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Driftmark, 133 AC

Daemon had just finished his morning sword lessons with Viserys. His bones are aching now. He put it off, of course. Must have pushed himself too hard on Caraxas’ saddle the other day. Or it's the cold of the Eastwinds; anything but his ageing bones, of course. 

Personally, he had never expected to reach such an advanced age. His past has been frivolous at best, downright stupid in all honesty. Around him, so many are gone. He himself, more a relic of a long-gone time than a wise elder. He wondered how the Old King had managed to keep his head up. Likely, he did not feel much different than he does now. And that one had endured even longer than Daemon so far. 

Wars and battles and ugly disputes had happened, and somehow, he had gone through all of them. Their shores still have not fully recovered. Not during Winter. Not with this illness spreading and claiming even more lives. 

He had fled Dragonstone to Driftmark with his two sons. Traders docking from Gulltown had brought the fevers with them a month ago. The Velaryons had closed off their ports already. Claw Isle had brought the Fever to their ports prior. Before the first coughing was heard inside their own keep, he flew off with Aegon and Viserys both. Not trusting any ship crew, he saddled both on Caraxes. To Viserys’ delight and Aegon’s horror. 

The Velaryons grew fearful of how fast the fever was spreading in King’s Landing. They did not want to risk anything. Even Daemon and his sons had to wait out in quarantine for a fortnight before they were allowed to walk the castle freely. And that while Princess Rhaenys and the Sea Snake hid further away in High Tide Castle. 

Sighing, he unbuckled his boots. His ankles are swollen, his knees hurt, and his back aches as he bends down. “Gods help me”, with a groan, he lay on the featherbed. Before he could drift off, the aged prince opened one eye to the noise outside. Driftmark Castle is often plagued by the harsh winds of the bay, which is what the prince had first thought. Another storm might be brewing. Because it couldn't be what his instincts told him. 

The souls of the past tortured his mind; that much he knew. He saw them everywhere. From the corners of his eyes to the whispers in the night. 

If he focused on it hard enough, Daemon was back there. Within the lovely memories. Wind in his hair, the taste of salt on his lips. The roars rolling over the bay. Caraxes and Vhagar racing between Driftmark and Dragonstone and back. He could hear the slap of the wings so clearly, so scarily real. 

His eyes shot open once again, and the memory of his long-gone Lady Laena vanished. But the dragon remained there. Vhagar circled Driftmark, bronze and green scales now dull and tarnished. A little unbelieving, Daemon stood by the window, imagining the possibilities of her return. Had his nephew perished, and the dragon found her old home? 

Vhagar landed on a sandbank, her rider climbing down her wing. He looked older, Daemon thought, suntanned, weary. Although with an ever-strained look on his face. Guards were surrounding him already; the castle's garrison went against any intruder. May they arrive on Dragonback or not.

“I have overcome the Fever already. Do not worry, I’m not a threat any longer”, he had heard him explaining himself to the guards. Still much of his fiery temper there. 

“How can you be sure you won’t spread your illness here?” Daemon asked without any welcome. It was irresponsible for him to have come without any announcement. 

“There you are. I need to speak to you, nuncle.” The guards made way for Aemond to see his uncle approaching. 

“Has anything happened to my daughter? The boy? Have they caught the Fever?” 

“No, no, no, no-”, Aemond quickly waved him off. “Pentos has closed its ports. So far, I have not heard of any cases east of the Narrow Sea.” 

“Why are you here then? You are aware of the dangers this illness brings, as I assume?”

Aemond made a quick hand gesture. He appears nervous. “My mother. She succumbed to the fever. I have just flown from Oldtown.”

“Which concerns me?” 

“It will in many ways.” Aemond looks around the guards nervously, “May we speak confidentially?”

“How can you be sure that you no longer carry the illness?” Daemon poured them both watered-down wine. Very watered down, as their resources do not look well with no new trade coming into Driftmark. 

Aemond emptied his goblet at once; he looked starved almost. “A Maester assured me. And I have been healing on Dragonstone for the past fortnight. I assume you have heard that I have been visiting there?”

Daemon frowned, “No such thing has reached me. Our Maester either avoids the rookery or he caved into the fevers as well.”

“Well,” Aemond sighs, “I did not encounter many servants there anyway. Had to offer them double their usual pay to stay there and tend to me and my mother.” 

“You had her brought there?” Daemon hissed. 

“I refused to have her die alone. My brother told me how the rock has been deserted. So I took her with me and let her die in peace. In the Red Keep, she would have been alone. Daeron avoided her; he had to keep safe.” 

“Still, this is no valid reason to bring Alicent Hightower to die on Dragonstone!”

Aemond sounds annoyed, “Well, she did. No worries, I didn't give her a pyre on Dragonstone. I had her funeral processions done in Oldtown.” 

Closing his eyes, the elder Prince inhaled. “Whatever. I doubt that this is the reason for your arrival?”

“It is the reason why I rushed to talk to you. There is a very interesting matter that I have picked up on in Oldtown. I was visiting the Citadel, a Hightower knight had shown me something in there; something concerning our kind.” 

“The Citadel? I thought you came to me because of the uncertain succession now that the Prince of Dragonstone has been taken by the Fever?” 

Aemond looks sad but not surprised, “The babe is dead?” 

“The raven reached us three days prior. Rhaena so far is still healthy and in confinement as she is with child again. But he-”, Dameon struggled with the name. Neither he nor his brother had ever fathered a living son carrying their father’s name. “Young Prince Baelon was not fortunate enough. He had died in his sleep.” 

Sighing, the younger answered, “One could expect it, unfortunately. He was weak, too young. I’m truly sorry. But I do promise that this is not the reason for my appearance.” 

Daemon’s eyes had something sharp in them, nothing friendly at all. “The crown has no heir. Rhaena may be with child, and I do hope for the best, but the situation is frail once again. It would be easy for a stronger one to make a claim now.”

“Which wouldn’t be me.” Aemond looks annoyed, bored almost. “I have no right to the throne any longer. Nuncle, please do understand me here- I love my family, and I am glad to see my younger brother where he is as of now. There is nothing that would ever bring me back to this court. Pentos is treating me, my wife and the whelp much better than King’s Landing ever did. Also, as I meant to tell you, there are many more pressing matters to discuss.” 

“Daeron has not declared an official heir besides his dead firstborn. The high lords would debate again on who would have the bigger claim. Naturally, it would fall to my son Aegon the easiest, but the boy is yet to come of age.” 

Aemond buried his face in his hand, looking tired of hearing the same argument once more. “That I am aware of. Yet my brother is not dead, and I do not want to speak of any evil. I have my trust in him. Moreso, I would advise against formally asking him to install Aegon as his heir. Not now, it’s too early. Wait until Rhaena-”, he stopped. 

Daemon finished his goblet, “Surprisingly diplomatic, coming from you. Now, what bigger problem are you here to tell me about? What could be of such importance to break our safe isolation?”

“The Maesters.” Aemond inhaled, “I have heard things in Oldtown that frighten me.”

“What kind of things?” Daemon said slowly as he leaned back in disbelief. Without interrupting him, he listens as Aemond recalls what he had encountered in Oldtown. According to him, they are evermore complaining about the nature of the Targaryens. Nothing new to Daemon, yet the way Aemond told him was different. They are planning something. 

“Could it be another faith militant uprising?” 

“No,” Aemond shook his head, “it must come from the Citadel. They are organised. I would trust no Maester if I were you.” 

“They saw us fight each other; they have seen our weakness now. And they are aware of how easily a dragon can be taken out.” 

“The adult dragons that have died did so in combat. Unless they are building scorpions in the Citadel, I doubt that this is their plan. They are working from within.”

