Chapter Text
Chapter 1-PROLOGUE
Daemon sat in his holdfast, as he had for years now, while men sat in front of him and tried to have him commit treason. The whispers had come long before the King's demise, and even when their father had sat on the throne, people had flocked to his side, offering him their blades and their men so that he might succeed him on the throne.
They claimed that it was his right, and that the King had decreed it as such when he had given him the blade of the King.
Blackfyre hung on the wall, still sharp as ever. Daemon had not wielded a better blade, and he had wielded many. The sword fit in his hand like it was destiny itself, and he had yet to lose a battle with the blade in his hand.
The Conqueror come again, they called him. The destined King, they named him even without his heed. Though they did not do so out of any love for him, for they held little of it.
They did so out of greed and ambition. They did so because of the Dornish wares and Dornish merchants plaguing their markets, and the Dornish reds that had become commonplace at feasts in the Red Keep. They did so because of the black-haired queen, and the black-haired son she had borne his half-brother—who they said was not his brother at all, but was instead a cousin born to the infallible Dragon Knight—and whose black hair and Dornish blood sang to them of further decline in their fortunes and influence.
Many had come to him, and had sung the same song. The song of destiny and ambition. They had offered promises of support, but Daemon had been unmoved. He had little love for the throne, even though they claimed that he was born for it.
He had only ever loved one thing, and that would never be his. Daenerys was gone and married off to a Dornish Prince even though she was the only thing he had ever sought for himself.
Not Blackfyre. Not the Throne.
Only her. Only Daenerys.
Yet, Daeron had denied him this. The King had reminded him of the wife he had, and the children she had borne him. He had refused his plea, and even then he had not raised his blade.
Many a time, Daemon wondered if things could have been different if he had done so. If he had raised his blade then perhaps she would be here, sitting beside him and singing to him in that sweet voice of hers.
But the blade had not come out, and now he could only ever dream of her—but even in those dreams, Daenerys had made herself scarce.
"It is a trap," Bittersteel snarled as he often did. He held the royal missive in his hands, and the message was short and simple.
Daemon had been summoned to the King's court by his King. The summons was unusual, for he had no business in the capital, yet Daeron had called on him nonetheless to discuss the matters of the realm.
"What makes you say that?" Daemon asked, and usually he would have rubbished these rumors, but the words felt odd to him.
There was nothing really odd about them, yet for some reason he had spent the entire night peering down at them, hoping to find out why his heart felt the way it did, but his eyes and hands had offered him nothing.
"Bloodraven's poison has finally worked its way into the King's heart," Aegor continued. His face twisted with disgust whenever he spoke of Bloodraven, another half-brother of theirs—but he was more Daeron's brother than he ever was his.
"He knows that the lords are frustrated with him over how he has sold the Crown to those Dornish bastards." Aegor continued, and Daemon had no love for the snakes as well, but Daeron was wed to a Dornish Princess, and their marriage had done what his namesake's army had failed to do.
The Seven Kingdoms were whole again, even though the unity had come at too steep a cost in the words and whispers of many a lord.
He rubbed his temples as he reminded himself that it was all still conjecture. Yet in his heart, he knew that Daeron had made his bed.
"It has been two and ten years since he came upon the throne after our father's demise. Two and ten," he reminded his half-brother.
"Why are there so many whispers of treason and treachery even now?" He had grown tired of them. Of this.
"Because Daeron Targaryen is not worthy of the throne," the second man finally spoke. He was a lord from the Reach—Gormon Peake—one who was a frequent guest at his holdfast.
He was a man of dark hair and darker eyes. He was the voice of the lords who wished to see Daeron removed from the throne. Most of them were Reach Lords, who had lost their gold and their importance to the Dornish.
They were bitter men, in his mind. Bitter, and driven. They had been the ones to start the rumor about Daeron's contested parentage. They were the ones who claimed that he was a bastard born out of crime and lust, yet they had no proof of it.
Though neither did Daeron.
"The whole realm knows that the King is a usurper, that he is not the true heir of the late King," Lord Peake continued as he looked him in the eye.
"King Aegon made his intentions about the succession clear when he gave you that blade," and now he was pointing towards one of his greatest treasures.
"Blackfyre. The sword of the Kings. You were destined to wear the Conqueror's crown, your grace, and one can never outrun destiny," and Daemon shook his head.
How many times had he heard this same song?
"I had no desire for the crown twelve years ago, and I have no desire for it now," Daemon repeated.
"Your desire matters little now. Daeron, the pretender...," and he chose to cut in.
"Be mindful of your words, my lord," Daemon warned as his voice grew cold.
"He is still your King," and he sipped his wine as the Lord of Starpike shook his head.
"No, your grace, he is not," the man retorted.
"I am not alone when I say this: dozens more like me know only one true King in this land, and it is you, your grace. Daemon Blackfyre. The one true heir to King Aegon, the fourth of his name," and now it was Bittersteel who spoke.
"The lords have grown tired of waiting," and his eyes shifted towards his half-brother as he sipped his wine.
"I know that many of them have already called on their banners and their levies," and that filled him with only alarm.
"What?" he asked, and Aegor nodded.
"Aye, and they will rebel whether you lead them or not," and now he realized why he could not sleep last night, as he realized that the whispers he had been hearing were not just mere whispers.
"I gave no such command," Daemon repeated.
"Aye, but Daeron will never believe that. The lords have run out of patience. The Dornish control the capital, and are growing rich and fat with their coin and Daeron the Pretender is too blind to their treachery," and Daemon rubbed his temples again, as the aching from the night returned.
