By night, King's Landing belonged to Daemon Targaryen.
Not the Red Keep — that nest of whisperers and paper-pushers — but the city below it, the living beast that slept by day and roared by night. Its alleys steamed, its taverns sang, and its people, poor and proud and filthy, called him their prince. Prince of Flea Bottom, they named him, and Daemon liked the sound of it better than Prince of Dragonstone.
The gold cloaks had been his doing — his true conquest. Before Daemon, they'd been a rabble of half-paid brutes, more likely to rob a merchant than guard him. Now, they were soldiers. Men of his choosing, loyal to him, their cloaks shining bright as dragonfire in the torchlight.
He rode through the streets at their head, Caraxes's shadow a ghost over the roofs, though the dragon himself slept at the Dragonpit that night. The people parted when Daemon passed, bowing or spitting depending on their luck, but always watching. They feared him. They loved him. It was all the same.
Tonight, though, he wasn't alone.
A smaller shape clung behind his saddle, swathed in a dark cloak.
"You're heavy for your size," Daemon said over his shoulder.
"I'm six," Maekar answered, his voice muffled in the wind.
"You're also half your father's wine-belly already." Daemon grinned. "Hold tight, little lord. Flea Bottom doesn't slow for princes."
They reached the bottom of the hill where the cobbles turned to muck and the air thickened with the scent of tanneries, piss, and roasting meat of uncertain origin. Lanterns swung from low beams; whores leaned from windows calling out in half a dozen tongues. The street was alive with dice, song, and the music of broken bottles.
Daemon dismounted and swung the boy down. "Welcome to your kingdom."
Maekar wrinkled his nose. "It stinks."
"So does life." Daemon gestured broadly. "But down here, no one bows unless they choose to. No septons counting your sins, no maesters weighing your worth. Only coin, courage, and cunning."
They passed a tavern door where a blind bard plucked at a lute. A drunk cried for "the song of the dragon prince," and the bard obliged, rasping verses about Daemon's nights of blood and gold. The patrons cheered; Daemon tossed him a silver stag.
"They sing of you," Maekar said. "They don't sing of Father."
"They don't know your father," Daemon replied. "He rules from above. I rule from beside them."
A fight broke out near the corner — two sellswords and a thief, knives flashing. Daemon didn't intervene. His gold cloaks stood at ease, watching. The thief ended up face down in the mud. The victor spat, then raised his bloody dagger in salute toward Daemon.
The prince returned the nod. "That one will live long," he said.
"You should've stopped them," Maekar murmured.
"Why? The weak fall, the strong rise. That's truth, not cruelty."
The boy frowned, thinking. "Then the strong should rule."
Daemon looked down at him, seeing for an instant not the soft-handed child but the sharpness in his eyes — that uncanny calm. There's dragonfire under that skin, he thought. Viserys breeds gentle fools, but this one… no. This one might yet burn the world.
Later they came to the docks, where torches glimmered off black water and the masts stood like spears against the moon. Daemon leaned on a piling, arms crossed. "Tell me, little scholar — what do you make of Dragonstone?"
Maekar's gaze turned distant. "It's old. The air hums there, as if the stone remembers something. The dragons love it more than the Red Keep. Sometimes I think it loves them back."
Daemon smirked. "And yet you've none of your own."
The boy stiffened. The truth was an open wound. He had been given eggs — bright shells from the vaults of Dragonstone — but none had stirred. His sister's Syrax had hatched in the cradle, yet Maekar's remained cold stone.
"I will," he said at last, low but steady. "One day I'll make it. I'll wake them. I'll speak their fire."
Daemon studied him a long moment. "Maybe," he said. "Or maybe you'll have to make your own way. The old blood's thinning. Perhaps the fire waits to be found again — not in beasts, but in men."
Maekar's gaze dropped to the black water. "Then I'll find it. Even if I have to make it burn."
Daemon chuckled softly. "There's your mother's fire in that, and your grandsire's madness." He crouched beside the boy. "Remember this, Maekar — the dragon chooses, but sometimes the flame chooses back. If the gods close one door, pry open the forge instead."
The boy nodded, eyes distant. The waves hissed and snapped against the stones like something alive.
"Someday," Daemon said finally, "I'll take Caraxes back to Dragonstone for good. The city can rot. Let Otto count his coppers, and Viserys drown in counsel. I'll build my own rule in the shadow of the volcano."
Maekar's voice was quiet. "You'll need men who can build, not just fight. Dragonstone could be more than a keep. It could be… alive again."
Daemon studied him. "You think like a lord, not a warrior."
"I think like both," Maekar replied. "And I'll find a way for the fire to answer me, even without a dragon. I will."
Daemon chuckled. "Then perhaps you'll make something of that fire after all. A kingdom, maybe. Or a ruin."
He ruffled the boy's pale hair and straightened. "Come. You've seen enough of my realm for one night."
As they rode back up Aegon's Hill, the city's noise faded to a dull hum behind them. Maekar's head rested against Daemon's back, his small hands gripping the black leather of the prince's cloak.
Daemon smiled into the wind.
He'd never fathered a son, never wanted one — yet something in the boy's silence felt familiar. Ambition recognizes its own.
And somewhere far above, beyond the clouds, Caraxes stirred and roared, his cry rolling over the sleeping city like thunder.
The prince of Flea Bottom laughed beneath it, his voice echoing in the dark.