“Taking out a dragon before it grows too big.” Daemon nods, “We do know how the dragons in the pit won’t grow as big or as fast. Caraxes is much bigger than Dreamfyre, for example, despite her being some decades older. Morning is a sorry little thing, still the size of a hatchling.” 

“Aye,” Aemond nods, “they fare much better out here. Do yours hunt here?” The younger prince gestures to where Seasmoke is circling above the water. Different from most of their dragons, this one had spent little time in the capital’s confinement. It grew a lot and quickly. 

“Fish, mostly. Bigger kinds and a small whale, perhaps. Those islands are not necessarily known for cattle.” 

“What if it is in the food as well? The pit, the prepared food. They spoke of potions and poisons. Such things could slow a young dragon from developing further.”

Daemon felt uneasy; something crept up his spine. “Poisons and potions could turn not only dragons sick.” 

“The Fever? You tell it’s the Maesters?” Aemond looks worried.

“Well, it is winter and the war does not lie past for long. But I would not count that out. You said that he caught the Fever before. You do not look unwell now, how did you-”?

“A herbal woman,” Aemond spoke quickly. But Daemon already knew who he was referring to. 

The city still had a few men loyal to him, and those knew of all the whores and paramounts of many a lordling. He had seen that woman in Harrenhal before, yet Daemon had never believed his nephew to father a bastard on that woman. The younger prince possesses many a bad trait, yet adultery was not what he had expected. “So you had no aid from a Maester, neither in the Capital nor anywhere else.” 

“Nay, nuncle. One had merely examined me once I felt better again. He assured me that the illness had left my body.”

“Very well. Yet, I am to ask what you expect me to do here? I did not think we were on such good terms that I am your closest confidant here?”

“You’re not. But to whom else should I go?” Aemond looks unimpressed, “Daeron? He might have been fostered in Oldtown, but after Peake’s execution, it seems like those words were all new to him. He had either been deaf and blind to any of their plotting, or they carefully kept it away from him. He is not my first choice in such matters.” 

“He is your king.” Daemon countered. 

“And aren’t you the Rogue Prince?” He mocked him.

“Do not fret, I did want to light up the Beacon of the Hightower with dragonflames for a long while now. Yet I fear that I do not have much authority on that these days.” 

“As if this would have ever stopped you.” Aemond grins, “Now, we could invite the Sea Snake to our conversation. Is he-?” 

“Old.” Daemon answered, “Old, very old. Not dead yet if that's what you are referring to. Together with Princess Rhaenys, they have isolated themselves in High Tide Castle. To keep themselves safe, or Baela and her whelp from them. In whatever way, I would not like to discuss such a matter over a raven. If what you are saying is true, we can trust no Maester for the moment.” 

Aemond nods. After a while, he asks for Baela. Daemon starts telling him of his youngest grandchild, barely two turns of the moon old. It was the first granddaughter he had held in his own arms. He did not want to admit it, but Daemon had always favoured daughters over sons. As Baela presented him, strong and proud, of her newborn babe bearing the name of her late mother, it made the old rogue weep. 

“So, how is my eldest daughter? Have you two been as productively procreating as the twins?” 

He can’t really read Aemond’s expression as he shakes his head. "No. We do have our son, and for him we are very thankful. Luckily, we have no crown nor titles to pressure us for an heir and a spare.”

Daemon nods and thinks back to his two young daughters. Rhaena on the throne together with Daeron, the compromise to settle their family dispute. They had called for a shared monarchy, just as Jaehaerys and Alysanne. But everyone knows this to be a farce in all but name. Daeron wears the crown of the conqueror on his head and Blackfyre on his hip.
Baela might have gotten the better deal out; named heir by Lord Corlys, she would sit in his place soon enough. As the legitimised son of the Sea Snake, Addam Velaryon was on her side. He knew little of being courteous or how to rule such a house. Baela makes the much more able heir in every way.
His eldest daughter has left this Kingdom for good. At least she had taken Aemond with her, which pleases the Lords most of all. Daemon should have known that his return could only mean more trouble. Yet if he is to believe him, it is for a valid reason.

Their petty war had cost the heads of many of their relatives, broken off betrothals, killed heirs and swaddling babes. It will still take time for their family to heal and to grow. Another conflict is coming at a terrible time. He thinks back to his newborn granddaughter, isolated and protected here on the island. 

“Laena is still young, and I do not want to risk her or Baela in any capacity. So I’d refrain from telling her of this. However, we could use that husband of hers. Like you said, Seasmoke has grown tall and is no stranger to battle.” 

“So you do plan on setting the Hightower ablaze?” Aemond can’t hide his grin. 

They kept sitting in his solar for a while, before excusing himself that he had not offered bread and salt or food of any kind for the younger. He said to had been flying through the night to make it to Driftmark within a day. Daemon sent him into a chamber, far from the others. He still was not too sure if his past disease might still pose a threat to others in the keep. 

Daemon is preparing a scroll on his writing desk. He is unsure of how he’d tell Corlys of their suspicions, or how he would bring the letter to him without any Maester looking over it first. In a few lines, he summarised the most and rolled the parchment together, pressing his sigil ring into the molten wax. 

In the evening, Daemon knocks at the door to Aemond’s chamber. After he got no answer, he let himself inside. The younger prince lay sleeping on the four-poster bed. His eye patch was disregarded on the nightstand. Boots and riding leathers lay on the floor. They looked expensive and of Pentoshi fashion. Something inside of him had changed; seeing his nephew back in Westeros so soon irritated him. But seeing him this troubled, this eager to ask him for help- it must be grander than Daemon could imagine.” 

With a cough, Daemon announces his arrival. “Pardon to wake your slumber, princeling.” 

Aemond frowns at him. “Aye?” 

“I have written to the Sea Snake, telling him of our plans. And I informed Addam, he is willing to fly to Oldtown alongside us. His younger brother is getting a carrack ready.” 

“You want to bring more men with you.” Aemond mumbled, “To do what exactly?” 

He shrugs, “Burn the citadel.”

“No. It’s not that easy. We have to do something different. Something smarter.” 

“Be smarter, then!” 

Aemond groans. “Aren’t you the witty one here? I thought you could come up with something to make them stop. Scare them off, I don’t know.” 

“If your fears are confirmed, this must be bigger. If the Citadel is actively working against us, they have infiltrated every castle in the Kingdoms. Even our own keeps.” 

“We alone cannot get rid of the institution of the Maesters.” Aemond stood up, reaching for his eyepatch. “That’s a giant endeavour. It would need the King’s order. And even that might not be enough. Who knows who belongs to that as well?” 

“Which would make those partake in high treason.” Daemon watches as his nephew hides some of his marred face. He was unsure if he did it out of vanity or habit. “But what if we do not need this? What if it were enough to scare them? To demonstrate our power. Have three dragons flying over Oldtown. Bring those in the Citadel to the blade that have been conspiring.”

“What if it goes further?” Aemond seems apprehensive, “The Citadel, the Starry Sept- the Faith has had their problem with us before. And we are neither as gruel as Maegor nor as diplomatic as Jaehaerys to solve a dispute with the Faith!” 

A maid came into the room and placed a tray with dinner for the prince before leaving quickly after a short curtsy. Daemon’s voice sounds hushed now, “If you want to go this far, then we cannot be sure of anything!” 

Once he heard her footsteps walking off, he continued, “A suspected Poor Fellow had his tongue removed as punishment for preaching that the Seven had sent the Fever to Westeros as a punishment for House Targaryen's incest.”

“Ah, the old sister-fucker thing again?” Aemond snarled, “Half of the realm’s lords marry some kind of cousin. Furthermore, there hasn’t been such a marriage since when- Aegon and Helaena? This is not a current issue.”

