace, with a thin golden chain holding a seven-sided crystal star at her neck. Even in mourning, she maintained a sad beauty.

To Queen Daenaera’s right sat Baelor, who still to Viserys’ eyes looked thin and awkward, as he had since he was quite small. His growth spurts had only exacerbated the issue, to the point that Viserys had forced the lad to attend him at every supper to make sure he ate at least one full meal a day. Viserys wasn’t one to mock the gods, and his own sweet daughter Naerys could hardly be pulled away from her holy books, but in Baelor piety manifested in days of fasting and prayer that bordered on madness. Still, Baelor had never raised his voice in anger in his life, and treated lord and servant with the same kindness, something Viserys had to admit was admirable.

To Viserys’ left sat what remained of the Small Council, which thankfully included the most critical posts for the Seven Kingdoms to not spontaneously explode. The first was Ser Emmon Tarly, the brother of the Lord of Horn Hill, whose hair had all gone gray except for his eyebrows that maintained the First Men colors of dark brown bordering on black. He had been brought onto the council to appease the many headed hydra otherwise known as the Reach. First it was Hightower pulling the strings when Viserys was a child, then Peake in those terrible years after Mother and Father died, and now Lord Tyrell himself felt he should have influence at court. Tarly was an olive branch to the Reachmen, all worth it to keep the peace of the realm.

Not that Tarly was an incompetent, mind. He had been chosen as the best legal mind the Reach had to offer, and Viserys found he agreed most every time with the man’s interpretation of the law. And in comparison to what Viserys had heard of the man’s elder brother, who had gone with the army to Dorne, Ser Emmon was austere and serious, and at least sober. Still, he kept an eye on the man, and had every bailiff and justice the man appointed looked over by loyal men. 

If Tarly was disloyal competence, the Master of Coin was best described as disloyal incompetence. Ser Harlan Reyne, the nephew of Lord Reyne and the cousin of Lord Lannister, nobody could deny the young knight had ‘experience’ with money. Unfortunately, that experience was in being a spendthrift. Even now, the man had the nerve to sit there with golden rings on each finger, and golden trims on practically everything else he wore. If it wouldn’t have led to him being mocked as an Essosi or Dornishman, he surely would have gold in his ears and hair as well. Viserys would have sent him packing years ago if his wife, Lady Alys Fossoway, weren’t a genius at numbers. 

Viserys had first discovered it when he was comparing the official records of the treasury to a personal note Ser Harlan had left him, noting the massive discrepancy between them. Eventually, he’d met Lady Fossoway personally, and all but confirmed her as Mistress of Coin, and he would have done so formally if it weren’t for Ser Harlan being connected to the first and second wealthiest houses of the Westerlands. She had become known as the Golden Apple among the upper crust of the Red Keep, and she had begun marking records with a simple circle with a line in the bottom corner of records she approved of, the simplified symbol of an apple. 

Ser Harlan was given a space to work near the treasury of the Red Keep where he could impress visitors with his important station and fine vintages of wine and a dozen scribes and measurers and note-takers. Meanwhile Lady Fossoway worked quietly in a room in the Tower of the Hand that Viserys set aside for her with her own staff, where she received the actual officers in charge of tax farming, and harbormasters, and guildsmen, and so on. Viserys had broken many of the core rules of the Small Council Chamber by allowing Lady Fossoway to attend meetings alongside her husband. But better break the rules of the Small Council than break the treasury.

“Nephew,” Viserys started, turning back to Baelor, “to what do we owe your presence? I had thought you were to spend the morning in the yard with Ser Harys?”

The Prince opened his mouth to answer, but was cut immediately by his mother the Queen.

“Baelor should see the workings of his brother’s council, if he is to ever serve as you have served.” Daenaera said hurriedly, as Viserys noted her grabbing her son’s forearm quickly. A signal not to talk, that any sane person would recognize.

“The Crone told me something you should know, Uncle.” Baelor spoke up, disregarding his mother’s attempt to restrain his latest bout of madness.

