When did Daemon's body begin to fail him?
Not even Daemon himself could pinpoint the exact moment. By the end of the 131st year since the Conquest, he was still riding his dragon to Lys, inspecting the spoils from "selling" his son. In the year 132 AC, he personally flew to Dragonstone to celebrate the birth of Draezell's third child.
Diana had given birth to a beautiful baby girl without complications, but the mother herself was far from satisfied. According to later ballads, Diana nearly wept upon seeing her daughter:
"I have failed to bear my husband a child with silver hair and violet eyes!"
Of course, any bard who publicly sang such songs mysteriously vanished into the wilderness, and this record soon faded from history.
Draezell, however, did not mind in the slightest. For when the baby girl was born—laughing, with honey-colored hair and mismatched eyes, one violet and one blue—Zarafax let out a joyous roar within the dragon lair.
This was proof that the girl, named Seryna, carried the bloodline of the Valyrian Dragonlords. It also confirmed that the traits of their lineage would indeed fade when mixed with other blood. Rey noted this fact in his records with great satisfaction.
In the year 133 AC, Daemon presided over the grand opening of the Great Sept of Jacaerys. The Prince Regent personally placed the newly crafted crystal crown upon the High Septon's head. On that day, Caraxes circled all of King's Landing, its piercing cries ringing across the capital. Every citizen bore witness to the prince whose once-silver hair had begun to turn gray.
Later that year, he attended the funeral of Helaena Targaryen.
The ill-fated "Sister Queen" had succumbed to a severe illness, and Dreamfyre, now fully a wild dragon, ceased to involve herself in any matters of the Dragonpit from the day Helaena passed. Like Syrax before her, she fell into a cycle of endless slumber and feasting.
The once-reckless prince had now devoted himself entirely to the governance of the realm. By the time he realized his own body was failing in 134 AC, he had already served nearly five years as Regent. Under his rule, King's Landing had been rebuilt after the devastation of war and rebellion. The courtyard of the Red Keep had been expanded, the Great Sept of Jacaerys completed, and the roads of the city repaved. No longer were the streets drowned in filth and excrement—they were now lined with cobblestones and stone slabs.
Flea Bottom, of course, still remained—poverty was a problem that no kingdom could ever fully erase. Even the Summerfield had its own slum, the Ant District. But the roads and houses had been repaired.
The treasury of King's Landing was once again filled with gold. Yet, heeding the advice of Lord Bartimos Celtigar and Lotho of House Rogare—who had been sent to assist—Daemon reinvested much of the wealth into the city's industries. He also purchased large quantities of grain to support the struggling lords bracing for the coming winter.
Everything was moving in the right direction. Daemon eagerly anticipated the day of King Aegon's sixteenth name day.
Until he noticed blood in his stool.
Until he felt a heavy mass in his abdomen, a weight that brought relentless waves of pain.
By then, it was too late.
The learned Grand Maester Munkun recognized the illness at a glance. A disease for which there was little to no cure. All he could offer were medicines to ease the Prince's suffering, but when it came to the question of recovery, he had no answer.
"Your Grace, I can only tell you what we have observed in patients with similar afflictions," Maester Mukun said, his face drawn with exhaustion. He had scoured every tome he could find, but still, he was powerless against Daemon's condition. "The longest any man has lasted with this illness… was one month."
"I see. You may go, Maester," Daemon waved him off, but then suddenly called him back.
"Your Grace, I am here."
"Inform the Small Council. Keep working." Daemon gripped the armrest of his chair, then added, "Write to Prince Draezell at Dragon's Nest. Tell him of my condition."
"Shall I tell him everything?" Mukun asked.
"Everything," Daemon said.
"As you command." The Grand Maester sighed and withdrew.
Daemon straightened himself, stepping toward the window. He gazed down upon the bustling streets of King's Landing and the sun sinking toward the horizon.
He closed his eyes.
And when he opened them again, it was as if something had returned to his body. Strength surged through him. Without hesitation, the Prince strode out of the chamber, throwing a golden cloak over his shoulders.
As he emerged from the Red Keep's courtyard, standing tall with squared shoulders, Lord Bartimos Celtigar happened to pass by. He froze for a moment, then quickly turned to a nearby guard.