“Yet it must have irritated Daeron plenty for him to retort to such public punishments.”

“Daeron had fed men to his Dragon for similar things. I do not think he wants to seem all too cruel at this time. His reign is still uncertain in the eyes of many.” Aemond sits himself at the table and begins to break his fast, “That preacher in King’s Landing, whose followers stormed the Dragon Pit. Do we know where he came from? Has he acted on his own, or was he an instrument?” 

“As far as I know,” Daemon frowns, “He acted on his own will. But we cannot be sure. I am lacking the resources to confirm such a suspicion.” 

“This realm needs a proper Master of Whisperers again,” Aemond says, slurping a spoonful of soup.

Daemon’s head began to pulsate. He has had more than enough from spies all around them. It was only a matter of time before they would turn against you eventually. All their collected knowledge was a valuable currency. “Look, I do not need a spying snake to tell me things I have known myself. In this case, it wouldn't be much needed. If the Maesters are plotting, the Starry Sept and most importantly the Hightowers are in it as well. Who knows how long in the making this already is. Whether or not it was a new development after the war, or had been going on ever since Otto became Hand of the King.” 

“Don’t let your former hatred for my grandfather dull your senses,” Aemond answered with a full mouth. “If he had been involved in any of this, which I highly doubt, he made no such hint. He himself was hungry for power in his own right. He did not plan to rid our family of the throne or any dragons.” 

Daemon raised one silver eyebrow. 

“You damn know what I mean.” The younger gestured, “He did what he did for his own benefit, and perhaps to spite you. It was he who insisted on marrying his two grandchildren to each other and gave their offspring dragon eggs.”

“Which in turn weakened the entire reign, you imbecile!” 

“So it’s Otto again? I do not believe this. Everything he did was to his own gain. Not part of some great conspiracy. He had always accepted this family’s customs. I mean, was he not loyal to King Jaehaerys?”

“Aemond, listen to me. I am not stating that your grandfather is responsible for all of that, but he must have been a part of it in some way. He was a tool in any capacity, and those who like to see our family’s reign over had good use of him.” Daemon is prancing around the room more agitated; it is all making sense to him. “You spoke of dragon eggs. How many more were there in the capital before the war started?” 

Aemond frowns, “Maelor’s came from a clutch of Dreamfyre. It was yet to hatch, as you are aware. But I do not know of any further.” 

“Eggs are hatching slower.” Daemon said in thought, “Maelor’s never hatched, so did the eggs I had given to Baela and Rhaena for their whelps. Morning took years to hatch, and it is growing only slowly.”

“Well, so did mine,” Aemond added, “and it died little later.” 

Daemon nodded in confirmation. “I shall leave for High Tide and deliver the scroll to Corlys personally, then I will fly over to Dragonstone to have any remaining eggs brought deep into a cave, guarded obviously. I have loyal men on the island.” 

He was about to leave the chambers again when he heard Aemond make a noise, “You know, my son’s dragon hatched within an hour we had put the egg into the crib. We both were there.” 

“Curious.” Daemon shook his head as he walked out the door.

As his old dislike of Otto Hightower flamed up like the beacon in Oldtown, Daemon Targaryen grew more and more agitated. He only felt confirmed in his belief. May this have been that Otto had hated him personally, now he might have been part of the plot to get rid of them completely. 

With new energy in his bones, Daemon mounted Caraxes. So old he was not, he told himself. Nothing but self-pity and boredom. He just needed something to do again! 

High Tide Castle was closed off. He was not allowed to enter through the gates, much less was he willing to hand the scroll over to anyone but Rhaenys or Corlys themselves. But his dragon was nimble and a good climber. 

The whitewashed walls of the castle did take some damage from Caraxes’s sharp claws, but to him, that’s just collateral damage. The Bloodwyrm’s long neck writhes up to the lord’s balcony. Now he waits; it would take no time until they would take notice of the beast outside their windows. Or so he hopes. His dragon is turning its head back to him. Is he losing faith in him? Caraxes lets out a chuckling noise. 

It is Princess Rhaenys who eventually stumbles onto the balcony, wrapping her robe tight around herself. More annoyance on her face than fear. “Daemon Targaryen, explain yourself!” 

“Good Evening, cousin,” Daemon screams before Caraxes can move closer. “My sincerest apologies, yet I do have an urgent message for your Lord Husband.” 

“And this could not be delivered any other way?” Corlys steps out, looking paler and older than usual. 

“Nay.” Daemon climbs up the balcony’s palisade. “I could not come through your closed gates, I fear.” Scooting closer to Corlys, he whispered into his ear, “And I wish for no Maester’s eyes to see this.” 

He had planned on simply handing Corlys the scroll and then flying off to Dragonstone, yet Caraxes had already pushed himself off the wall and left him standing there alone with the lordly couple. 

“Daemon, this is madness!” He still looked after the Bloodwyrm as Corlys started complaining. “Will you let it down now? After everything that happened? I am much too old for such follies!” 

It was Rhaenys who took him more seriously. “Do you want me to fly south with you?”

He grins, “We think alike, dear cousin.” 

“No! No! No! No!” Corlys interrupted them. “And who told you this? One-Eye? I thought that boy’s banished.” 

“Buried his mother in Oldtown. I doubt he has any interest in causing trouble here. That’s why I take him seriously!” Daemon looks at the two red Dragons in the skies above them. “I am not really here to ask you for any advice, Corlys. I have made up my mind. We will fly south and deal with it.” 

“Deal with it how? Burn the entire Citadel? Kill every Maester alive and in training? Daemon, this is mad! The Kingdoms need knowledge and aid. You cannot see evil in every chained Maester that there is.” 

Rhaenys is looking around, “Vhagar is in he skies, that smell is unmistakable. You are planning on going together?”

Daemon nods, keeping his plan of dragging Addam along to himself. Corlys did not need to know. Perchance was Rhaenys the better pick anyway. “Well, not to repeat myself, Corlys, but I am not asking for advice. We shall fly in the coming days. Gods know the damage they could do in the future if we ignore this threat.” 

Corlys sighs, too old and too tired to put himself against a Prince Daemon Targaryen with a newfound fury. “Shouldn’t you rather attend the funeral pyre of your dead grandson?” 

“The Red Keep allows for no visitors in the current circumstances.” Daemon curtsies to the Sea Snake. 

The tired Lord just shakes his head as he mumbles to himself, “Neither did we.” 

On Dragonstone, Daemon had collected the handful of dragon eggs from Syrax’s last lair. They did look smaller and weigh less than others he remembered. For now, he chose to ignore this as he climbed further into a dragon lair. The cannibal had been housed in here once. So he thought from the burned remains of carcases in one corner. Those weren’t just remains of dragons or livestock. He recognised at least one armour there as well.

The waiting nearly drove him insane. He did want to wait until a ship carried more men with them; the voyage would take weeks from Driftmark to Oldtown. It would be faster to gather sellswords and sail than to sail around half of Westeros. 

One day, he stumbles into his nephew’s chambers. He is still in isolation. Although Daemon was more than sure that he posed no threat to spread the Fever anymore, he quite enjoyed it to keep him locked up. 

“Aemond, can you fight?” 

The younger points at his valyrian steel leaning against the table. “I have a sword.” 

“So do I.” Daemon rolled his eyes, but his grin could not hide his excitement, “I asked if you can fight? Cut through some guards and some Maesters as well?” 

Aemond did not answer him; he eyed his right leg before nodding eventually. 

“Good! Now, this shall be fun! I’ll take you and Addam for some flying and some fighting! See it as some adventure with your goodfather. Before I got to marry my late wife Laena, I also did some fighting alongside Corlys in the Stepstones!”

