Daeron Targaryen
He kept his head down, feeling the Lady of the Rock's glare like hot iron on his skin.
"I think she wants me dead," he murmured to Ser Gerold, voice barely more than wind.
Gerold didn't look up from where he sat polishing a gauntlet; his voice was dry. "That's to be expected, my prince. You did beat her son." He stroked his beard, eyes thoughtful. "If it had been your mother in her place, you'd have been put to death a hundred times over by now."
"Haha." Daeron let out a short, humorless laugh as he waved lazily at the cheering smallfolk and shifted on his bench. "Anyway," he said, glancing toward the tourney grounds, "any promising candidates this time?"
"Roger Reyne is likely to win the melee," Gerold replied, eyes fixed on the field. "But if I were there, I'd win. As for the joust—well, I'll win that too." His tone was as matter-of-fact as if he were stating the weather. Below, two knights clashed, steel ringing loud. "Jason Lannister is holding up," Gerold added, "but that's all. He's barely blocking the blows."
"I see." Daeron's lips curled faintly. He turned to the nobles seated beside him. "A thousand gold dragons on Lord Reyne."
He ignored the shocked look he got from Gerold, pretending not to notice the knight's furrowed brow or the quiet exhale that followed.
"I'll take that wager," came the reply from a smooth, familiar voice. He turned to see the speaker and raised a brow.
"Ah, Lady Joanna," he said with a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Let's make it a good one, shall we?"
"My Prince…" Gerold began, his tone carrying that familiar mix of warning and weariness.
"Not now, Ser," Daeron cut him off, not looking away from the tourney grounds.
On the ground below, as Gerold had predicted, Jason Lannister held out valiantly for a few minutes—parrying, circling, and taking blow after blow—before finally yielding, his sword sinking into the dirt in surrender.
Daeron leaned back in his seat, a satisfied grin playing on his lips as he turned toward Joanna. "Looks like that's a thousand gold dragons off your purse, my Lady Lioness."
Daeron smirked, resting his chin on his hand as he watched Joanna disappear into the crowd. "Hmph, I will win it back in the Jousts. Just you wait," she had said, her indignant stomp earning a few amused glances from nearby lords.
He didn't notice Gerold staring until the older knight cleared his throat. "What is it?" Daeron asked, eyebrow raised.
Gerold crossed his arms. "I thought you only had five hundred gold dragons. Where did you get the other five hundred?"
Daeron's lips curled into a sly grin. "Oh, I borrowed them."
Gerold's brow furrowed. "Borrowed? From whom?"
"From you, of course."
The knight blinked, then let out a slow, disbelieving sigh. "Seven save me, one day you'll be the death of me, my prince."
Daeron chuckled. "Then I suggest you start praying harder, Ser Gerold."
"I believe it's time we meet with Lord Roger." Gerold said as he got up and motioned him to follow, "He is an ambitious man; his only goal is the betterment of his house. And having you is a key to many of those ambitions."
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King's Landing-Aegon V Targaryen
He paced restlessly behind his desk, trying not to pull his hair out. "This brat," he muttered, exasperation lacing his tone, "he's causing me trouble even while he's away on punishment! What to do? What to do?"
Ser Duncan the Tall, ever unshaken, poured the King a cup of water and set it before him. "You'll lose your hair faster if you keep fretting, Egg," he said with a small grin. "From what I read, it was young Tywin who started the whole mess."
"Ser Duncan is right," Prince Jaehaerys added, handing another letter across the desk. "The Lannisters have already apologized. I don't see a problem worth tearing your beard over."
Aegon groaned, slumping into his chair. "That boy will push half the great houses into rebellion one day," he grumbled. "He's already got plans brewing in that head of his."
"Plans?" Prince Duncan arched a brow, genuinely puzzled. "What plans could a seven-year-old possibly have?" His eyes shifted between his father and brother — and he caught the faint, guilty look on Jaehaerys's face.
Aegon sighed deeply. "Do you know why I truly sent him away, Dunk? It wasn't because of that business with the septa."
Duncan frowned. "Then why, Father?"
The King leaned back, rubbing his temples. "Well…"
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Day of the Septa Incident
"When will you learn to control that temper of yours, child?" Aegon snapped as he hauled Daeron from the blood-slick chamber. "You should have come to me if anything like this was happening."
Daeron said nothing as they walked toward the King's solar. He let the cold air from the hall dry the blood on his skin.
"Do you know what you've done?" Aegon bellowed once they reached the solar. "If word of this spreads, the Faith will call for a rebellion. I lost a son just last year chasing bandits—do you understand that? You took this too far."
"Do you know why the Baratheons rebelled when Uncle Dunk broke the betrothal?" Daeron asked, his voice was emotionless.
"What has that to do with this, boy?" Aegon growled. "Those were different times."
"Just answer me, Grandfather."
Aegon felt something stir in his chest as he watched the boy's bloodied face and amethyst eyes gleam in the gloom — an odd, almost obedient impulse
"Lyonel Baratheon felt slighted; his daughter was distraught. He was a man who could not control his anger."
"Then why didn't House Tyrell for Mother or House Tully for Father, or even the Redwynes, who boast the strongest fleet in Westeros, rebel? They had equal reason to do so."
Aegon had no answer to that.
"Let me ask you one more." Daeron pulled a chair and sat down. "Would the Baratheons have rebelled when we had dragons?"
"No," Aegon answered almost instinctively.
"Exactly," Daeron laughed, "Fear is why the other houses did not rise," Daeron said, voice flat. "The Tullys hold the Riverlands by a thread; Grandmother's Blackwoods command the largest host there and would side with us. Many houses would fall apart at a sign. In the Reach, men still think of the Tyrells as stewards — we could name Hightower or Tarly paramount just as we did with the Tyrells."
He moved closer, eyes darkening. "As for Uncle Daeron—bandits and cutthroats have for centuries been sent to the Wall. Many escape on the way, many return. Imagine if they were not merely sent away, but hung, tortured, and displayed on the walls of King's Landing. Would your dead son—or any man—know what a bandit or a serious criminal looks like then?" He jabbed a finger toward the king. "You would make the city remember."
He snorted. "And don't get me started on how you handed the Baratheons a gift after their tantrum. You've no idea the burden you left Aerys and me. What if Aunt Rhaelle's son—or her grandson—decides he wants the crown after you're gone? You gave them blood to rally under."
He crossed to the painted map on the desk, drew out the same bloody dagger he'd used with the septa, and drove it home into Storm's End with a single, brutal motion. The blade thunked into the wood. "I will have to spill kin's blood for that," he said, low and certain.
"Daeron…" Aegon's voice went thin with shock. "Do you understand what you're saying? Are you saying you'd kill your own aunt?"
Daeron met him without flinch, small and terrible in the dim solar. "I don't know my aunt," he said simply. "I wouldn't strike her. But any son of hers—any black‑haired fool who rises and throws the realm into chaos again? Then yes. I will."
"I will make sure I secure our family's future before I die."
The boy's tone was calm—too calm. There was no boast in it, no heat, only a cold promise that made Aegon's blood run still.
Aegon saw then—not a child, not a grandson—but the shadow of a dragon that had slept too long, stirring once more. For a long, thin moment, the king only stared, the room full of a silence that was more dangerous than any shout.