"What is His Grace the Prince Regent planning to do?" he asked, his voice tinged with alarm.
The Red Keep guards exchanged puzzled glances—they did not know the answer either.
"The King… what are you…"
The captain of the Gold Cloaks stared in astonishment as Daemon barged into the barracks. The old prince, breathing heavily, looked at the captain and pointed at his own golden cloak.
"You understand what this means, don't you, Byrch boy?"
He fixed his gaze on Ser Balon Byrch, the current commander of the City Watch. This man had once followed the younger Daemon, and now he, too, was no longer young.
Balon, his hair now streaked with white, glanced at the prince's hand clutching his abdomen. He understood. He picked up the sword of the Gold Cloaks with one hand and supported the prince with the other.
"I'll gather the men at once."
Daemon smiled, pulling away from Balon's grasp to show he could walk on his own.
And so, that night, the older folk of King's Landing witnessed a familiar sight—Prince Daemon, clad in his signature black armor and a golden cloak draped over his shoulders, parading through the streets with the Gold Cloaks.
When the Gold Cloaks caught a thief, they howled as they swung their swords, severing the culprits' hands. When they apprehended men who preyed on women, their blades took something else from them.
They kicked down the doors of gangs they once turned a blind eye to, taking the heads of those who had paid their dues to remain untouched and offering them to their prince.
Daemon smiled as he watched this familiar scene.
This time, he said nothing.
He merely observed as the Gold Cloaks carried out justice. And compared to the past, this was already a gentler purge.
The Gold Cloaks only went after those they knew to be criminals. As for the common folk who abided by the law, these fierce enforcers dared not act too arrogantly.
Because Prince Daemon was there.
Leading this group, Daemon arrived at the brothel owned by Rogario Rogare.
"Your Grace…" Balon hesitated, watching Daemon nervously. He had followed the prince in his youth and knew his old habits all too well.
But this time, Daemon merely shook his head with a smile and continued patrolling the city.
That night, all of King's Landing saw the Gold Cloaks marching through the streets. Their grand procession eventually stopped at the foot of the Dragonpit.
Daemon turned his gaze to the Gold Cloaks, who, under his silent command, straightened their backs in unison.
"Dismissed."
"Your Grace…"
"That's an order. Dismiss, return to the barracks."
"As you command!"
Daemon watched as the Gold Cloaks marched away in formation. Then, alone, he walked into the Dragonpit.
Caraxes crawled toward him, anxious. The dragon could sense his rider's condition. The great serpent let out a soft, whimpering sound, a rarity for such a fearsome beast.
"Don't be sad, Caraxes. Let me rest for a while."
Daemon leaned against the dragon's warm scales and slowly sat down. The Blood Wyrm carefully adjusted its posture, ensuring that its rider was comfortable.
As Caraxes gazed at him again, Daemon had already drifted into deep sleep.
It seemed that pain could no longer reach him.
Far away in Dragonstone, Draezell, about to retire for the night, suddenly felt something.
He frowned, looking north.
"What's wrong, my love?" Diana asked curiously, following his gaze.
"It's nothing. Let's sleep."
Draezell sighed deeply and lay down.
He knew that strange feeling meant something.
And soon, he would know what.
---
Daemon walked into the grand hall of the Red Keep.
He saw the Iron Throne.
Empty.
But in the next moment, someone was sitting on it.
A man Daemon would never forget.
Viserys I.
The stout king looked at his brother with a complicated expression.
"Brother…"
Daemon stepped forward slowly, unsure of what to say.
"You've grown old, little brother."
Daemon froze.
Of all things, he hadn't expected that to be the first thing his brother said.
Viserys reached out with a trembling hand and touched Daemon's head.
"You've worked hard, Daemon. I never thought my foolishness would lead to such a disaster." His voice trembled. "Daemon… I'm sorry…"
"That's something I should be saying, brother."
Daemon knelt on one knee, making it easier for Viserys to pat his head.
"Only when I sat in that chair did I realize just how wrong I had been."
He sighed deeply.
"Only then did I understand how reckless I was in my youth."
"I know."
Viserys smiled.
