Chapter 51: The Song of Ice and Fire — The Red Chamber and the Lost Iron Rod
The weirwood in the Godswood of the Red Keep had once seemed grotesque to Daemon—its carved face twisted by centuries of resentment. Yet now, beneath its red leaves and ghostly white bark, that face appeared almost kind.
Every night beneath those crimson boughs, Daemon sat with Alys Rivers and Terra Uller, the Lady of Witch Isle, learning the deepest mysteries of shapeshifting, dreams, and the Old Magic.
Daemon's soul had grown strong enough to merge completely with his dragon, Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm's essence now flowed within him—his muscles hardened, his senses sharpened, and the fire in his veins pulsed with draconic might.
Above them, ravens croaked from the branches, their dark eyes gleaming. A squirrel chittered nervously nearby, and a black cat prowled in the shadows—hunter and hunted, predator and prey, locked in the natural dance of life.
Daemon's lips curved. "If I can bind my soul to Caraxes," he mused aloud, "perhaps I could also enter these lesser beasts—see through their eyes, control their limbs. A crow, a cat, a squirrel… all could be my spies."
Alys Rivers turned sharply, her tone grave. "Do not. You are of dragon blood, Daemon. To bind yourself to beasts beneath your nature would taint your soul. Each form leaves a mark—the timid heart of a squirrel, the vanity of a cat, the carrion hunger of a crow. You are meant to soar, not scurry."
Terra smiled faintly, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "In time, perhaps. But not yet. Even the greenseers of old took decades to master such art. Magic demands patience—it grows like a castle, stone by stone."
Daemon chuckled. "Then I shall build both—magic and fortress."
And indeed, his fortress was rising.
Across the Blackwater Rush, two castles mirrored each other—one on the northern bank, one on the southern.
The north bank fortress was called Icehold, after Gael's gentle name Dong Zhi Zi—Winter's Child. Its walls, pale and cold, echoed the austere majesty of the First Men.
Across the river rose Flamehold, forged from red stone in the Valyrian style, its towers carved like the scales of a dragon. Together, they formed a single vision—"A Song of Ice and Fire."
Daemon dreamed that their joined walls would remind future generations that balance must exist between flame and frost—that the doom of men would come not from war alone, but from forgetting the Other's shadow in the north.
Both castles were being built of pure Tarth stone, gleaming white under the sun, and the hammering of builders echoed day and night along the riverbanks.
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That morning, Daemon toured the streets of King's Landing with Terra and Alys Rivers.
The city was alive with noise and color—vendors selling roasted nuts, sweetcakes, and dried fish, banners fluttering from rooftops. Daemon's own enterprises had transformed the capital; his kiosks and taverns stretched through every district, bringing order to chaos and wealth to his coffers.
King Jaehaerys's Golden Jubilee—the fiftieth year of his reign—was fast approaching. Lords from every corner of Westeros were converging on the capital. From Highgarden and Casterly Rock, the Eyrie and Winterfell, even from beyond the Narrow Sea, envoys were arriving with gifts and guards.
Jugglers, knights, and courtesans crowded the streets. With them came thieves, assassins, and smugglers. Crime flourished like mold in the alleys.
While Daemon had been away suppressing the pirate rebellion, Prince Viserys had commanded the City Watch with a gentler hand—too gentle. Now, with Daemon back, the Gold Cloaks once more carried truncheons and blades openly, restoring a fragile order.
His rule over the city's darker pleasures—its brothels, gambling dens, and fighting pits—kept the underworld strangely calm. Bloodshed was bad for business, and the Pimp Prince understood business better than any.
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Later, Daemon rode back to his Blackwater lands. There, in a small chapel by the river, the aging Sister Annie tended to the sick and fallen women of the city. Her silver hair was wrapped beneath a white veil, but her poise and grace spoke of a life far grander than a simple sister's vows.
Alys Rivers whispered, "She wears her past like perfume. That tear tattoo beneath her eye—Volantis, if I recall. Slave-born courtesans mark themselves so."
