(Harrenhal, 101 AC)
The curse of Harren the Black hung heavy over the ruins of Harrenhal. The melted towers, twisted like black wax by the fires of Balerion the Black Dread, pierced the grey sky of the Riverlands. It was a monument to hubris, a graveyard of kings, and today, it was the womb where a new dynasty would be born.
The Great Council was a beast of a thousand heads. Lords from every corner of the realm—from the freezing forests of the North to the burning sands of Dorne—had gathered beneath the colossal, roofless arches of the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. The air smelled of wet stone, unwashed bodies, and the palpable, suffocating tension of men who were one wrong word away from drawing steel.
Prince Daemon Targaryen leaned against a pillar of blackened stone, his hand resting casually on the pommel of Dark Sister. The Valyrian steel seemed to hum against his palm, thirsty. His violet eyes scanned the crowd with the predatory focus of a hawk searching for field mice.
He was not here to vote. He was here to ensure the vote went the right way.
"They look at the Velaryon boy," a voice murmured beside him. It was a sellsword captain Daemon had hired, a man with a face like a roadmap of violence. "Lord Corlys has deep pockets. Gold buys voices, my Prince."
Daemon sneered, his lip curling in disgust. "Gold melts. Blood remains."
He looked across the massive hall. There stood Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, the wealthiest man in the Seven Kingdoms. He stood tall, radiating the arrogance of a man who had sailed to the ends of the earth and returned with treasures beyond counting. Beside him was his wife, Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, her face a mask of stoic pride.
And between them was the boy. Laenor Velaryon.
Seven years old. A child clutching a wooden toy knight, looking around with wide, frightened eyes. He smelled of salt and the sea, not of fire and blood.
That is their King? Daemon thought, a surge of revulsion rising in his throat. A boy who would rather play with dolls than rule men? If that child sits on the Iron Throne, the realm will tear him apart before his first nameday.
Daemon turned his gaze to his brother. Viserys Targaryen stood near the center of the dais. He was amiable, smiling, shaking hands with Stark and Lannister alike. He looked like a king. He had the belly for it, the laugh for it, and most importantly, the precedent of the Old King. The male line must prevail.
"If they choose the seahorse," Daemon whispered to his captain, low enough that only the stones could hear, "make sure your men are ready. The roads back to King's Landing are long and dark. Accidents happen."
The captain nodded, his hand drifting to his blade.
But steel was not needed that day. The maesters of the Citadel moved through the hall, collecting the tokens from the lords. The sound of iron discs clinking into wooden chests echoed like the tolling of bells.
Hours passed. The tension stretched until it felt as if the very air would snap. Finally, Archmaester Vaegon, a man as dry and brittle as the scrolls he read, stepped forward.
"The decision is made," Vaegon announced, his voice thin but carrying to the back of the ruin. "By a margin of twenty to one..."
Daemon held his breath.
"...The Great Council chooses Prince Viserys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone!"
A roar went up that shook the bats from the rafters of Harrenhal. It was a sound of relief, of validation. The realm had chosen stability. They had chosen the man, not the woman. They had chosen the dragon, not the seahorse.
Daemon watched his brother's face light up with genuine relief and joy. Viserys looked around, tears in his eyes, waving to the cheering lords. Daemon stepped forward, cutting through the crowd, the first to kneel, the first to kiss his brother's hand.
"My King," Daemon said, his voice ringing with pride.
Viserys pulled him up into a fierce embrace. "My brother. My strength."
Daemon smiled. He had won. The throne was safe in the hands of his blood. He believed, in his arrogance, that this victory made him the second most powerful man in the world. He was the heir's heir. The shadow of the crown. He was the sword that would guard his brother's reign.
He did not know that power is a wheel, and he was about to spend the next decade trying to break it.
(King's Landing, 105 AC)
The city was a rotting carcass, and the City Watch was the maggot feasting on it.
Or at least, it had been. Until Daemon came.
The barracks of the Gold Cloaks were no longer a sty of drunkards and gamblers. They were a forge. Daemon walked down the line of men, his boots clicking on the cobblestones. Two thousand men stood at attention, clad in the new mail coats and the golden cloaks that Daemon had commissioned from the finest weavers in the city.
"You are not watchmen," Daemon bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "You are the King's claws! You are the boundary between order and chaos! When the rats come out of the dark, you will be the fire that burns them out!"
He stopped in front of a captain who had a stain of wine on his tunic. Without a word, Daemon drew Dark Sister. The Valyrian steel flashed in the torchlight.
With a precise, almost lazy movement, Daemon slashed the man's cloak, cutting the gold fabric from his shoulders. The man fell to his knees, terrified.
"You are unworthy of the gold," Daemon spat. "Get out of my city before I take your head instead of your cloak."
The message was clear. The City Watch belonged to Daemon now. And that night, he would prove it.
They swept through Flea Bottom like a storm. It wasn't a patrol; it was a purge. Daemon led the vanguard, riding his black courser, Dark Sister in hand. They kicked down doors. They dragged thieves from their hovels, rapists from the brothels, and murderers from the shadows.
The screams echoed through the winding alleys of the Street of Silk. There were no trials. There were no magistrates. Daemon was the judge, and his sword was the jury.
By dawn, the wagons were full.
(The Small Council Chamber, The Next Morning)
Ser Otto Hightower sat at the head of the table, his quill scratching aggressively against the parchment. The Hand of the King was a man of order, of rules, of ink and paper. He hated many things—disorder, tardiness, excessive laughter—but nothing curdled his blood quite like Prince Daemon.
The heavy oak doors burst open.
Daemon strode in, still wearing his armor from the night's raid. He smelled of sweat, horse, and dried blood. He didn't bow. He didn't apologize for his lateness. He simply walked to the table and tossed a heavy, wet sack onto the polished wood.