“So you miss war already?” 

Daemon shook his head in disbelief, his mouth still in a grin. “No. Of course not. But we can still bring justice, show others why our kind sits on the throne!”

Aemond sighs, “It is why I came here after all. Let us deal with it.” 

The following day, he found Aemond alongside Addam on the grass outside the Keep. Both had been talking to each other, but Daemon could not understand them. “Ay, my boys! Are you ready to fly?” He greeted them. 

Seasmoke landed close to Addam, who looked unconvinced but ready to aid Daemon in his endeavour. 

“Now, let us not tell your father or my cousin of this. Especially not the latter, but she would have been dying to come alongside us!” He greeted the young lordling.

“I assume that we return Addam home safely, don’t you agree, nuncle?” 

Daemon nodded towards Aemond. “Obviously! No need to fret, my boys! Not that I can guarantee anything, but I am feeling rather confident.” 

“And why is that?” 

“You have a brother,” Daemon pointed at Addam, “and you have no titles!” he smirked at Aemond. 

As he laughed, he could hear shouting from the Keep behind. Baela stood at a window with her swaddling babe in her arms. “If you will not return within a fortnight, I will fly Moondancer south myself and drag you back home.” 

He was about to interfere with his daughter’s antics as she continued, “This is a threat, not a promise.”

They flew over land. Over the Kingswood, passing Longtable and Ciderhall far above, to not be seen. Then they followed the Roseroad down towards Oldtown. While Aemond was to land Vhagar outside Oldtown’s walls, Daemon and Addam had landed on the shore of the Honeywine, out of sight. 

Their plan was for Aemond to return as the mourning son, still weeping over his recently deceased mother. It would make for a good cover. To pray in the sept and keep his ears open. Meanwhile, Daemon and Addam were to take a trading vessel down the Honeywine into the town wearing disguises. From there, they would infiltrate the Citadel and deal with any treacherous Maesters. 

Much easier than any fighting in the Stepstones, Daemon thought. And much less nerve-wrecking than to fight another dragon. If anything, he was excited for it. To cause some trouble- only to protect his family and the Realm, of course. To slit some Maesters and Septons and Hightowers from head to cock; Dark Sister had a thirst for blood again. 

As he climbed off Caraxes, he looked up to Vhagar. She flew further south, where he could see the Hightower looming in the distance.
It was strange to be flying with those two dragons again. Half a lifetime ago, he was in the skies with Caraxes alongside Vhagar and Seasmoke. Both had changed their riders. Both of them now dead. 

Another dragon had been with them most of the time as well. Daemon had tried not to think of her too much. His niece on her yellow she-dragon. Later, she became his third wife to die. He had been living far too long, Daemon remembers again. Three wives now dead. And just as many paramours had gone. 

The Dragonseed he had liked to warm his bed with was a wild and free thing, not far off from her dragon. Baseborn, she never felt right within any castle’s walls. Not even Daemon could keep her near him. Her wild dragon gave her freedom, and she used it plenty. He saw her rarely these days. 

Together with Addam on his side, they entered the city without any issue. Wearing ornately embellished robes in foreign fashion, they pretended to be traders from Lys returning to their ship that lay on the dock. Daemon spoke for both of them, for his lyseni lilt was rather convincing. Addam would only reveal their true identities. His accent is still so strong on certain occasions, his base-born nature not that easy to hide.

“I do look quite dashing!” Addam boasted with a swollen chest, admiring his ornate but slightly hideous clothes as they jumped off the ship and walked down a road. 

“Quiet!” Daemon hissed to his side, “I told you not to speak until we are alone.” To further his own disguise, the old prince had coloured his hair in a rather annoying shade of pink. Not far off his daughter Rhaena’s dragon. Obviously, it amused Addam plenty. 

They paid for rooms in a tavern that often housed foreign traders, while Aemond was to live inside the Hightower as their highborn guest. It had surprised Daemon how open everything was, how unbothered. The Fever is yet to reach this part of the Kingdom. And likely it never will. For Oldtown never saw a war, and the air is much warmer and- Daemon hesitated. Could the Maesters really control a disease? 

At night, he looked out to watch the beacon on top of the Hightower. Oh, how much prettier it would look bathed in dragonfire. 

With a grin on his face, he took a sack of coins and looked out for the next whore house. To rather information, of course.

On the fourth day after they arrived in Oldtown, they met with Aemond in the tavern that lay close to the Guildhalls near the docks. The tavern housed many a trader or traveller. Common Westerosi, gallant Essosi and murky figures all filled the banks. Ale and wine spilt from goblets. Daemon took a breath to be more at ease, but in here, he could hardly make out friend from foe. In one moment, he thought a cloaked figure was watching him from one corner, in the next, it turned out to be a highborn-looking lady waiting for her arriving lover. 

His nephew greeted him with a bright grin. “Is that the newest fashion they wear in Essos now?” Aemond twirled a lock of Daemon’s pink coloured hair around his finger, and there was nothing he could do but to endure it. 

“How is the Hightower, my prince?” Daemon said in bastard Valyrian, not to cause any suspicion. 

“Ah, Lord Lyonel Hightower was rather surprised over my quick return. I told him that it’s an old Valyrian custom to return to the passed ones and mourn for another forty days.” 

“And a man with all the knowledge of the Citadel to his feet was convinced that such a custom exists?” 

“It is a funeral rite lost to the times, of course. And only we true Valyrians know such a thing.”

“Of course.” Daemon chuckled. “And I suppose now we have forty days left to deal with our little problem?” 

Aemond scoots closer to them and was now speaking in the common tongue again, “What my Lord Lyonel told me was that the old High Septon had died and a new one had been installed just the past year. The old one has been praying so madly over the war that he fell over dead.” 

“Is this where we should start?” Addam asked. Daemon had told him about all of their suspicions before they flew off. “The new High Septon?” 

“It is one thing I was able to find out. Do you expect Lyonel to walk down the cital with me to show me their secret plans to kill us all?” 

“I assume that we would need to see the citadel from inside to get a better picture of this. It cannot be that hard to overstep certain lines and unlock secret doors.” Daemon looked at the two of them and back into the hall filled with drinking folk. He felt eyes on him from everywhere. It would do no well to turn mad with delusions now.

Aemond made a coughing noise, “Maelor’s dragon egg. It was on its way back to Oldtown. I do not remember that it had arrived back in King’s Landing while I was still there.” 

“Daeron had told me of no such thing,” Addam said, shaking his head. His friendship with the King remained strong. He would spend time in King’s Landing far too often with a seat in the small council but little political ability. “They called for it to be returned, but when the little prince was born, Daeron and Rhaena had put another into the crib. That one came from the same clutch as the one Baela and I put next to our daughter, Laena.” 

“So it either got lost or it found its way back here,” Daemon spoke quietly, his gaze fixed on a pair of strangely familiar eyes on the other end of the tavern’s hall.

Daemon had tried to find the cloaked figure after it had left the tavern way too quickly. But he was not used to Oldtown and its many old galleys and hidden ways. So he wanted to be found again. Aemond was back in the Hightower. Addam, less obvious and without unnaturally coloured hair, was to visit the Citadel to see for himself. 

His first stop for Daemon was yet another whorehouse, for men like to also spill their secrets here, amongst other things. It took almost another week until he found who he wanted again. 

“Prince Daemon Targaryen. That one is to ever see you in Oldtown.” The man pushed his cloak back slightly. A long face with a hooked nose in its middle stared back at him. Underneath his eyes lay deep purple shadows- as purple as his eyes. “My dear nephew, you should have made for a better disguise than pink hair chalk.”