Daemon's lips curled. "A woman with that mark has seen more kingdoms than most lords."
Sister Annie smiled faintly when they entered. "Prince Daemon, our settlement grows each moon, yet healers are too few. I do what I can, but the sick multiply faster than prayers."
"I've sent word to the Citadel," Daemon replied. "A healer-monk will come within the fortnight."
When she had gone, Alys murmured, "That woman is no simple sister. I saw her beneath the weirwood's gaze—her soul flickered like a flame, touched by sin and sorrow."
Terra added cryptically, "The Iron Rod is lost. When it is found, the truth will follow."
Daemon frowned. "The Iron Rod?"
---
Days later, Commander Ser Qidan Massey entered the Red Keep with grim news. Behind him stood a gaunt, anxious lord—Earl Denzel Wylde of Rain House.
"Your Grace," Qidan said, "Lord Wylde begs your aid. His son and heir, Ser Jasper Wylde—called the Iron Rod—has vanished in the city."
Daemon raised an eyebrow. "And why that name, 'Iron Rod'? For his… resolve?"
Qidan smirked. "That's one word for it."
Lord Denzel flushed scarlet. "My son is—was—young and foolish. But please, bring him back."
Daemon's grin widened. "Then we start where fools often end up—the brothels."
---
By nightfall, the Prince was striding through the Silk Street with his Gold Cloaks. The red lanterns glowed above every doorway, laughter spilling into the streets. If there was one place Daemon belonged, it was here—amid perfume, sin, and secrets.
They found Jasper soon enough, drunk and half-naked in the Red Romance, the most luxurious of the city's pleasure houses.
When they dragged the heir out, Daemon chuckled. "When the Iron Rod is found, the truth reveals itself," he murmured.
Lord Denzel, arriving breathless, seized his son by the ear. "You shame your House, boy! Wallowing with harlots—"
Daemon interrupted smoothly. "Oh, come now, my lord. Some harlots are worth a House's gold. You've heard of Sister Annie, I presume?"
Lord Denzel hesitated, his eyes darting. "Annie? No, I—"
Daemon's smile sharpened. "Then perhaps you remember Cortanne Wylde?"
The color drained from Denzel's face. His son, too drunk to notice, blurted, "Cortanne? That's Father's aunt! The one who served Queen Alysanne—and bedded half of Westeros!"
Daemon laughed softly. "Then we speak of the same woman."
---
That night, in the chapel by the Blackwater, Daemon found Sister Annie—Cortanne Wylde—writing beside the monk Chandler.
"The Awakening of the Red Chamber?" Daemon read aloud from the manuscript. "A fitting title. It seems your pen's as sharp as your past."
Cortanne smiled wistfully. "I have lived many lives, Prince. I was a maiden in Queen Alysanne's court… a whore in Volantis… a courtesan in Braavos… a slave in Yunkai. I have lain with pirates and kings, killers and fools. Each left a mark. Now, I write them all."
Daemon nodded. "Then this book will outlive us both."
She studied him shrewdly. "And you, my prince, have your own tale—witches and wives, dragons and dreamers. The Pimp Prince, they call you. Perhaps one day your story, too, will be written in red."
---
When Daemon rode out again on patrol the next morning, the sun burned gold above the Rose Road. A small retinue of knights approached, banners bearing the silver beacon of House Hightower.
At their head rode a girl in green silk—her beauty soft, her eyes luminous and curious.
Daemon reined in his horse. "And who might you be, little emerald?"
The girl smiled shyly. "Alicent Hightower, my prince. I've heard many tales of you."
Before Daemon could reply, a familiar voice called out—smooth, careful, and steeped in quiet ambition.
"Prince Daemon," said Ser Otto Hightower, approaching on horseback. "Even in Oldtown, your legend precedes you."
Daemon met his gaze and smiled—a dragon recognizing another player on the board.
"Then, Ser Otto," he said softly, "perhaps it's time I gave them something new to whisper about."
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