"The pretender King has sold the realm to the Dornish," Gormon Peake added, and now he knew why the man was a guest in his Halls.
"We will not let this stand," and Daemon had heard enough.
"Please, give the call, your grace. Give the call, and thousands shall raise their banners in your name. We shall have King's Landing within the moon, and you shall sit on the Iron T..."
"Enough!" his voice cut through the room as his stare silenced the two men.
"I understand your pains and frustrations, my lord. I truly do," and if it were up to him, he would burn all of Dorne just to see a glimpse of his old love. But he could not condemn the realm to death and treachery because of his own selfishness, and he would not let others do that to him as well.
"I have no love for Dorne and its sands. I pray to the Seven every day in hopes that they would strike it down with their wrath and spare all but one soul within those wretched deserts, but I am no traitor, and I will not offer my name to your cause," Daemon defied them, just as he had done so years ago.
"But..." he raised his hand and stopped the Lord of Starpike from mouthing out any more treachery.
"Tell your lords to disperse the men and store away the arms. They will have need of them in the wars to come, yet no war will come tomorrow, for I intend on riding to the capital all alone so that I may intercede on their behalf and wash away all this nonsense," and now the two men spoke in unison.
"You can't!"
"No!"
Aegor was on his feet now and continued.
"The summons show that Bloodraven knows all this already and has already spoken of it to Daeron. He will have you in chains the second you walk through those gates, and I will not stand for that," and Daemon did not believe in this.
"My brother is no fool. He will not fall for Bloodraven's poison. I shall go to him and reassure him of my vows. There will be no war in this kingdom in my name," and he would not have thousands shed their blood for an ambition he did not possess.
"Let me prepare a retinue, then. Fifty men." That could provoke Daeron, and the situation was dire enough already.
"No. I shall go alone, and I shall go tomorrow," Daemon declared before he turned towards the Reach Lord once again.
"I want the ravens in the air by tomorrow's morn. I will not lend my name to this rebellion, but I will lend my support to your cause and your fears," he assured the man.
"I will make your case in front of my brother and persuade him to lessen the Dornish influence at court so that your Houses and your lands can prosper as they did under my father," and Lord Gormon Peake scoffed at that.
"No land shall prosper as long as a bastard sits on the Iron Throne," and that was unkind of the man, who failed to remember that Daemon and the man standing beside him were both bastards once.
"I shall write the letters, but war will come one day. It will come, whether you like it or not, and it will pain me much to see you unprepared for it, though if I still draw breath you will have both my sword and my men," and with that pledge, the man walked out of his solar, leaving him alone with his half-brother whose own frustrations were obvious.
"I wish you a safe journey, my lord..." and then he left him as well, and he was then alone in his solar wondering if he had just made another mistake.
His day was plagued with treachery, and yet he found no comfort late into the night when he walked into his chambers and saw them empty as they had been for some days now.
He turned to a servant and asked for his wife, though he already suspected the answer.
"She is with Prince Daemon," and this was the other Daemon of the castle, one who had his own burdens to carry. He had need of her comforts and her mind. So he grabbed his coat and strode through the halls before he reached his son's room.
The Gods had blessed him with seven children, and of them Daemon was the third, though he was born second after Rohanne gave birth to twins, Aegon and Aemon, five years before giving birth to the boy who shared his name and maybe even his burdens.
He pushed open the door and saw her sitting there on the bed. Her head did not turn at the sound of the door, and he slipped into the room as quietly as one could.
The boy was seven now, and was rather brave and quiet in the day. But it was the nights that haunted him. In his words, dreams came to him when the Sun set, and not just regular dreams.
Dreams of the future, the kind of dreams that had come to Daenys and many after her. They would come and leave him screaming so loudly that his throat would be raw for days, and Rohanne, for all that she was not the woman he loved, was a good mother.
On such nights she would sit by his side, and her presence would soothe the boy. The dreams would come still, but her presence often made him braver.
"Again?" he asked, and she did not turn her gaze away from the boy.
"Yes." She nodded.
"It has become more frequent," Daemon noticed.
"Aye, and they are clearer now," and now she finally turned towards him, and she was beautiful. She was all that many a man would desire in a wife, but she was not Daenerys.
She was not her.
"He spoke of a war today," and Daemon grew cold as he heard those words.
"A war between a black and a red dragon," and they were the black dragon.
"He has spoken of this before," Daemon pointed out.
"Aye, but he has not dreamt it before. Yesterday, he dreamt it. He dreamt a field of grass dyed red. He dreamt of dragons fighting on it. Two dragons, red and black," and he knew well what she was trying to say.
"There will be no war," he reassured her.
"Lord Peake came to see you today," and she had heard of this.
"The man comes to see me often," he defended himself.
"And each time he comes to you to speak of war. What if he is right, Daemon? What if he really is like Daenys the Dreamer and the visions..."
"...are nothing but the fears of a boy," and he defied them all, as he often had.
"The boy reads too much. The maester says that even he does not have the answer to many of his questions. He reads about wars and prophecies, and they linger in his mind, and when his eyes shut, his mind takes all that he has read and stirs them up into stories of its own," Daemon argued, for the other truth was too cruel for him to accept.
How could he accept that war was inevitable? How could he accept that, when he had given up his most precious possession just to prevent it? If war truly was inevitable, then could he have fought it for her?
He could have fought it for Daenerys.
Her words soured his mood, and he realized that he would have little comfort from her today, and so he turned around in a sour mood.
"I intend to ride to the capital at dawn. Wake the boys early, so that I may speak to them before I go..."
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