It landed with a sickening thud. A dark stain began to seep through the burlap.
"Justice," Daemon announced, dropping into his chair and putting his muddy boots up on the table, right next to the Grand Maester's papers.
King Viserys blinked, looking up from his cup of morning wine. He looked tired, older than his years. The crown seemed to weigh heavy on his brow. "Daemon? What is this?"
"The spoils of the night, brother," Daemon grinned, a wolfish, savage expression. "Three rapes, two murders, and a dozen thefts prevented. The City Watch has been busy."
Otto reached out, his face a mask of distaste, and opened the sack.
He recoiled instantly, covering his nose with a scented handkerchief. Inside, tangled in a gruesome mess, were severed hands, a few fingers, and a head with eyes still open in terror.
"This is barbarism," Otto hissed, pushing the sack away. "You turn the King's city into a slaughterhouse. The smallfolk are terrified. They say a demon walks the streets."
"The smallfolk are safe," Daemon countered sharply, his voice cutting through the room. "They cheer for me in the Street of Silk. They call me the 'Prince of the City'. A King should be loved, Otto, but his justice should be feared. I provide the fear so my brother can provide the love."
"You provide chaos!" Otto slammed his hand on the table. "We have laws, Prince Daemon! We have dungeons! You cannot simply butcher men in the street like cattle!"
"And who enforces your laws?" Daemon leaned forward, his eyes dangerous. "Your fat septons? Your sleeping guards? Criminals do not fear laws, Hightower. They fear me. They fear the dragon."
Viserys looked at the severed hands, then at his brother's defiant face. He should have been horrified. He should have stripped Daemon of his command right there. But Viserys looked at Daemon and saw the little brother who had championed him at Harrenhal. He saw the warrior he wished he could be.
The King laughed. A nervous, forgiving chuckle that deflated the tension in the room.
"He has a point, Otto," Viserys said, waving his hand for a servant to take the grisly sack away. "The city has never been safer. The reports of theft are down by half. Daemon's methods are... blunt, yes. Savage, perhaps. But effective. Let us not quarrel over the hands of criminals."
Otto's jaw tightened until his teeth ached. The King is weak, he thought, a cold realization settling in his gut. He has a blind spot the size of a mountain. He will forgive the monster anything.
Otto took a deep breath. If he could not attack Daemon's methods, he would attack his pride.
"Very well, Your Grace," Otto said, his voice smooth and oily. "Let us speak of other duties then. The duties of a husband."
The room went quiet. The air temperature seemed to drop.
"Lady Rhea writes from the Vale," Otto continued, picking up a scroll. "Again. She asks when her husband intends to visit. It has been years, my Prince. She is the Lady of Runestone, and you leave her to govern alone while you play soldier in the slums."
Daemon's smirk vanished. The mention of Rhea Royce was the only thing that could pierce his armor.
"The Bronze Bitch can wait," Daemon spat, picking at his fingernails with a dagger.
Lyman Beesbury gasped. Grand Maester Mellos looked down at his chains.
"She is your lawful wife," Otto pressed, enjoying the twitch in Daemon's eye. "And you insult House Royce with your absence and your... public company. The whores of the Street of Silk are not fitting consorts for a Prince of the Blood."
Daemon slammed his dagger into the table. The blade vibrated.
"In the Vale, the men fuck sheep," Daemon snarled, standing up and pacing the room like a caged tiger. "I cannot be blamed for preferring the women of King's Landing. At least they don't bleat when you touch them."
"Daemon!" Viserys chided, though there was no real anger in his voice, only exhaustion. "You must not speak of Lady Rhea in such a way. It is unseemly. House Royce is ancient and proud."
"It is the truth!" Daemon shouted, turning on his brother. "I gave you the crown, Viserys! I secured the succession! I clean your city of filth! And my reward? A rock in the desolate mountains and a wife who looks like a man in a dress! I am the blood of the dragon! Why must I be chained to that... that bronze cow?"
"Because you are my brother!" Viserys snapped, finally losing patience. "And because the realm needs peace with the Vale! You will go to her, Daemon. Eventually."
"Eventually," Daemon mocked, his voice dripping with venom. "Yes. When dragons freeze."
He grabbed his helm from the table. "I am done with this council of crones. I have a city to keep."
He stormed out of the chamber, his gold cloak flowing behind him like a river of fire. The heavy doors slammed shut, leaving a ringing silence in his wake.
Otto watched the closed door, a cold calculation forming in his mind. He is unstable. He is dangerous. And he is the Heir Presumptive.
The rivalry was no longer just professional. It was existential. Daemon saw Otto as a second son reaching above his station, a leech on his brother's reign. Otto saw Daemon as Maegor the Cruel reborn, a chaotic force that would burn the kingdom to ash if he ever sat on the Iron Throne.
Viserys rubbed his temples, reaching for the wine jug. "He will calm down, Otto. He always does. He is just... spirited."
"As you say, Your Grace," Otto lied.
But outside the Red Keep, in the taverns of Flea Bottom, the damage was already done. The singers, paid by Daemon's men or simply enamored by his wit, composed new songs. They sang of the Rogue Prince and his "Bronze Bitch," turning the proud Lady of Runestone into a punchline for every drunkard in the city.
Far away, across the Mountains of the Moon, the insults traveled on the wind. They reached the ears of Rhea Royce in her lonely hall. She did not weep. She did not rage. She simply sharpened her memory, waiting for the day the dragon would fall from the sky.
The stage was set. The players were in position. All that was needed now was a final spark—a dead heir and a drunken toast—to turn this cold war into a fire that would consume them all.