Chapter 1: The Prodigal Prince
Year 97 After Conquest.
King Jaehaerys I Targaryen ruled the Seven Kingdoms in his forty-ninth year upon the Iron Throne — a reign of peace, order, and quiet prosperity.
But not all dragons were meant for peace.
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The evening air of King's Landing carried the scent of perfume, wine, and rot.
Through the tangled streets of Silk Street — the infamous haven of pleasure and sin — strode a silver-haired youth in black and crimson velvet.
Prince Daemon Targaryen, sixteen years of age, third son of Prince Baelon and grandson to the King, walked with the arrogance of someone who had never been told no.
The Red Rose brothel was alight with song and laughter as he entered.
Braavosi courtesans with painted lips beckoned; Tyroshi girls with green hair giggled; Summer Island priestesses offered prayers to their gods of desire. A Lyseni beauty, all silver hair and sapphire eyes, whispered, "My prince, I have a room prepared for worship…"
Daemon smiled thinly. Worship. Lust. Wine. All the same. All hollow.
For he was no longer the boy this world knew.
Inside the dragon's shell was another soul — a man from a faraway age, from a world of glass towers and iron beasts.
A man who had watched House of the Dragon on a glowing screen… before death and fate had delivered him here, into the body of this infamous prince.
At first, he had tried to be noble — to live with restraint, to cleanse the sins of this flesh. He read histories, studied the Citadel's treatises, swore off vice.
But Daemon Targaryen's blood burned too hot for purity.
Soon, the books of war became dull, the scriptures empty.
And the whispers of temptation — the old Daemon's appetites — clawed at his mind until the man from another world gave in.
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Rose, a green-haired Tyroshi girl, wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Prince Daemon, I've missed you. Shall we try the ropes tonight?"
"Or the goddess of lust," purred Connie of Lys, her voice dripping honey. "Come pray with me, my prince."
Daemon chuckled darkly. "You speak of gods, but you serve the oldest one of all — desire itself."
Laughter. Perfume. And then — a scream.
A drunkard staggered in, dragging a sobbing girl no older than twelve.
"Madam! I'll sell the wench. Virgin still. Three gold dragons."
The brothel fell silent.
Daemon turned, eyes narrowing.
The girl pleaded through tears, "Father, please—"
A slap silenced her.
The man snarled, "Shut your mouth, you little whore. I'll sell you before you starve like your mother!"
The prince's hand moved before thought caught up.
Steel flashed — and the man's wrist was pinned to the table by a dagger.
A scream echoed through the chamber.
Daemon's voice was low, cold, inhuman.
"You enjoy hitting women?"
The man gasped, staring into violet eyes that glimmered with dragonfire.
"I–I'm sorry, Your Highness—"
Daemon twisted the blade. Blood spattered across the table.
"Apologize to her, not to me."
The man did, shaking, and fled half-bleeding through the door.
Daemon looked down at the girl — pale, trembling, eyes wide.
"What's your name?"
"M-Martha, my prince."
He nodded. "You're free now."
To the madam, he tossed a gold dragon. "Get her food, a bath, and new clothes. Then find her honest work. Not here."
The madam hesitated, forcing a smile. "Of course, Your Highness."
Daemon's voice hardened. "If she ends up back here, I'll burn this place down."
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Outside, his companions awaited — Qidan Massey, Bill Rosby, and Harver of Hayford, all young and reckless, sworn to his mischief.
"Your Grace," said Qidan, breathless, "there's cheating in the Flea Bottom gambling dens. They've taken half our coin!"
Daemon sighed. "Cheating? In my streets?" He smirked. "Lead the way."
They packed the leftover food — bread, fruit, and roast goose — and as they crossed from the perfumed lanes of Silk Street into the stench of Flea Bottom, Daemon distributed it among the poor.
Every beggar, every urchin, every mother with a starving child knew his name.
Some called him protector, others devil prince.
To Daemon, it didn't matter. Better feared than forgotten.
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At the dice table, a bearded man named Matthew laughed over a pile of silver stags.
Daemon stepped forward. "I'll play."
He took the dice, weighed them — then, with one flick of his dagger, split one open.
Mercury spilled onto the table.
The crowd erupted in fury.
Daemon seized Matthew by the collar, slammed his hand onto the table, and said,
"In this city, in these streets — I am the law."
And as he drew the dagger once more—
A cold, commanding voice broke the air.
"Enough, Daemon. You disgrace your name."
Every man froze.
At the entrance, clad in robes of crimson and gold, stood King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Old King himself. His face was lined with years, his gaze sharp as Valyrian steel.
Behind him, two Kingsguard knights stepped forward, hands on their hilts.
For the first time since he'd come to this world, Daemon felt a chill crawl down his spine.
The King… here?
And so began the story of Daemon Targaryen, the Reborn Rogue Prince — a man of two souls, standing before the Dragon of Old.
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