Chains chimed quietly around the man’s neck as he moved slowly and delicately. With a grace that only a high court could have raised one. Vaegon Targaryen, shipped to the Citadel before Daemon’s birth, must have never fully lost his manners. Forgotten by most of the Kingdom, the former prince had forsaken his family name and title decades ago. Most must have believed him dead. But Daemon remembered him from the Great Council, where he had made a rare appearance in the Capital. 

“You have been watching me.” 

“Aye. I had wondered how long it would take for one of you to arrive here.” 

Daemon looked around nervously, unsure if they were being eavesdropped on. “I assume you are aware of the reason for our arrival?” 

“My ears are too weak to have heard your conversation the other day.”

Daemon grew uneasy and impatient. “Do you still hold loyalty to your old family?” 

“I bear no name but the title of an Archmaester.” 

“You have been seeking me out for a reason.” 

“Is that so? A fortnight ago, I had a knight bringing that young prince into the Citadel in the hopes that he would be smart enough to act on it. Hopefully, his smart decision was to bring you here.” 

“So it is true?” 

“Is what true?” Vaegon countered, eyeing him with a curious look. He made a pregnant pause before he spoke again; his voice a mere whisper. “An alley from the shield islands is docking in the port. Find it. We shall meet there tomorrow at noon.” With that, the Archmaester stood up and left the whorehouse on silent velvet slippers.

Still before daybreak, Daemon is prancing in his tavern room. Aemond and Addam look exhausted up to him. He had called for them right after his encounter with Archmaester Vaegon the past evening. He told them everything. Of the familiar face, his willingness to speak to them, but also of his own suspicions. 

Addam rubbed his eyes, trying to keep himself awake. “You cannot be sure where his loyalties lie. If it is with his order or his blood.” 

Aemond agreed, “If anything, it is validation of what we had feared. To trust him blindly could be fatal now. Whatever they are doing in there, however they are poisoning dragon eggs or hatchlings- taking out three dragonriders would be the much bigger triumph for them.” 

“What do you propose then?” Daemon took a sharp inhale. 

“Strike quickly and without mercy. We know of their doings now. We have three fully grown dragons outside the city walls. This would be the safest and most effective way.” Aemond looked sure. 

Daemon bit the inside of his mouth. He shook his hand slowly. There was more to this. They had to know the full truth, not just act on an old man's tale. His first thirst for blood had lessened, too intrigued was he now by the Maesters' offer of help. Was it an offer? 

It was Addam who broke the silence. “The Maesters likely do their scheming there, but won’t it be a terrible loss of knowledge to destroy the citadel? There must be a way to destroy the evil within without losing all that is kept there.” 

Daemon thought alike; a sudden attack would be devastating. Not just on the mass of scrolls and novices in there. It would also be exactly what they would expect of them. His need for vengeance has blinded his mind. “Strike blind, and we only prove their fears true. Strike clever, and they'll never rise again.”

Both men nodded, their silence a sign of agreement. The chamber grew still. Aemond and Addam watched him with steady, dutiful eyes, and Daemon felt the weight of their trust as surely as if it had been spoken aloud.

Only then did he notice how much they resembled each other. Silver-gold curls framed their faces, their pale skin carried the faintest trace of sun, and their eyes gleamed bright and violet. Yet only one face was marred by scars.

Aemond still bore the marks of his torment in the Black Cells, laid over the disfigurement he had carried before. He walked with a slight limp, almost invisible unless one knew to look for it.

At noon, all three stood in front of the alley where they were supposed to find Vaegon. Someone led them down into the belly of the ship. Aemond found his eyes in the darkness, hand on his sword’s pommel. He urged him forward. He took them both with him, for company and protection. They could easily get ambushed in here, but Daemon had a feeling that they wouldn’t be betrayed. 

Luckily, he was right. The ship’s belly was empty but for the old Maester standing next to an oil lamp. Behind him, Addam is looking in all the corners for any hidden danger. There are none. 

Vaegon Targaryen, Archmaester of the Citadel, hunched in his chair, the links of his chain gleaming dull in the wavering light. His pale eyes fixed upon Daemon, then upon Aemond, and last upon young Addam Velaryon, as if weighing each against the years of oaths he had sworn.“I had expected you to arrive together. You have faith in me, then.” 

Aemond eyes him sharply, “Your private words are a matter for all of us. Speak, old man!”

“You see yourselves as mighty, unchallenged,” he said at last, his voice thin but steady. “But you are prey. All of you. Every scale, every flame, every egg. Some men mean to rid the world of your kind, root and branch.”

The Maester reached into his cloak and brought forth a package wrapped in cloth. Aemond was pulling out his sword already. Daemon put a hand on his arm to keep him from anything he might regret. The cloth revealed a glass jar that reflected the candlelight. At first, he could not tell of its contents, only as the Masester held it closer to him. 

The few bites of his breakfast were to make an appearance again once Daemon realised what he saw. A disfigured lump of fleshy scales swam in a liquid. Eyeless, it stared back at him, a mouth with too many teeth wide and open. It had the rough shape of a worm, although there might be crippled limbs for legs and- wings? 

“A misshapen hatchling.” Vaegon answered, “Born from an egg tempered with. No one could suspect anything. From outside, it did look perfectly normal.”

“It grew into this beast because it had hatched here, far from any dragons.” Daemon countered, unsure.  

Vaegon shook his head, whether in pain or pride, none could say. He reached into his sleeve and laid a strip of parchment upon the table. The ink was cramped, the words written in neat High Valyrian. It looked much like any healing scroll, recipes for ailments. So very harmless. 

Aemond took the parchment, reading each carefully documented recipe, “Sterility. Infusions. Herbs that thin the blood.” He looked up sharply. “This is no medicine.”

“No,” said Vaegon. “It is warfare. Not with swords and spears, but with tinctures, powders, and patient hands.”

Vaegon’s gaze lingered on the parchment before him, as if the ink itself weighed heavily on his soul. “They are not the Citadel entire,” he said at last, voice low but steady. “Most here are blind, content to measure stars and mend bones. But in shadows a handful conspires. Archmaesters, novices, healers… men who whisper that dragons are a sickness upon the world, and that only in their extinction will the realm know peace.”

His fingers tightened on the links at his throat. “I have named them the Healers . They meet in secret vaults beneath the Tower of Healing, where no honest Maester treads. Their numbers are few, but their reach is long, and their work is patient. They speak of peace while they strangle your kind in the cradle. Eggs that will never quicken. Hatchlings that wither and die. Bloodlines made barren by careful draughts slipped into a goblet, or powders folded into meat.”

Addam swallowed, his face paling. “They mean to kill the dragons without ever raising a blade.”

“By made barren, you do not just mean the dragons.” Aemond looked in deep thought, his lower lip shaking slightly. He looked down at his gloved hand, as if studying the leather rather than meeting their eyes.

“My lady wife,” His voice was quiet, restrained. “In Pentos, she gave me one child. Strong, whole, as fine a boy as any man could ask for. She carried again after, but the babe was lost. Since then, nothing. When she was in King’s Landing, the Maesters had filled her with tonics, sworn would she would recover quickly and strengthen for another. But her womb has quickened no more.”

The chamber seemed colder for a moment. Daemon’s gaze sharpened, flicking between his nephew and the uncle he barely knew. Addam shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

Aemond drew a breath through his teeth, steadying himself. “I told myself it was the war, chance. The will of the gods I should believe in. But if it was not,” His eye lifted then, cold and cruel. “If her barrenness was given to her by the very men sworn to heal-”

Vaegon did not answer at once. His hands folded over his chain, his head bowed beneath its weight. At length, he said softly, “I cannot say. But I know this much: there are those among us who would see no more heirs of your blood.”