Viserys was not surprised. The boy had always been quite unwell, but he was usually not so forthright in sharing his ‘visions’. 

“And when exactly did she tell you this?” Viserys did very little to obfuscate his displeasure.

“This morning, at my devotions.” Baelor replied, earnestly. “She wanted me to tell you that wolves can’t eat roses, and there are eyeless rats above the chamber of the painted dragon. Oh! And she wanted to congratulate you on the nameday of your fourth granddaughter.”

Viserys let out a long breath through his nose, as Daenaera gave a quiet apology before whispering something into her son’s ear in the hopes he would stop.

“Ser Emmon,” Viserys said, turning to the Tarly knight.

“Yes, Lord Hand?” Ser Emmon replied.

“I need to borrow a couple of your scribes for the day, and there will be a decree in need of your seal before the vespers.”

Ser Emmon raised a bushy black eyebrow at that. “The nature of the decree, my lord?”

“A command from the King,” Viserys explained with a performatively dismissive wave of his hand, “there are to be no ships to Dragonstone, until he gives leave.”

“And what is to be the punishment for violation?”

Viserys kept his face neutral. “Death.” He replied simply.

That led to raised eyebrows all around. 

Ser Emmon coughed, and asked, “Is there a particular reason His Grace has decreed such a harsh sentence?”

“It is not our place to question the King’s command.” Viserys replied, in a tone that said it was not Ser Emmon’s place to question Viserys. The look on the man’s face indicated he got the message.

“My lord,” Lady Fossoway raised after a few silent moments, “ships headed to Pentos still need to restock on fresh water, and register their final departure. Not to mention, ships from Essos generally need to land after weeks at sea.”

This had been one of Viserys’ concerns as well. “Surely, Driftmark could suffice? At least while this remains on the books, I doubt the law shall continue in perpetuity.”

Lady Fossoway quickly took up a quill and jotted something down. “We can manage, I’m sure, Lord Hand.”

“When did the capital prisoners leave the harbor yesterday?” Viserys asked of nobody in particular.

“The evening, I believe.” Ser Emmon offered.

“Ten minutes past the twentieth hour, Lord Hand.” Lady Fossoway offered, referring to what must be the notes of the harbormaster.

Viserys nodded, not distinguishing to whom his silent thanks were given. 

“Now, I’ll open the floor. What business must be heard before the council?” Viserys glanced at the sun dial by the window: half an hour until he had to sit the Throne and take petitions.

“If I may, my lord,” Ser Harlan, finally speaking, said, “Lord Florent has raised concerns about his inheritance tax-”

Viserys raised a hand. “That is a matter for Lord Tyrell.” He would not get involved in a Reachmen feud over gold.

“It would be, Lord Hand, but Lord Florent would merely ask that some intervention may be warranted for his service in the King’s army in Dorne.”

“He does not serve in the King’s army, he serves in the Tyrell army.” Viserys said, “This is a matter between Lord Florent and his liege lord. I will have no part in it. This is entirely an inappropriate venue to even discuss the matter.”

Ser Harlan shrank back at the admonishment. Viserys usually didn’t need to go so far in his chastisements, his reputation enough to suppress the usual corrupt pleadings that lords felt entitled to. But Reyne had never gotten that his gold didn’t invoke the same favor with the Crown that it might in other company.

“The matter of the division of spoils from the Dorne Campaign-” Ser Emmon started.

Again, Viserys raised a hand. “To be decided when the King returns.”

Tarly gave a silent bow, and then added, “There is a delegation from the Citadel, I believe they’re to arrive in a fortnight.”

Viserys nodded to that, he’d have to get to the Goldcloaks, scrounge up some loyal men.

“Is that all?” 

The council was silent for a second too long, and so Viserys jumped at the opportunity. “Very well, we’ll meet again this evening.”

Viserys pushed his chair back, as the sers jumped to stand, and he walked as quickly as could be considered polite to one of the spare rooms he knew would be quiet at this time. He had some letters to write.