"You've done well, Daemon. From the start, I knew… you never truly wanted the throne. You were just unwilling to be cast aside."
The old king looked up at the sky.
The Iron Throne's jagged swords pierced through his body.
Daemon, horrified, reached out to grasp his brother.
But it was futile.
"I was wrong, Daemon. It was my hesitation that led to this bitter outcome." Viserys' voice gradually faded. "It was I who got my children killed, Daemon… These years… have been hard on you."
Daemon reached out, but Viserys' figure dissipated upon the Iron Throne. Yet, another hand suddenly grasped his.
Rhaenyra.
Daemon found himself at a loss for words as he looked at the woman before him. She had once been his tool, his lover, his wife, and his queen.
But now, she was simply his wife—the woman who had entrusted everything to him.
Rhaenyra suddenly pulled him into an embrace and kissed him fiercely.
They spoke no words. They merely sat together upon the Iron Throne, holding each other, kissing, until Rhaenyra slowly faded away in Daemon's arms.
"Daemon cousin, so… do you think it was all worth it?" Draezell's voice rang out at the right moment.
Daemon looked at Draezell, who had stepped beside the Iron Throne, and nodded lightly. "I was reckless in my youth, awakened in middle age. I was once ambitious and indulgent, then loyal and devoted. But I have never had any regrets." He leaned back on the Iron Throne. "And the truth is, I won."
"Speak properly, cousin."
"I'm too tired," Daemon muttered. He had never felt the Iron Throne so comfortable before. He could let himself go completely, stretch as he pleased, no longer mindful of his wounds. "Truly exhausted. I think Aegon had the right idea before he died."
"I'm almost regretting it," Daemon said with a broad grin. "I should have pressed on and fought Vhagar back then—died gloriously on the battlefield. That would've been far better than dealing with all this mess. Only the Seven know why I ever thought the Iron Throne was something worth desiring in my youth. Was I foolish? Or was I just desperate for Viserys' attention?"
"Aren't you worried that this Iron Chair will end up belonging to my house?" Draezell smirked.
"Hahaha, Draezell, your distaste for this chair is obvious to everyone." Daemon sighed, yet he still sprawled lazily over the Iron Throne, pointing at Draezell. "Whether your descendants sit on this chair or mine—what difference does it make? The moment House Targaryen and House Vaelarys intertwined, I understood this truth. But tell me, Draezell, I've always wondered—why are you so determined to stay in Westeros?"
"The Long Night," Draezell said. "A new Long Night is coming. The Song of Ice and Fire will play again in the future. We must be part of it. That is my reason."
"That explains a lot..." Daemon's voice grew weaker. Gradually, he, too, faded from the Iron Throne.
Only Draezell remained, watching the scene before him with quiet composure, before he, too, vanished from this dreamscape.
Daemon awoke.
Sensing its rider's awakening, Caraxes quickly craned its long neck toward him. Daemon reached out to touch the dragon's head, then glanced southward, then northward, as if grasping some revelation, before he let out a long sigh.
"Old friend… let me fly one last time."
With effort, Daemon climbed onto Caraxes' saddle and patted the dragon's back as he had done so many times before.
The great beast roared as it took flight from the Dragonpit. The slender, blood-red dragon circled King's Landing three full times before slowly descending onto the flatlands beside the Dragonpit's rear entrance.
Inside the Red Keep, Tyland watched Caraxes rise into the sky, feeling a sense of foreboding. He turned to Lord Bartimos beside him. "My lord…"
Bartimos sighed. "That is a dragonlord's pride, Lord Tyland. We must prepare for the aftermath until His Grace and Prince Draezell return to King's Landing."
"I understand."
Caraxes landed softly upon the ground, allowing Daemon to dismount.
And that was when he finally felt it—the searing, unbearable pain. He nearly tumbled from the saddle. Even getting down was a struggle.
Gritting his teeth, the old prince staggered toward Caraxes.
"Caraxes… dracarys."
The dragon hesitated.
"Caraxes, dracarys."
Caraxes looked around. There was nothing to burn. Then, at last, the dragon turned its gaze toward its rider—who was clutching his stomach, barely able to stay on his feet.
"My old friend, we were born in fire and blood. And in fire and blood, we shall die. This is my honor."