Aemond was at a loss for words, his fingers digging into the table. Unable to sit in the dark ship any longer, he jumped up and ran off. Daemon heard footsteps coming from the deck that pranced back and forth. They were ever so slightly uneven. 

It was Addam who broke the silence, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. “Fire cannot mend what is done,” he said carefully, knowing the one thing that is on both Daemon’s and Aemond’s minds. “And it will not keep it from happening again. Think on it, Maesters serve in every castle from the Marches to the Wall. If this sect hides among them, what lord will trust us if we burn Oldtown for vengeance? Every bannerman would see his own healer as a hidden dagger.”

Daemon scoffed. “So we do nothing?”

Addam met his gaze, young but unflinching. “No. We find a way to root them out, to show their treachery for what it is. If they are few, as the Archmaester says, then let us strike at them only. Strike too wildly, and we’ll drive every lord in the realm into their arms.”

Vaegon inclined his head in solemn agreement. “The boy is right. You are not only dragonriders, but princes of the realm. If you would break this guild, you must do so with precision. Fire is a tool, yes- but ashes make the soil fertile and new growth will sprout in no time.” 

Addam excused himself, rushing after Aemond in the hopes that he hadn’t yet done anything he might regret later. 

Daemon remains alone with the Maester, “If we burn them, we will destroy everything. If we put on the bare accusation, we will be the mad ones. How can we uncover them in a way that shows their cruelty and justifies an attack?” 

“Take the scroll and the jar with you. Lay it on the King’s writing desk.” Vaegon spoke calmly, “But do not wait too long to strike, the Citadel has its eyes and ears everywhere. It won’t take long until you are discovered. I cannot guarantee any of them or what they will do once their actions are discovered. Remember, the Prince of Dragonstone is dead. One of your daughters is with child, another has a swaddling babe. And the Maesters stand closest to them.”

“I cannot call their Maesters off without causing any suspicion.”

“Then do it before you get caught.” Vaegon hissed, “I will meet you inside your tavern’s room in three days. I need time, I need to think. Then we will forge a plan.”

He had spent those days hiding away in his room. His only company was a weary Addam Velaryon, who grew less patient with him each day. Aemond was back in the Hightower, trying to fake normality. Yet on occasion, he had flown Vhagar out. Each time she flew a little lower over the city. Her wings were just barely avoiding the Hightower. 

When Vaegon appeared on the third day, they had begun to form clearer plans. The now cramped chamber smelled of cheap ale; four pale figures sat around the wooden table, faces lit golden in the light of the flame. 

“There shall be an assembly.” Vaegon spoke softly, “Those who call themselves a part of said circle of scheming Maesters will come together and discuss further measures. Which leaves many, if not all of them, in one place at a time.”

“Perfect!” Daemon proclaimed, “Then it will be us who will wipe them out, root and stem. All at once. One strike and it is done.” 

The old Archmaester shook his head. "But only in the right way. Too clumsily, and the whole Citadel will rush to defend them. Chains clink loudest when rattled together."

Aemond's eye flicked toward the window, where the faintest glow of Oldtown's beacon painted the sky. His jaw moved, but he said nothing.

Vaegon raised his head, though his expression was grim. "There are places in the Citadel where flame spreads quickly, where a single spark becomes a pyre. If one wished to be clean, such places exist."

"And none would know it was us?" Addam swallowed. 

Daemon smirked. "None who live to speak of it. We must leave no trace that leads back to us.”

Aemond sat back, absent-minded, as if he was not interested in their plans the slightest. His gaze drifted toward the darkened window, as though he could see beyond stone and night to where Vhagar rested; he mumbled faintly. “We need to use the dragons.”

Such an idiot! Daemon thought. Fury crept up his spine. Had they not just planned to plant a fire in the middle of their nest? He feared that his nephew had not listened to one bit of their conversation. Too distracted was he ever since their last meeting. 

“Ay.” Vaegon nodded, less irritated with the young prince. “A dragon is no weapon of stealth. Yet it makes for a great spectacle. Many an eye will lie on it instead of places where they are supposed to be.” 

No one answered, but in the hush that followed, it was clear the plan had already taken root.

The two younger of the four had left already. And Daemon was relieved to see Aemond leave. A part of him fears that he will ruin all their careful scheming. While he had none of his former anger left, his mind was preoccupied with other things. But Daemon made no mistake. His nephew’s quietness only made him more unpredictable; he had always possessed a lack of control over his impulses. 

Now alone with the Archmaester, he dared to ask what had been on his mind ever since. “Pray tell me, uncle-” He looked into Vaegon’s calm eyes, “how much of this does the Hightower know? Are they behind it?”

“Our lordling is far too young to be involved in this.” 

Daemon made a motion with his hand. “Not this one, of course. Far earlier.”

Vaegon shook his head in thought, “While the Hightower is the protector of the Citadel, this institution is a labyrinth of many secrets and hidden knowledge. Those meant to protect it might be blind to its inner workings.” 

Unconvinced, Daemon continued. “Otto Hightower came to King’s Landing at a very peculiar time. The old King was senile and grief-stricken. He ruled these realms on his own and overly complicated things… for me, particularly.”

“I had sent him.” Vaegon let out a sad laugh, “My father had often written to me for advice. I was there for the Great Council and to aid my father. But I declined to return to the capital. My talents lie in mathematics, not in politics to rule seven Kingdoms. Ser Otto, a second son of the Lord, was a student of mine. Able in economics and diplomacy, with a steady hand that holds a polite quill.” 

“So you had brought the viper into our house.” Daemon grew irritated. His eyes lay on the pale golden ring that only an Archmaester of a certain subject bears. But Vaegon bore chains of many different metals. One particular link is a rare sight.

“He was an able man, curtly and faithfully.” Vaegon continued, “ If he held any ulterior motives, then none of a greater scheming. He married his daughter to the king for his own personal gain. Perhaps to spite you.”

“And that he did. Otto wanted me out of the court the moment he had set foot in it.” 

“I do believe there have been instances where he made the rational decision.” The old Maester chuckled. “While he had his own flaws, I do not think he was an instrument of a greater scheme. His own grandchildren are of the blood. And they are as much of a dragon as the rest of you are.” 

Daemon snarled, but Vaegon remained unimpressed. 

“His downfall was his ambition. Not much different to that of many a Lord in these Realms.” With the chiming of his chains, the Maester stood up. Everything that had to be said was done. From now on, they would prepare for their next move. 

Before Vaegon left through the door, Daemon looked at the links around his neck again. The gold, brass, bronze and copper. The silver, pewter, platinum and iron. And one very dark metal. Not yet black iron, but dark grey in colour with a distinctive rippled pattern. One he knows very well from Dark Sister’s blade.

They had to wait almost a week before it was time to strike. Daemon would go into the belly of the Citadel alongside Vaegon. Aemond was to fly Vhagar out over the harbour, as long as he was staying within sight. She wasn’t to return until later. Addam, meanwhile, would stay close by. A keen eye on his surroundings. Seasmoke had flown closer to the city, hiding in marshes along the Honeywine. Quick to arrive if needed. If all goes smoothly, he never appears. But if something goes wrong, Seasmoke is there to scatter men-at-arms, block pursuers, and make for a quick escape. 

At nightfall, Daemon and Vaegon slipped along the low quay of the Honeywine, their cloaks drawn tight against the damp river fog. The Citadel loomed ahead, pale stone vanishing into mist, its towers blind and cold. Daemon could smell the tallow smoke of lanterns, hear the faint cough of a novice left too long in the chill night air.

“Through the sally-gate,” Vaegon whispered, pointing toward a narrow arch set low in the wall. “The guards change before the second bell. If we are quick.”

Daemon’s mouth curved into a smile. “And if we are not?”

“Then you will do what you always do,” Vaegon muttered and led on.

The iron-studded door creaked faintly as Vaegon pressed a key from his sleeve into its lock. Once inside, the silence of the Citadel seemed to deepen, broken only by the soft slap of sandals on worn stone. Torchlight flickered from sconces, leaving pools of shadow between.

They had nearly reached the stairwell that wound downward toward the meeting chamber when a voice rang out: “You there! Who goes?”

Two guards rounded the corner, spears in hand. Not city watch- Hightower men, judging by their cloaks. Their eyes narrowed at the sight of Daemon’s sword hilt gleaming under his cloak.

“Novices,” Vaegon tried, raising his hand. Not yet ready to reveal his identity, “Summoned by-”

The first guard barked a laugh. “Novices? At this hour? Show your faces, or by the Seven, we’ll drag you to the Seneschal.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened. His hand closed on Dark Sister, the steel whispering as it came free. For an instant, torchlight kissed the blade, thin and hungry.

“Daemon,” Vaegon hissed. “We cannot!”

But the guards had already advanced, spears lowering.

The first thrust was met with a swift parry, the second with a cut so sudden the man barely gasped before his blood was pooling on the stones. Daemon moved like mist, silent but merciless; Dark Sister slid through the second man’s mail beneath his arm, and he collapsed without a cry.

For a heartbeat, the hall was still. Daemon wiped the blade on the nearest cloak, sheathing it back onto his belt. “Two less hounds for the Hightowers,” he muttered.

Vaegon stared down at the corpses, lips pressed thin. “Every drop spilt here is a trail leading back to you. If we are to succeed, nephew, you must let the fire be your sword, not your rage.”

Daemon smirked faintly, but his eyes were dark. “The fire will come. But some doors still need opening the old way.”

Together, they stepped over the bodies and vanished deeper into the Citadel’s bowels, the scent of blood already fading into the smell of dust and ink.

The tunnel was narrow and damp, its stone walls slick with age. Their footsteps echoed softly, cloaks brushing the walls as they descended deeper. A torch in Vaegon’s hand painted his gaunt face in shifting amber, the links of his Valyrian Steel chainlink glimmering like dark fire.

“You think I did not see the war coming?” Vaegon murmured, his voice low, brittle with disdain. “It lay in the blood. In yours. In mine. In all our kin. The Valyrian temper, quick to wrath, slow to forgive. Put a dragon beneath a man, and he will find quarrels where none exist, merely to unleash his fire.”

Daemon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Aye, and yet it was quarrels that made us kings.”

“Quarrels made you kings,” Vaegon snapped. “But it is wars that make corpses. You Targaryens never wanted for foes, and when those ran thin, you turned your blades inward. Brothers against brothers, sisters against sisters. Children locked in their mother’s womb were not safe from your dragons. Do you not see it? That is the curse you bear.”

Daemon said nothing, his hand resting lightly on Dark Sister’s pommel.

They pressed on, deeper. A sudden drip of water echoed like a clock’s tick.

“I know what they call me,” Vaegon said after a long silence. “The Dragonless.” His mouth twisted on the word. “They think it a jest. An insult. But once-” He drew in a breath. “Once, I had an egg.”

Daemon’s gaze slid to him, sharp and curious.

“I was a weak babe. Sickly. Your grandsire Jaehaerys thought to strengthen me. They placed a dragon egg in my cradle, as was our custom. It had belonged to Princess Daenerys before she died of the shivers.”

Daemon raised a brow. “Daenerys. Their firstborn daughter.”

Vaegon nodded. His grip tightened on the torch. “But it never hatched. Never stirred. Cold as stone in my arms. I thought then, as I have thought all my life, that it was because of me. That I was no true Targaryen. That even fire could find no purchase in my blood. Then I started to believe that the egg was poisoned by her illness. You must know, when the princess died, the King had a hatchling brought to aid her. It was for nought, as you may know. The girl died, and the dragon soon after.”

They turned another corner, shadows deepening.

“So I studied. I clawed through every scroll the Citadel keeps under lock, every whispered scrap from the east. I even went to Dragonstone, walked the halls where Valyria still breathes through black stone and smoke. I learned the old spells, the patterns of fire and blood. It earned me my chainlink of Valyrian Steel, the single one in the citadel currently.” His eyes flashed, catching Daemon’s for a heartbeat. “And still the maesters mocked me with their name. The Dragonless.”

Daemon’s voice was soft, almost mocking. “Perhaps you should have ridden as I did. Then you’d not need to hide behind scrolls.”

Vaegon’s smile was thin. “And perhaps if you had read as I did, you would have seen where this path leads. Fire does not choose its victims. Dragons kill kings and peasants alike, and in the end, they burn us all.”

They fell into silence, the torchlight bobbing with their steps, as if the shadows themselves listened.

“You talked of illness,” Daemon asked after they crossed the next corner, “This fever that’s swept the realm; the one that carried off the boy in King’s Landing. Was that your doing? Another poison slipped into the well? Another plot in a cup of milk?”

The torchlight caught Vaegon’s face as he glanced back, eyes hollow but steady. “No. That fever is no doing of the Citadel. It is winter’s hand, nothing more. The breath of cold and hunger carried on every wind. Wars fought in the last moons of summer stripped the granaries bare. Crops withered, stores emptied. The body weakens, and sickness follows.”

Daemon’s mouth curled into a scornful line. “So it is chance, you say. The young king’s heir falls, and it is nought but the turning of the seasons?”

Vaegon halted, lifting the torch so shadows danced high on the ceiling. “Do not twist my words. The circle’s designs are cruel, aye- but their cruelty is sharpened and precise. They aim not for peasants shivering in their hovels, nor even lords in their castles. Theirs is a war upon dragonkind and upon the bloodlines tied to it. To kill a babe of common stock gains them nothing. To still a womb of royal seed. That is their true art.”

For a heartbeat, silence filled the tunnel, broken only by the slow drip of water.

Daemon’s gaze hardened, his fingers brushing the hilt at his side. “Then the boy’s death is a chance. But the next may not be.”

Vaegon lowered the torch and moved on, his voice echoing softly. “Just so. And chance, Daemon, is merciless enough without a man’s hand guiding it.”

Both had been travelling through a maze of turns and stairwells for what must have been an hour now. The old Archmaester’s steps are steady despite he weight of years. At last, they came to a low arched doorway bound in iron. 

“One way in, one way out,” Vaegon murmured.  “It is here they meet, when they would speak freely. Here they do their plotting.” 

Daemon’s hand went to Dark Sister, but Vaegon caught his arm. “Steel will only give them martyrs. We need to silence the lot of them.” 

They entered the antechamber, and he heard the faint murmur of voices coming from the hall through the only other door. It was narrow, lined with shelves of scrolls, racks of jars whose contents reeked of herbs and stranger things. Daemon stuck flint to tinder, and the flame sprang hungrily to life. Together, they laid it among parchment, cloth and dry oil that would feed the blaze. They stepped out of the chamber to watch the embers taking hold.

When the fire began to spread, Vaegon turned to his nephew. His deep purple eyes reflected the flame, weary but clear. “Daemon. You must leave now.” 

Daemon frowned, half turning. “The fire needs no keeper. You will come with me.” 

Vaegon’s lips curved in a faint smile. “No. If the door is opened too soon, they will rush out, and the fire will die with the first draft of air. It must be barred from outside, and someone must hold it fast from within.”

Daemon stiffened, but before he could speak, Vaegon laid a hand on his shoulder. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You must know it already, don’t you? I was one of them once. A member of the circle. I thought to rid the realm of the dragon’s curse, as they call it. I had knowledge like none other. I knew of weaknesses, had access to goods no other Maester ever had. I lent my mind to their schemes, believing I was serving peace. But I was wrong. Every barren womb, every cracked egg; they were my doing too.” 

The Prince’s face hardened to stone. “So you seek redemption in fire.” 

“I seek to end what I began.” Vaegon pressed he iron key into Daemon’s hand. “Lock the door behind me. Let none escape. Let the world think it an accident or folly. It matters not. Only that their work ends here.” 

For a heartbeat, Daemon hesitated. His fingers closed around the key, its weight like judgment. Then, wordless, he stepped back. 

Vaegon slipped into the chamber, the smoke already thick, the fire snapping at parchment and wood. He glanced over his shoulder as he opened the single door that led into the secret hall where the Maesters met. “Tell them I chose this,” he said softly. “Tell them I was never theirs in the end.” 

Daemon shut the door. For an instant, he saw himself drag the old man out, but then the crippled hatchlings and mishapen stillborns came to him, and his hand turned the key. From beyond the chamber, he could hear voices growing louder, more terrified. Smoke crawled into the tunnel slowly as Daemon’s legs finally started working again.

He stumbled out of the tunnel mouth, the torchlight behind him swallowed by smoke. He drew in a ragged breath. Cold night air, stinging with the faint bite of flame. The fire within had only just begun to take hold, a glow behind stone walls, but already the Citadel’s calm was broken.

Shouts rang along the quays. Novices scattered like frightened birds, bells clanged from distant towers, and guards rushed without knowing where to run.

Across the bridge that bound Battle Island to the Citadel, Daemon glimpsed Addam pushing through the panic, his cloak torn open, eyes searching. Above him, Seasmoke wheeled, pale wings bright against the night. Higher still, Vhagar’s vast shadow passed, her roar splitting the chaos below.

The people of Oldtown screamed, some pointing skyward, others to the Citadel where smoke coiled from narrow windows. Guards yelled orders, baffled and blind, not yet knowing from where the blow had fallen.

“Stay back! Stay in your homes!” Addam shouted over the turmoil, hands raised as if to stem a tide. Some heeded him, clinging to their doors; others shoved past, but at least he slowed the panic. Even in the roar of dragons, he tried to keep order.

Daemon’s hand tightened on Dark Sister. He forced his stride to steadiness, swallowing the fire in his chest. Only he knew what had been lost beneath the stones. Vaegon’s calm face in the glow of rising flame, the door closing with finality.

He forced his way through the mass on the bridge, guards and smallfolk alike scattering before the glint of Dark Sister at his hip. Addam caught sight of him and rushed forward, breathless, his face lit by the glow of torches and the pale flare of Seasmoke circling overhead.

“Gods, you’ve set them alight already,” Addam said in a hurried whisper, seizing Daemon’s arm.

“Not yet,” Daemon growled. His eyes flicked back to the Citadel; only faint coils of smoke curled from the high windows. “The fire’s still within.”

“Aye, but it’s enough,” Addam answered, pulling him toward the crowd. “The bells rang when they saw Vhagar circling. Some swore she loosed flame, though she did not. Others saw the smoke at the Citadel and cried that dragons meant to put Oldtown to the sword. Fear spread faster than the fire ever could.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched. Above, Vhagar roared again, the sound shaking the stones beneath their feet. The smallfolk screamed and scattered, guards running this way and that, none knowing whom to fight or what to defend.

Addam lowered his voice, eyes darting to the Citadel. “The city thinks war has come again, Daemon. And in truth, perhaps it has.”

For a moment, Daemon stood still, staring back at the fortress of stone and learning, where behind the walls his uncle’s life was already ash. Then he turned sharply, dragging Addam with him into the surge of chaos.

The bridge swayed beneath the press of bodies; guards surging toward the Citadel, smallfolk fleeing into the streets. Addam lingered at the edge, hands raised, trying to push the tide back. “Stay calm! Back to your doors!” he shouted, voice cracking as a boy was nearly trampled underfoot. He stooped to pull the child clear, shoving him toward his mother. 

Even as the bells tolled and Seasmoke wheeled above, Addam looked back into the crowd, jaw set as if he might stay and hold the flood at bay himself. Daemon and Addam were swallowed by the crush, shoved this way and that until Seasmoke’s screech split the night. The pale dragon dropped low over the town’s square, scattering the crowd like leaves in a storm.

“Go!” Daemon shouted, thrusting Addam forward. “Get him to the sky before these fools put a spear through you.”

Addam did not argue. He vaulted the balustrade, landing hard on the quay below, and in the next breath, Seasmoke swept down, wings striking sparks from the stone. Addam scrambled into the saddle as the dragon crouched. In an instant, they were in the night sky, climbing away from the chaos.

The crowd roared anew when Vhagar descended. Her wings blotted out half the city, the beating of them a storm in the dark. She circled once, her broad shape lit by the fires now leaking from the Citadel’s windows. Then, with a sound like the sundering of the world, she loosed her flame.

The fire struck the very tower that housed the secret circle, turning its belly into a furnace. Stone cracked, smoke poured forth, and the screams of men within were drowned beneath the thunder of Vhagar’s fury. Vaegon has assured him that the tower was empty but for the assembling Maesters deep below. Scrolls of importance had been brought to other places in more fireproof corners of the citadel. A single burning tower would be enough to scare them for good, without burning all of the knowledge of the Seven Kingdoms to ash. 

Daemon pushed through the square, the chaos of Oldtown swirling around him; bells tolling, mothers shrieking for lost children, guards shouting half-heard orders. And then the crowd itself broke apart as Caraxes came down from the clouds.

The dragon’s long neck snaked down, hissing, teeth bared in the glow of the fires. Daemon leapt, Dark Sister clattering against his side as he clambered into the saddle. With a shriek that split the night, Caraxes surged upward.

They flew over Oldtown’s maze of roofs and bridges until the Hightower rose before them, black and immense, its beacon a white fire that had burned for centuries. Daemon pulled hard on the reins, guiding Caraxes against the smooth wall. The dragon’s claws found anchor, stone shuddering as the wyrm climbed, higher and higher, scraping the tower with each step.

The beacon flared above, its flame a guiding light for sailors at sea. Daemon’s face was lit by it as Caraxes reared back. Then, with a roar that drowned the city’s bells, the Blood Wyrm spewed fire upon it.

Later, it is said to have been a mistake by Vhagar. A misunderstanding. An accident by a prince already banished from the realm in all but name. 

But those surviving speak of other things. Of strange rites and chanting coming from the very belly of the Citadel that has been lit far before any dragonflame ever came. The realm may never know what happened on that evening, but those who were meant to see it knew exactly what took place. A warning. A demonstration of sheer power and the clear sign that they will not cower in front of men moving in darkness. The Citadel is shaken, but not destroyed. They took the warning; they are not untouchable within their own walls. 

In King’s Landing, the Grandmaster died. Seemingly from the shock of the partial destruction of the Citadel. But his body had been put to rest very quickly. And it had not been returned to Oldtown like all the others had before. 

Driftmark and Dragonstone also had to request a new Maester, for theirs had suddenly vanished. Some claim evil motives.
In Harrenhal, the Maester fell from its second-highest tower. No one was there to witness how he had been pushed. 

The young queen retreated into her womanly confinement, and there was yet a new Grandmaster to be named. Due to the chaos that had erupted and the ongoing rebuilding of the Citadel, the vote could not take place yet. To aid the queen with childbirth, a healer was sent from Pentos, arriving on Dragonback.